Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 2) (1880 07 27)
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July 27, 1880. ——$——— — [ei e ADLE AND ADAMS. PRICE, 5 CENTS, Tbh if SEF = amr Meal | ><A iN Z amit a Tae we | a | WW t= Sy = a ml - HWA =, —-_ \\ N HER FOOT WAS ALREADY ON THE STEPS OF THE CAR, WHEN A VOICE SAID, REPROACHFULLY: ‘‘ WILL YOU NOT SAY ‘GOOD-BY’ TO ME ALSO?’ The Country Cousin; or, Allis not fold that Glitters. BY ROSE KENNEDY. CHAPTER I. THE GOOD-BY. *¢ ARE you sure that you have forgotten nothing, Elizabeth?” “ Allis ready, auntie, even to my gloves, and it lacks an hour yet to the time at which the train passes,” “ Well, Elizabeth, you have been a good girl, and you have my bless- | | pitfalls. The dangers which I refer to, niece, are spiritual dangers. ing, and my best wishes for your success among your new acquaintance, a, | cheek too A fa Ol | aside from that, I go May. the wicked influence of a vile and corrupt city never do away with the teachings of your now sainted mother. New York is a den of wickedness. ou will be a lamb among lions, and I wonder that you have courage to set your foot in it. But, since you will go, may you be ‘ wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove.’” ‘‘Why, auntie, you talk more as if I were going unprotected to seek my fortune there, than as if I were to be in the bosom of a family like that of my uncle Philip. What harm can befall me there? I expect to be so wrapped away from common humanity among my aristocratic relatives that I shall actually pine for ‘breezes from heaven to visit my I shall miss the freedom of my native hills, but, with high hopes, aunt Faithful.” ‘* That is the way of youth; it goes dancing and laughing, even among
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pry ee ’ Oe I know your aunt Vanderlyn of old, and her husband, and what her family must be with such parents—worldliness, and selfishness, and pomp, and vainglory, from the crowns of their heads to the soles of their feet. It is their in- fluence over your heart and mind that I fear.” “Don’t you think you judge too harshly, aunt? Remember, they have been differently ~ educated, and move in a different world from us. They are compelled to pay attention to outside show, yet their hearts may be excel- _ lent. Iam sure it was kind of them to offer me a home for such a merely nominal consid- eration. ° And only last week I saw uncle Phil- ip’s name heading a contribution for some charitable purpose with a liberal sum. Oh, aunt Faithful, if you knew the motives which most influence me in choosing the city for a residence, you would wish me God speed and '_ pray for my success. I have such dreams— - powdered with gold. «. such happy expectations!” The face of the speaker was lit with a glow ‘of almost angelic beauty. Her hopes must have been pure, or they could not have filled those dark-blue eyes with such soul-lit ra- diance. Always lovely, at that moment Eliz- abeth Ward was unusually so. “Excitement hightened the color upon her cheek, and sent rippling smiles basking in sunshine about her mouth. She stood upon the porch, with her trunks, carpet-bags and shawls around her. Her figure, neither petite nor yet queenly, moved by the very spirit of grace and rounded in every outline, gave a charm of its own to her simple traveling-dress. Her bonnet was still in her hand, and her brown hair fluttered in the breeze, shining as if its curls had been It was an autumn day, warm and brilliant; the vines which nestled around the top of the porch dropped crimson - leaves at her feet; the rose-bushes had ex- changed their delicate bloom for the scarlet berries of October. _ Aunt Faitbful had drawn her chair to the porch door, where she could see the first puff of the iron horse as he darted out of his moun- tain hollow, breathing fire and smoke from his nostrils as he sped forward to the little depot not very far from this village cottage. Her knitting was in her hand, as usual, and her spectacles on her nose, but the necdles quiver- ed and made false stitches, and the glasses were dimmed so that she could not see with her usual clearness as she looked toward the young girl standing there in her traveling cos- tume. ‘It’s time John took these trunks away, if you don’t want to be left. Oh, here he comes! Well—” after a pause, during which the bag- @ was conveyed away—‘‘do you propose to tell me what your expectations are, Eliza- beth?” - A modest blush flitted over that youthful . brow. - *T can not tell you my plans at length, be- cause they are not formed, definitely. “Some time I will write to you and get your advice. You know that the property which was left me has been so arranged as to leave me a clear income of a thousand dollars a year, with nothing for me to do but to draw it quarterly. This is much more than I need, or should spend upon myself. My personal ex- penses here in this village have been only about a hundred dollars a year; yet I have dressed well, and I know that twice that sum will dress me just as nicely as I desire or think proper. I have made a resolution to limit myself to - that sum. One hundred more will cover inci- _ ingly, -amere skeleton’ for the want of a uew dress » dental expenses. My uncle at first refused to take any thing for my board, but, finally, at my urgent solicitation, said I might pay over to Blanche just two jiundred a year, to keep her in bijouterie and pins, telling me, laugh- that his daughter was often ‘reduced to to wear over it. Yet he allows her six hun- dred just for clothing, besides the splendid presents she has. I expect she will laugh at ‘my simplicity, but I do not intend to be in- Ps fluenced in what I have made a matter of principle. “Now, I shall have half my income to devote to the benefit of others. It is true that, living in this country piace, I might manage to dis- pose of it to the poor around us, and by send- ing it to charitable institutions, But in the city one sees constantly such presssing wants, and can judge, by personal observation, where the means will produce the. best effect. I do not intend to give myself up to society entirely; no, nor even to my beloved books, nor to the enchantments of music and the fine arts, although I have a love for all of these; but I wish to work—to do something to accom- plish some good. I mean to make my halfa thousand dollars a year confer benefits upon others, and, through them, upon myself. I yearn to be actively charitable. With youth, health, leisure, and some money to spare, I ought to accomplish a little—a very little—of the good work which the Master has left his followers to do.” Tears trembled upon her eyelashes as she ceased speaking. ** Well, child, I believe in your intentions, and shall not cease to pray that they may be fulfilled. The Bible says, ‘Lead us not into | temptation,’ and I can but feel that you are leading yourself into temptation. It grieves me to let you go. What’s that?” ‘ “‘ The whistle, auntie, and I must go.” The bonnet was tied on with quivering fin- gers, and a face all drenched with tears, likea rose with dew, lay for a moment upon the bosom of aunt Faithful, who had dropped stocking and spectacles, and sprung to her feet. **Good-by, my dear, dear auntie,” was half lost in sobs. ; ‘Fare thee well, child, and remember, if ever you grow tired of the world, and long for rest, while this heart still beats there is a shel- ter for you here.” Those trembling tones quite broke down the young girl’s courage, and for a moment she wept uurestrainedly, then, with an effort, she recovered herself, gave aunt Faithful one more embrace, and ran down the lane to the street. Several of her young friends were waiting at the depo‘ to say tarewell. She had just time to give a hand to each, when the train came thundering in, and paused for a.moment by the platform. Her foot was already on the steps of the car, when a voice said, reproachfully: * Will you not say ‘good-by ’ to me also?’ She turned and beheld the young minister of the village. There was something in his’ eyes which thrilled her as they never had be- | fore, but she had no time to reflect upon their | language, nor to mark the tremor of the) voice. ; “IT thought you had forgotten your par- ishoner, but here is something which I had prepared as a little farewell gift: to my good minister;” and she slipped a bit of folded paper in his hand. The bell rung, she stepped inside, and the cars were whirling away. When she handed Mr. Hastings the paper, a sprig of myrtle, which she bad plucked as she ran down the lane, dropped upon the platform. He gathered this up, when all the others had turned away, and, hurrying down the village street to his home, he did not unclose the note which he held until he was in the seclusion of | his own apartment. When he did unfold it, . two fifty-dollar checks were disclosed, and a few words, saying, ‘‘One is to purchase books for my pastor—the other to, be given as he sees fit, in charity.” ; ‘ The blessed child!” murmured the minis- ae In the meantime our young adventurer, nestled in a corner of the seat, was looking out her open window, enjoying the exhilaration of the swift motion, the bright air and pleasant scenery. Fora time she forgot her sorrow at leaving home, and her anticipations of the fu- ture; she forgot that she had neither tather or mother, sister or brother, and that she must | + rely almost entirely upon herself for happiness, and direct, almost unaided, her own footsteps. Elizabeth’s was no ordinary character. If her exceedingly sweet and noble countenance ar- rested the Peper of the careless beholder, not less did the purity of her soul charm those who were able to appreciate it, and her sterling qualities of mind excited admiration. That she was very pretty and rich—that is, rich fora retired country town—everybody in Fitchburg knew; but the reasons which impelled to some more enlarged space of life, nobody, not even her aunt or the minister, fully understood. Her father, the leading lawyer of Fitchburg, and finally Presiding Judge of the District, died when she was in her sixteenth year. He had been a gentleman of polished education and some genius, and had delighted in unfolding to the mind of his only child knowledge which, in the ordinary course of schooling, she never would have acquired. There were system and symmetry to her acquirements. Upon the tough and firm young “tree of knowledge,” which thrived and grew under his skillful culti- vation, expanded the flowers of feminine em- bellishment necessary to its full beauty, Music, which was the mother’s sweetest gift— saving, ever, her fine spiritual perceptions and most womanly heart—was one of Elizabeth’s accom- plishments. _She had never been sent to ‘‘boarding-school,” All that she knew of the world, outside of her books and her village home, she had learned during the holiday ex- cursions which Judge Ward was in the habit of taking each summer with his wife and child, and during one or two brief visits to her city relatives, several years before the commence- ment of this record. A year had not passed from the death of her father, before her moth- er went to her long resting-place. Such deso- lation as this, to a young and sensitive heart, was desolation indeed; and, for a time, aunt Faithful, in whose home the orphan sought ref- uge, feared that the golden bowl would be ~ broken at the fountain of grief. Hope is strong in the young and healthful. The rolling months brought a renewal of in-, terest in lite; but a thoughtfulness was given to Elizabeth’s character, which otherwise might never have been. So here, a little past her eighteenth birthday, she was about to try the world for herself. As her eyes wearied of the flitting landscape, she drew her vail over her face, and gave herself up to anticipations of her reception at her un- cle Vanderlyn’s She had not seen Blanche for four years, who then was, of course, but a_ school-girl, with her character as undeveloped as her form and features. She then had prom- ised to be brilliant-looking, though at that time dark and sallow, and a little overgrown. Already had she begun to chatter about “the beaux,” and had all the lore of a fashionable boarding-school in her quick brain. Elizabeth | bad liked her, for Blanche knew well how to please, and how to ccnceal knowledge that would be offensive. The traveler looked forward to finding a sister in her city-bred cousin. As for her aunt Alice, she never expected her to be any thing more than a pleasant aunt to her, for she had contrasted her with her own mother years ago, and found her sadly deficient in some qualities. Mrs. Vanderlyn was emphatically a ‘‘ woman of the world.” Uncle Philip would be a cour- teous, affable, generous uncle, who would kiss her cecasionally, when be felt merry after dinner, and let her have her own way. There er member of the family whom she et seen—at least, not since she wasa junior, her ycung gentleman cousin, who had been in Paris for. the last five years studying medicine and—French society. iy. She had understood from Blanche’s last let- ter that they expected him home some time during the winter; but Elizabeth had as yet given bim only a passing thought, as to whether she would like him, and if he would — not be very critical in his judgments upon her. aay d—and that was Philip Vanderlyn, ’ | * sa ee eS ee o % 34
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Finally, by a sudden sweep, round came the a «Mh thoughts of the young girl to the minister, and 4, his earnest look which had for a moment sur- prised her. Her heart beat quicker. She was “+ not vain, and had never percei' in the fre- a quent conversations and visits of her pastor, any thing more than that they were congenial, talking poetry, and lending each other books, out of love for the books and poetry. But his eyes, at parting, had spoken a language which she tried in vain to misunderstand. She did not know whether, to be glad or sorry, nor what would come yet of it. She certainly had been deeply interested in his society, admired his genius, and esteemed his pure and elevated ' mind. Many of the schemes of philanthropy which were quickening in her heart, had sprung \ from germs which his teachings had scattered. Now, what more? She could not answer. Throwing back her vail with a deep breath, as if to shake off too heavy. thoughts, the young traveler Jooked around, and found that night kad come. She began to be conscious of . hunger, too, and was not sorry the next time the train stopped, to hear the conductor cry; “Half an hour for supper.” Having telegraphed to her uncle, as well as written, that -she would arrive that evening, she gave herself no uneasiness at the want of a protector; but having a whole seat to herself, after tea, she curled up in it snugly, and took quite a refreshing sleep. With a prolonged scream that sent the pas- sengers to gathering together stray articles of wearing apparel, overcoats and carpet-bags, a ringing of bells and glimmer of lights, the train slackened and paused. Elizabeth’s heart gave a bound, and then sunk low for a mo- ment. She had arrived at the threshold of her new life, She found her uncle’s carriage awaiting Her. It was eleven o’clock when she arrived at his house. Her aunt came into the hall to meet her. The parlors were illuminated, and there was company—so the traveler passed on to her room. Blanche ran up to kiss and welcome her, ahd then excused herself until her com- pany should depart. A waiting-maid brought her a cup of tea, and opened the trunk and traveling-bag, whose contents shé required. She was already in her night-dress, and brushing out her hair before retiring, when Blanehe bounded into the room, asked the privilege of sharing her bed, and was soon nestled by her side, and kept her awake and curious two hours with a whirlwind of small talk. CHAPTER II. SMALL TALE. “Tr was richly worth a poet’s while, : To trudge for many a weary mile ‘ To meet the light of her careless smile, Or for any who wished to see the style Of the latest promenade dresses. She seemed a kind of wonderful thing, Angelic, enchanting, and glittering. With a step like the wave of a Peri’s wing, And a hat three weeks from Paris,”—SAxg. BLANCHE was bent upon astonishing her ountry cousin. It was after a late breakfast he day following Elizabeth’s arrival. The girls had gone to their room, or rooms—for their private apartments consisted of a suite, including one large chamber, half parlor, half boudoir, and two pleasant sleeping-rooms open- ing off, with closety amd bath. Luxurious carpets and lounges, mirrors large enough to reflect the full effect of a toilet, and every little _ article of beauty and cultivated necessity, fair- ly crowded the space, French paintings of ‘women, beautiful in dress and person, little gems of that school of art, hung upon the walls, _ betraying the taste of their possessor. Blanche had more than fulfilled her early promise. She was a superb-looking girl, ex- __. quisite in dress, queenly in carriage, with black Mt hair, brilliant dark eyes, and a Juno-like form. __ Elizabeth loved the tasteful and the beautiful, and was too free from envy to think with any- thing. but affectionate regard of the graces which her city cousin was playing off to dazzle : ss her. Pee Ges + Bee aM THE COUNTRY COUSIN. % ‘¢ Just see this closet, how full it is of dresses! And not one of them are summer- dresses. Those that I wore at Newport are in these three trunks packed away. They are full of lovely robes. I have five moire- antiques. Look at this crimson one—it is very becoming to my complexion. I look like a princess in it.” ‘¢ T believe you,” said Elizabeth, quietly. “tT have thirty-seven petticoats,” continued Blanche. “¢ Indeed?” “ And fifteen different shawls!” ‘* So many?” *¢ On my last birthday—I was nineteen, you know—papa gave me a of pearls worth a thousand dollars. Mamma gave me this camel’s-hair shawl. I had several costly pres- ents besides, from friends and relatives. I have so many presents, Lizzie dear, do you?” ‘¢ You must remember I have never enjoyed the pleasure of being a belle, cousin Blanche; still, I have received some presents. My aunt Faithful gave me this purse, which she crotch- eted herself, and I prize it as highly as you do your camel’s-hair.’ ‘ fie! what funny taste! How nice it must be to have a fortune, allof your own, with liberty to spend it just as you choose. If I were you, I would never content myself. upon the interest. I should encroach upon the prin- cipal, and trust to catching a rich husband to restore it.” ‘¢ Why, Blanche!” ** You look frightened, you little puss. Do you think that girls must. wait to be caught, and never bait the hook themselves, eh? It’s a great mistake, my pretty country maiden. However, you need not think that J am fishing f.r any mortal being. I have too many offers now. I have had thirteen already. How many have you had, Lizzie?” ‘** Not one.” “ Impossible! and so rich and so pretty, for I must say, you are very pretty—though of a different order of beauty from mine. Not so striking. I wish I had your complexion; your neck is as velvety and fair as a lily-leaf. Do you powder? No! I always do. I do not think a lady’s toilet is complete without pow- der. Iamso glad you are going to be with me this winter! We are going to be very gay, and it will be so nice to have some one to help me entertain company. I have already de- cided upon what I am going to order for New Year’s day, to receive calls in—a rose-colored flounced robe, with velvet. Mercy! these are not all the dresses you possess, 1 hope?” looking into the closet where Nannette had been un- folding and hanging up the contents of Miss Ward’s trunks. “T have always had as many as I needed,” laughed Elizabeth. ‘* Well! you will want twenty times as many now. I hope you have brought plenty. of money; we shall have such excitement in shop- ping for you! I love to shop the best of any thing in the world—almost! You must let me select for you; my friends say my taste is perfect.” Elizabeth thought it altogether probable that she should exercise her own judgment and taste, as she was aware that she had consider- able of both; but she did not say so. She sought to drop tho dress question, by in- quiring: “Do you really expect your brother Philip home this winter?’ “Yes, indeed, in about a month. I shall be so glad to see him, for he has been gone five years. I hope he will bring me some beautiful things. They say he isa great fop, and very fond of society. So we three will make the house merry.” “*T shall be but a ‘looker-on in Vienna,’ a kind of an ‘aside,’ like a painting on the wall. Iam not accustomed to much gayety; and if you will let me keep my room and read my books in peace, I shall be happy.” “T shall do nothing of the kind, cousin is sweetness on the desert air.’ Books, indeed! — I got through with them when I was at school, except the new novels, and a little of Long- fellow’s poetry, or Alexander Smith’s. _Tenny- son is sweet, don’t you think so?” Elizabeth felt very much disappointed. She ri had hoped for .congeniality of tastes in ber ; beautiful cou but if the morning’s conver- : sation was a specimen of what was to be, she ; saw little was geeaploan Still, she might display more mind as they grew better ac- — - quainted. That she had a fine intellect, she did not doubt. It had been misdirected from childhood, and was smothered under a moun- ; tain of gauze, and silk, and vanity, and frip- ' pery. ; “Do you pay much attention to your music — now, Blanche?” “9 “Oh. yes, I have to keep that up. It is one . of my ‘cards.’ I play all.of Wallace’s music, and the fashionable operas. My voice is just suited to opera music. I have been told by some of my friends that I sing the Casta Diva almost equal to Madame La Grange. But come, lunch is ready.” With their arms about each other’s waists, they descended to the dining- room. Mr. Vanderlyn was never home until dinner: so there was no ceremony at lunch. Elizabeth had not seen her aunt at. breakfast; she had sent down word that she was not well, and upon her niece expressing anxiety con- cerning her, Blanche said, laughingly: , ‘“‘Do not be uneasy at mamma's complaints; __ she always has some ailment; but it is astonish- ing how infallibly she revives as the hour for going out and receiving company arrives, She has drank of the fountain of perpetual youth; she is the greatest rival I have, despite her iL health.” 4p Wee This flippant tone, while speaking of her mother, pained Lizzie, who only thought and spoke of her own mother with reverence and affection the most beautiful. But, for this, be it remarked, Blanche was not so much to blame as her parent, who had never given her that reason to reverence her. She was an in- dulgent mother, but one whose folly, affectation = = = and vanity were quite apparent to the child brought up after her own fashion, nea When they entered thedining-room, Mrs. Van~ derlyn was at the table, magnificently dressed, with bonnet and cloak on, and gloves lying by her side. She inquired with great kindness after her niece’s health and comfort, who as- sured her that she felt entirely rested by her two hours of extra sleep before breakfast. “You know we breakfast earlier in the coun- try, aunt.. Are you feeling any better than you were in the morning?” “‘T hardly know whether I am or not, my dear. I hope that a cup of strong tea will im- part some strength to my nerves. I still have. a bad headache, but the fresh air will revive me. I must take advantage of the few bright days which we will have now, to go out as much as possible. I am going to make some calls, and shall not return until. dinner. You will not be lonely, will you? Blanche will take care of you. But perbaps you would have liked the carriage to-day for a drive? If so, I will defer—' ; ‘*Oh, no, dear aunt, do not think of it.” “No indeed, thank you, mamma. I[¢ is © pleasant enough for a promenade to-day, and we shall prefer to walk,” added. Blanche. ‘“We, too, are going out, as soon as We can get dressed.” i “Twas thinking you made rather a fin- looking pair as you came in at the door, linked “aS like a couple of Graces. You bave grown up 4 as fair and stately as one of Juno's lilies, Eli zabeth. Blanche, with her darker and more brilliant charms, will be a splendid foil for you. You will both gain by the contrast.” a ‘“‘T should never think of it,’ wasthemod- est reply. a Dress and personal attractions seemed the — G Ripe principal subjects of conversation, and the new-comer did not know how to enter into it. > with much spirit. . Re cae “Well, young ladies, you must hasten your a ¥ Sin
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4 THE COUNTRY” COUSIN. grows cool by four o’clock. Good-by,” and with a wave of the hand and a gay smile she moved toward the door. *“How very much like your mother you are,” remarked Lizzie. “She is a rose in a little fuller bloom—that is all—but, with not a petal withered yet. She is gayer than I am now, and has more ad- : mirers. Nothing in the world would make my ee mother so unhappy as the appearance of a gray hair. Monsieur Lubin, who dresses her hair, says it is the handsomest he ever saw upon a Jady. The way she fights the wrinkles! Last "week she thought she discovered a crow’s foot, and she has not put water on her face since. She rubs it with a piece of fine flannel dipped in the ‘Balm of Youth.’ If she could afford it, she would preserve her bloom, as Cleopatra _. is rumored to have done, by a daily bath in oi ottar of roses. Have you finished your tea? Let us go, then. The avenue will be brilliant to-day, and I wish you to see it.” * Hlizabeth, having the curiosity of a stranger -. §n regard to the sights of the metropolis, obey- s,s gd willingly the order to ‘‘don her best walk- _-—s« gy apparel,” and was in readiness some time before Blanche could complete her more elabo- rate toilet. “Stand forth and let me criticise,” com- manded the city consin, with a mock-heroic air. ‘All very well indeed, mia cara; not remarkably splended, but nice! Your gloves and paiters are all that could be desired, and they are two of the tests.” ** Aristocracy and Democracy shows at the fingers and toes, does it? Well, I wish I could purchase a pair of socks and a pair of mittens for every pair of little purple feet in New York.” : “Dear me! What put that in your head? How do I look?” Blanche turned from the mirror as she asked the question, shaking out the folds of a lace- bordered handkerchief. She knew very well that she looked beautiful, but she wanted to _ hear it, if even from the mouth of one of her own sex. *“-You dazzle me so that I cannot answer,” -was the smiling reply. “<That reply would have done for a gentle- man;” and the two girls, in the splendor of their youth, health, wealth, and beauty, de- _ -seended the broad staircase, a servant in liv- ‘ery opened and closed the door for them, and ‘they passed down the marble steps to meet at their feet a beggar-woman holding out her band. Blanche swept by, but Elizabeth paused, took out her purse, and gave the beggar half a dollar. - “You little fool,” said her cousin, as she »came up to her, “don’t you do that again. ' _-. ‘Wou will have a crowd about your door all the time. That was a professional beggar, and - -xyou do much more harm than good by indis- criminate giving. Leave your charities with _ the societies, whose business it is to decide up- on the merits of the claimant. ‘You will do more good in that way, and save yourself the trouble of thinking about it.” “Tam sorry, Blanche, but I could not help it. I did not know but that she might be suf- fering.” “Indeed, if you go upon that principle in New York, you will soon get tired of the work. Did you remark that gentleman who bowed to me? He is one of my admirers, and mamma j ‘favors him. He is terribly homely and de- fi a liglitfully rich. They say he is rather ‘ fast; but mamma thinks he would reform if he were ‘ married. I have neither Giseascret nor accept- 53 ed him.” a s Elizabeth said nothing. The trgin of thought ‘suggested was very different from any she had been accustomed to. They glided along in their beauty, a pair iy even for poets to stare at—one, at least, as in- - - -nocent as she was lovely, with a soul that any Bites poet might have suffered and striven to have interested in himself. If Elizabeth had the ee -repast if you wish 88 enjoy the sunshine. It | purity of angelic unconsciousness of evil, Blanche had the purity of pride. Her brow was cold and severe beneath the burning gaze of many acovetous eye. None who prized her favor would have liked to see the indolent lids opened any wider for the fire of anger to leap from her dark eyes. She was desperately vain, but too proud to display it in public. . “ Her faint half-smile was cold and sweet As a rich ice-cream, and her little feet, With arching instep and ankle petite, Were shod like Cinderilla’s. To her hands her snowy mouchoir cleaves, Like the ant A film which a spider weaves, Swung from the points of the, slender leaves Of a pair of fragrant lilies.” “Thad forgotten that Madame Follet has her opening of hats to-morrow,” remarked Blanche, as they came out upon Broadway. ‘I like her hats the best of any that are imported, and as I am one of her most faithful customers, she told me that if I would keep it a profound se- cret from all her other patrons, she would al- low me to come in to-day and make a private selection, Let us go! You, too, will have the same privilege, being under my wing. It’s too early to wear our winter bonnets, but if we wish the first choice, we might as well pur- chase them now,” ‘| suppose, as Tam to have another hat, it | will ba as well.” They mingled in with the gorgeous stream of ladies out upon the great business of their lives, until they turned aside into the establish- ment of Madame Follet. Miss Vanderlyn was evidently in high favor | here. Madame Follet, all smiles and whispers, led the way into a private apartment, where she graciously permitted them a peep at some of the choicest of her choice millinery. ‘*Oh, here, dear Lizzie, is a hat that was made for you! It could not suit you better. So modest and unassuming, too!” exclaimed | Blanche, turning an elegant white bonnet upon its pedestal of display. ‘* Tt is indeed lovely, but too costly for me, I fear,” replied Elizabeth, regarding it with | favorable eyes. ‘* Nonsense, for ladies like you to speak of the expense,” ‘said the smiling proprietor. ‘“‘ It is the sweetest thing I have in the shop. Do let me try it on you, Miss Ward, ‘There! Re- gard yourself im that mirror. Are you not angelic init? You are so fair, and it suits your delicate complexion so well. Really, one might say you were too charming in it!” The country girl blushed a little. She was not used to being flattered, even by a shop- woman. She asked the price. “Tt is but furty dollars, mademoiselle.” “ That is too much.” “Too much? Just regard well this fall of blonde. That was ten dollars a yard. And this plume, which is the peculiar elegance of the hat, was fifteen dollars alone. Indeed, you must see that the bonnet is lost at forty dol- lars!” “T did not mean to say that you asked too much for such an article, but that I must con- tent myself with a less expensive one. Ido not wish to give more than fifteen dollars.” ‘“‘ Did mademoiselle say fifteen dollars?” in- quired the proprietress, in a tone which Blanche very well understood, and which, if she had not been too proud, would have hight- ened her color. Elizabeth was not invulnerable to it, either, half turning to her cousin, who whispered in her ear: “Tam afraid mamma will think you penu- rious to wear so cheap a thing, when you have plenty of money. J shall pay fifty for this which I have selected, and how can you get along with an inferior one? You are too pretty to ruin your own prospects.” The word penurious grated barshly upon Elizabeth’s sensitive nature. Her cousin’s ad- vice and evident desire, the wornan’s quiet sneer, more than tho consciousness of the ex- ceeding tastefulness of the hat, caused her to break her first resolution. She paid for the forty-dollar bonnel, which Nee to be sent | homie the next evening, after being desired by half who came to the opening on that day. We all know that one good resolution broken is like the sapping of a stone from a barrier, or the falling of a pillar from the edifice—all the others give way the moreeasily. Elizabeth felt the truth of this, as she sat in her room and read a chapter of the New Testament, as was her wont before retiring, the night on which the purchase was made. The advice of her aunt Faithful, to pray, ‘‘ Lead us not into temptation,” came back with force to her mind. Blanche had told her, on her way home, that a hundred-dollar cloak would alone suit her beautiful bonnet, adding, “‘I shall be vain of my pet cousin, seeing I can afford not to be jealous.” The next morning, Elizabeth was up two hours before breakfast. If she had been at home in the country, she would have taken a long ramble that gloriousmorning. As it was, she sat by her window and read for some time. This window was pleasantly retired, looking down upon the little space of ground which Mr. Vanderlyn’s wealth enabled him to retain as a flower-garden, where the worth of every foot was told by hundreds of dollars. Throw- ing open the sash, the air which blew in stirred her vigorous blood refreshingly.’ She thought she would wander down into the conservatory, and from thence into the garden, now barren of all its summer array. Leaving her cousin still asleep, she stole out. The conservatory was sweet—almost too oppressively so, and she passed on out of doors, gathering a sprig of evergreen or myrtle here and there, as an ex- | cuse for wandering about. Her cheeks were red as roses when she came in. and John, the | gardener, who evidently admired her, cut one | of shis choicest hot-house roses and presented | he as she stopped to speak with him of the | flowers. When she entered the breakfast par- | lor, there was no one at the table but her uncle | Vanderlyn. She came forward, smiling and | animated, ‘‘a sight to make an old man | young,” so fresh, so buoyant, and such a con- | trast to the languid morning air of his wife and daughter whenever they did honor him with their company that he doubly appreciated it. “Will you accept my morning offering?’ she asked playfully as she laid the myrtle and rose beside his plate. ‘Ah, thank you! I will take them to Wall street with me to remind me of home,” he an- swered, gallantly affixing them to his coat.” “Why do you goto Wall street every day, uncle? It seems to me that you might now rest upon your laurels, and withdraw from the hurry and care of business. You are rich enough.” ‘(With sucha family as mine! Ah, you do not know! They still ery ‘Give, give!’ There’s Philip, the extravagant dog, and Blanche, and my wife the worst of all. No, no! Imust work! Besides, it has become so a habit with me that I donot know what I should do with my time, What could Ido? 1 should be bored to death © with idleness.” “Bnjoy this luxurious home, uncle Philip— the library, your carriage, the society of your family. Blanche’s fine music, every thing. And then travel part of the time.” “Oh, Ido go to Newport, or somewhere, . every seuson, and play billiards to pass the : time, while Blanche and her mother dress and flirt. But it’s not so very amusing. I used to think I should like to be at home more, but theres too much company. I get tired of it, Wife and daugkter live to please other men— dowt care much about me, except when the °y | want money, and then how pretty they can be} Still, they’re good— better than most, and I | like them. Wife looks superb at the ‘head of the table at dinner. Proud of her. Totellthe ~ truth, I have been a business man so long that I -ave lost my taste for reading. Used to be quite scholarly once, but the daily papers are about all I get through with now. Sometimes I stay at home evenings, sometimes go to the . opera, sometimes to the club.”
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7 ie as f (SET ES, SRS RT Ca — beth, while her secret heart was pondering upon how solitary in wishes and tastes she was in most things. She should not have a friend and adviser in her uncle’s family, she saw very plainly. - She felt interested in her uncle Vanderlyn. She thought she could discern the elements of what should have beena better or a greater man. Often was his name appended to liberal ‘ sums contributed toward fashionable objects of benevolence, but in his home circle she saw none of the small droppings of charity; nor : could she discover that he had any other object is in all his scheming, than to keep up his position, ; and his family well supplied with money. She had come to New York with an earnest pur- A pose to do some good work, especially for her | own sex, and longed to talk with her uncle is about it, as she could have done with her father B had he been alive. This, at present, was im- possible. Her heart yearned, too, for the > affection which even his own child did not ; covet so much as she—an orphan, who must have something and somebody to love, lavishly, earnestly. “‘T will win him by a thousand thoughtful attentions, to give me, too, a part of his affections,” she thought. “Uncle Philip,” she said, suddenly, looking up when breakfast was finished, ‘“‘I wish you would let me love you and wait upon you as a daughter.” ‘Wait upon me!” he replied with a smile; “ Blanche leaves that to the servants. She bas not done so much for me ina month as you have in giving me this flower. It has sweeten- ed my breakfast. But you shall be my second aughter—yes, indeed!” and seeing the tears were in her eyes, he came round and kissed her, before he buttoned his heart up in his coat, preparatory to a day among the stock- jobbers and money-brokers. Neither Mrs. Vanderlyn nor Blanche came down to breakfast, but had it served in their rooms; after which they arose, to prepare for pe visitors, as it was their “reception” day. They expected an unwonted number of calls | on account of the beautiful weather; but, more .: ‘ particularly, as they had given notice to their vee TP friends that a young lady, pretty and an heiress, was to be added to their family. ‘* All these calls to return—all this circle of . acquaintance to keep up,” thought Elizabeth, . when the fatiguing day was over. The evening was comparatively quiet, and she was rewarded for her efforts in meeting strangers all day by some fine music. Eliza- beth could sing a clear, beautiful alto, which delighted Blanche, as it aided and accompanied her brilliant tones. She was surprised to find her cousin’s musical education equal to her own. Music was one of the things which Blanche really liked, aside from its being one of her * cards.” CHAPTER IIL DOCTOR PHILIP. “* How few, like thee, inquire the wretched out, id And court the offices of soft humanity! Like thee, reserve their raiment for the naked, Reach out their bread to feed the dying orphan, Or mix the pitying tears with those that weep.” PHILIP VANDERLYN, junior, or Dr. Philip, | as Blanche loved best to call him, came home a after a five years’ absence, during which he f had seen his relatives twice—once when they a spent a month in Paris, and once when he paid | a flying visit to his native city. His family t were delighted to have him at home. Blanche shed three tears upon his breast when he arrived, and could hardly wait to see the pre- % sents he had brought for her. That the long absence of his only boy had been something of a trial to him, may be inferred from the fact that now, whenever Philip was to spend an evening at home, his father remained also, en- joying his merry small-talk, and laughing even at some rather doubtful stories of the young gentleman’s own experience. think of her cousin. Now she found him an insufferable fop. At least this was her first opinion. He had eyed her critically when in- troduced, and had been very conceited and con- descending. She had expected that he would at least be intelligent, for she had understood that, notwithstanding his wildness, he studied with painful assiduity when he did study. But he was worse, a hundred times worse as a man, than Blanche was as a woman; and his beauty did not keep his cousin from despising him, She kept out of his way as much as pos- sible. If she could get into a quiet nook of the library, with some beloved book, she was con- tent. Or into her own room, where Blanche too often followed her, tormenting her unwit- tingly with ceaseless talk upon subjects inter- esting to herself alone. Now that Blanche had a handsome brother to go every where with her, and whose time she would monopolize, she was less persevering in her attentions to her cousin. Elizabeth began to re-form the schemes which had been nearly driven out of her mind. Her aunt laughed at her when she found that she had been visiting the ragged schools, and had held two or three consultations with Mr. Pease, and that, on Thanksgiving day, she had given twenty-five dollars for the children’s dinner. The class in which she felt the most interest was that of the respectable sewing-women who depended upon slop-shops or chance custom. Her heart burned with the story of their great wrongs. She longed to consult some intelli- gent and philanthropic person as to ways and means for permanently bettering their con- dition. As she could find none such around her, she finally wrote to her pastor, Mr. Has- tings. The noble impulses which that letter betrayed, filled him with a strange joy. He answered it as best he could; and one letter led to another, until there was quite a steady correspondence, and all upon the subject which first began it. His advice was very much prized by Elizabeth, and served often in the place of a friend nearer at hand. It encour- aged her, too; often giving her strength to resist the fascinations of example and entreaty. Still, she was not up to her ideal—she could not reach it; she was so far below it that some- times she felt altogether discouraged with her- self, ‘¢ What a consummate dandy Philip is!” she thought, indignantly, one day as she was hur- rying along the street alone. What had called up the thought at this time more particularly, had been the supercilious way in which he had bowed to her as she had passed him, a short time before. So much conceit was intolerable! She turned down a by-street, for she was out to visit a sick woman whom a charitable so- ciety had recommended to her especial notice. She found the number, knocked softly, and went in, when whom would she see but her in- tolerable cousin Philip, holding the hand of the dying woman, ashe sat beside her and wiped tho death-sweat from her brow. No one perceived her, and she stood still. “I pledge you my honor,” said her cousin, in a grave, sweet voice, ‘‘that your children shall be provided for. I will see that they have all they need at present, and that soon they shall be provided with good homes in the country. Do not be so distressed for them. He who will not let even a sparrow fall to the ground unnoticed will surely care for them.” ‘It was He who sent you to me, I am sure,” whispered the woman. ‘“‘ You will be blessed —your youth will be joy to you, and your old age honored, But for you—” ‘Do not try to speak,” he interrupted her, gently. ‘I have done but little, yet I will do more. Compose yourself, and be at peace, for your little ones shall fare better than they have done.” ‘“*T am—at—peace,” gasped his companion. Truly she was, for the death-pallor came over her face, and in a moment she breathed no more, Two or three children. clambered about the bed, gebbing and screaming. Re 5 > Ta as ve % ee eS ee ee ms we PR eS AS eee As Philip composed the dead woman’s hands upon her breast, she saw him drop a wa tear. : “Cousin Philip, is this you?’ she asked, oe coming to his side. He looked around quick- : ly. “Well! supposing it is? What business have you wandering around in these bad localities? Some day you will be found miss- . ing!” “a “‘T have no fears upon that score; at least, not enough to keep me at home. But, Philip?” and she looked upinto his face with a question- ba ing look, as much as to ask where all its conceit a and indifference had gone to. Philip. had admired his cousin much more than he had allowed her tosee; when he had hae complimented her, it had usually been in a Nas, manner not pleasing to her fastidious taste—it —s had seemed as if he had only doneitto pro- voke her. Now, he said: “You are a pearl among women, Lizzie. — Does Blanche never accompany you on these excursions?—for I am aware they are almost of v daily occurrence with you.” “No,” replied she, unwilling to cast a sha- dow of blame upon any one, “‘she is so happy, . 3 so admired and busy, she has no time. But a; she gives to many a good cause. She handed a me five dollars as I was coming out, for chari- table purposes; yet I know she wanted to get oa herself a new fan.” yas ‘Wonderful self-denial! Iam afraid it will a make her ill—especially as she has so few ina fans,” replied Philip, in his usual mocking tone. ‘Blanche dresses seraphically, doesn’t mths she, Lizzie? I do love to seea beautiful wo. = man beautifully dressed. By the way, cousin, ite you are not remarkable for a superb toilet; Pe neat enough, but you do not do yourself just- c ice. Are you so poor?” ie “Tt is a strange subject to introduce here ;” re and Elizabeth turned away to console the ery- = ing children. he ‘“*I do not wish you to think that I have E been doing any thing good,” continued Philip, “T abominate goodness. I happened to be pay, called as this woman's physician. Can Ido — Te any thing for you, cousin Lizzie?” ty “Tf you will find some neighbor who is willing to take charge here for the night, I will see that she is well paid. In the mean time, * I will give these poor children some supper.” ) While he was gone for a watcher, she sooth- — ed the little ones with many gentle words and promises, and set forth before their long- ing eyes. a comfortable repast, which she took from a small basket she had brought with her. When they had completed arrangements to insure decency and attention to the dead — and comfort to the living the cousins walk- ed home together. Philip was as gay as ever, but Elizabeth was certain she had made a discovery of a portion of his naturewhichhe = ? kept hidden from the eyes of his friends. He was more of an enigma to her than before; con- sequently more interesting. If you pique a — woman’s curiosity, you have a certain hold upon her interest; her imagination is greater than a man’s, investing all untangible things — with more importance than they deserve. Fools | and villains may put ona sad, mysterious air, and adopt the “grand, gloomy, and peculiar,” and be successful in winning the consideration of tolerably sensible women. “Tf he was notsuch a fop,” murmured Lizzie to her pillow that night, as it nestled close to her glowing cheek, “‘he would be quite—endur- able.” The next morning he came and sat down by her, while Blanche was flirting with a morning caller, and they had a long, and, to her, inter- esting conversation, upon poetry, esthetics, ete. Just as her face was all lighted up with lovely animation, he quenched the light suddenly, by observing, carelessly : “Voila! you know too much! Girls should not have opinions. There’s Blanche—she is my ideal of a woman—don’t know an equation from the equator. Look at her! Don’t you 3 f
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7 . 6 hide L : " _ think I ought tobe proud of such a sister? I did not see her equal in all France.” . Elizabeth was really lost by the beginning of this speech. Her cousin had charmed and sur- prised her by his stores of knowledge, and had led her on into unwonted communicativeness; had purposely awakened her spiritual nature by many an eloquent touch, until it had ex- _ panded, pure as a lily in the sunlight—and now, ; how quickly the frost nipped it. eee “Oh! it is very true! a woman should have -- no soul, no perception, no will, but what is - graciously vouchsafed her by some lord of her being,” she replied with bitterness; and rising, she went to the piano (the visitor having de- parted) and played fast and hard all the noisy, meaningless, bravado music she could think of. ‘ **T like to strike the fire from such a jewel as that,” whistled Philip, ‘under his breath; and flinging himself into an easy-chair, he listened with half-shut eyes. When ske had wearied herself she turned to leave the room, and there was Philip leaning on the corner of the instrument. “You remind me of Tennyson’s ‘Prin- cess,’” said he, “‘and I long to be the Prince ; who whispered: ** “Tf thou be what I think thee, some Sweet dream, I do but ask thee to fulfill thyself.’ “My temper is not a‘harp of a thousand strings,’ for you to ‘smile on its—all its chords with might,’” she answered, having subdued her little burst of injured feeling, ‘‘so keep your flatteries forsome more eager ear. Iam going to my room to write letters.” She went to her room and wrote to her aunt Faithful and to Mr. Hastings. Her mood was such as to tinge her letter with just that shade . ee melancholy which made the receiver wonder at the cause, and linger over the words with at ikiadinis interest. ‘Here you are up here staining your fingers - “pf with ink, when Mr. Thompson has been wait- ing fitteen’ minutes for you to make your ap- : LT left him with Dr, Philip looking at some coins which he brought from Europe, Ww I went to look for you!” exclaimed nche, running into their chamber, just as Lizzie had finished her second epistle. 4 “IT guess you will be able to entertain Mr. ae Thompson without my assistance, my dear, _, and I do not feel one bit like trying to interest rh myself in his disagreeabilities.” ae “What a girl you are! Here’s a widower, -__-without children, not over fifty years old, and ‘worth eight hundred thousand dollars; dresses __' -well, is used to good society, and madly in love Nee with you, yet you treat him as coolly as if he "was some penniless poet of sweet eighteen. I do not believe you care a gold dollar for all _ the conquests you have made since you came _ to New York.” - “T certainly do not; I have yet to meet the man who comes within the faintest shadow of the ideal man, upon whose brow I have set the fe ' shining mark. Oh, Blanche, how can you -. waste your time, and wit, and beauty upon such a set as you have about you?” “There! there! there—” rid Tdont intend to preach; but I must ob- is Mr. Thompson is “thie most sepidietve and '. ‘bat-like. If he had ten times the fortune _.. whieh he has, I could never be more than woldly polite to him. How did he get his -—--wealth+—ask hina that. I should think Philip would be afraid to show him his coins, for fear f he would slyly pilfer them.” pe *“ Why, Elizabeth!” laughed Blanche. Tt is strange how the glitter of gold blinds . eyes, even those as bright and pure as my dear - eousin’s. Don’t go near him, Blanche; don’t allow him to touch your hand or your shawl, ~or even to look upon you! That is the way Then we would have less villainy in high places.” ‘You are the queerest girl! Every one— - almost—treats Mr. Thompson with respect. ' He is a great favorite with the young ladies.” * Who would sell every thing but the out- Are for pure women to treat such men! i £. * ; md Se ee Bf ai fe ds ee 2 pro 1! gi dian” Oe) ie we? side appearance of propriety, for such ample means of gratifying their ambition to be first in display—most extravagant in dress.” « How disagreeable you can make yourself, for such a nice girl. Well, I must make your apologies I suppose, to your adorer. Now, don’t look grieved. I hate him myself! a wouldn’t have him if he wasthe last man on the face of the earth! But I must be civil to him.” She darted off like a lark, caroling, while Elizabeth went to Mrs. Vanderlyn’ 's room, who really was ill that morning with the headache, and begged to be permitted to do something for her. Her voice was so soft, and her touch so gentle, that the lady was glad to send away her maid and accept her services instead. Mrs. Vanderlyn sat in an invalid’s easy- chair, well tipped back on its rockers, and a hankerchief tied about her brows. Her niece removed the bandage, took down all her heavy hair, brushed it out, and left it floating about her shoulders, while, with a sootbing touch, she passed her hands over the aching head, and soon magnetized the nervous pain almost en- tirely away. “T hbelieve you are a magician—you have nearly cured me,” said her aunt, gratefully. “Then you have no need of my services,” said Philip, who had at that moment stolen in- tothe room. ‘I came to offer them, but will withdraw. Let me warn you, though, my lady-mother, against employing empirics—it is a dangerous experiment.” “You have always something foolish to say,” replied his mother, looking at her hand- some boy with a smile, and thinking how much he resembled herself. He placed a bouquet of exquisite flowers in a little Bohemian vase upon her dressing-table. “{ will not bring them near enough to cause the offending headache to return by their per- fume, but you can feast your eyes upon them, my beautiful mother, and think of the faults of the giver.” “Tam much obliged to you for remember- ing me, Iam sure, Philip. They are full as pretty as those Baron Steimbrack brought me last evening for the opera. If you will leave me now, children, I think I can sleep a little, and awake entirely recovered.” She gave them her plump, white hand, sparkling with eee t Philip kissed it, while he pressed his ow wo to his heart with an impressive air. “Ts that as gracefully done as the baron can do it?” “Go away, you foolish boy. away, Lizzie, my love.” The cousins went down and found Blanche looking for her brother. ‘‘Oh, Lizzie, Philip, come and see! I won- der who did it? It could not be papa, for I had never said a word to him about wanting it. And he is no judge of these things. And this was selected by a person of the most perfect taste!” “« Kh!” groaned her brother. She had unfolded a packet which had just arrived, addressed ‘to herself, and displayed a robe-silk of the most delicate bloom-color, faint and fair as the inner fold of an apple-blos- som. It was ‘the very thing she had been wishing for, in time to make up for New Year’s day. ““Tt’s a very handsome present,” continued the delighted girl. <“‘I saw it yesterday, when you and I were passing the shop, Philip, and I wondered then how I could contrive to coax it out of papa, for my own allowance was spent long ago. It was marked seventy-five dollars. And, oh, Lizzie, there was a blue one of the same pattern as this, that you must buy. It will just suit your style, and be so lovely!” “You know that I can not afford to pur- chase so expensive a silk—especially after all the new things I have been getting.” On: but. you must get this, darling, to match ‘mine! I saw a hundred-dollar check in your purse yesterday, and yet you pretend that you can not afford i*.” ne Take him ( ————————— RR A SL a I ete THE COUNTRY. COUSIN. “T admired that blue silk very much, my- self, Lizzie,” added Philip. ‘It is a tint that not many ladies can wear to advantage. I should like to see youinit. I venture to affirm that the whole circle of this extensive city will not furnish a more distinguished pair of beautiful belles—each so different in her style, and so perfect in the type.. Really, I shall have to call upon you myself, ladies, and pay the meed of admiration. And be sure, cousin Lizzie, that you wear the blue dress. I want to see youinit. Ihave a fancy that you will fill my ideal of a blonde. Do not let any New England notions of economy prevent you from doing your own beauty justice, and carrying out the pretty conceit of the twin dresses.” Philip could look so persuasive, when he wished, that it was almost impossible to deny a request of his; still, his cousin shook her head, with a downcast look, and said: “T cannot promise you, flattering as you are.” Lizzie was not invulnerable to emotions of female vanity; the desire to look well in Philip’s eyes was stronger than she would acknowledge. In the secrecy of her own heart she pondered the mat The phrase, ‘‘New England economy,” grated upon her ear harshly as coming from him. The native strength of her character came to her, and enabled her to cast it out of her mind. It is true that she had a hundred dollars in her purse, and should have more before very long. But she had formed a plan for spending it differently. There was a woman employed by Mrs. Vanderlyn to do her sewing, whenever she had any that could be sent from the house. She was a widow, with three young children to care for, and, conse- quently could not go out to sew. Lizzie bad seen her several times, and had become more than usually interested in her. She had been reared in very different circumstances; in her youth had been the pet of a happy home, been tenderly cared for and well educated. But, like so many loving and trusting young girls, she had married a man not worthy of her—one who abused her confidence, and who finally died of afever, brought on by excesses, leaving her with little means and this young family. She had struggled on, as women must struggle when left dependent; had tried all the narrow and crowded avenues to a living left open for women to{choose from; had kept boarders, and lost what little she had by it; had taught a select school, taking her own little ones to and from it with her, and waiting upon them, doing all her work out of school hours; had met with more disappointments, insults, meanness and want, than need here be told, and was now wearing out her life, as women wear them out, at the everlasting stitching, to keep bread, without butter generally, in the mouths of her children. _ Elizabeth, as was natural to her, had in- terested herself in this personage, a lady and a Christian, a coldly-treated sewing-womun, She had taken work to her humble door, and, while leaving her orders, had fallen into pleasant conversation, which, at times, grew confidential on the part of the widow, s0 little used to sympathy. “Why do you not goto the country, ” the asked her one day, ‘‘and secure steady patron- age in some village? The means of living would be cheaper, and the prices much better. It is a mistake for'so many to stay in the city.” “But it is hard to get out of it,” was the reply. ‘(I have never been able to lay up enough to take us safely out and settle us in a new place. Besides, it is hard for a stranger to find employment, even in a country village. Oh, if I had a sewing-machine! I could do my work with so much more dispatch that I need not wear out my life in this manner, But, in this, as in every thing else, men come in with their capital, and turn the blessings into a curse. Men buy up the right to make sewing- machines, men purchase at a price ‘far beyond the reach of the toiling neodlo-women, and put them into* their tailor-shops, and skirt-mann-
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THE COUNTRY COUSIN. factories, and shirt stores, and cloak depots, taking the crumbs out of the mouths of widows’ children, and adding it to their own _. overflowing stores.” **Tt is all too true,” sighed Elizabeth. That evening, the case of this one sufferer weighing upon her mind, she had formed a plan which sent her to bed with a smile upon her face, and gave her such sweet sleep as the good alone enjoy. By a little, very little self- denial, she could save this mother to her help- less flock, and bestow a benefit which would be life-long. She resolved to take the hundred- dollar check and purchase a sewing-machine for her seamstress, and send it to her as a New Year’s present. This she would do now, and, in the spring, if the widow wished, she would furnish her with means and recommendations to set up in some rural place, where her chil- dren could feel the greensward under their feet, and grow up upon healthy air. The thought made her unusually happy all the morning. She had fully decided upon the deed when the robe came home for Blanche, and the temptation was set before her. It was not the dress she wanted so much as to please Philip, and to look well dressed in his eyes. She could not get the robe and the sewing-machine both at that time. She re- membered that she already had spent much more upon herself, and less upon others, than she had designed. Yet, she might get the machine and make the widow happy at some future time, say a couple of months, when money was plenty again—the dress would be ‘so becoming, and please Blanche so! But, what if the health of the overtasked seamstress should give way entirely, while she was taking a little foolish pleasure in a blue silk robe that she did not need? The young girl went to her pillow less hap- py than on the previous evening, but she arose the next morning to go out after breakfast and select a sewing-machine, for which she paid, with’ orders to have it sent to its destination pon the first day of the new year. Then she went home gay and gleesome, with no further thought of the coveted dress. She told no one, not even uncle Vanderlyn, to whom she some- times confided her benevolent plans. They would only call her silly—half laugh and half scowl at her; and it was reward enough to have the consciousness that she had resisted a been very powerful to a pretty young eit When New Year’s day, with all its splendor and excitement, was over, the account of it which she wrote for the amusement of her aunt Faithful was not tinged with one shade of envy or discontent because she had received calls in a less elegant dress than Blanche. “Blanche was beautiful,” she wrote, ‘and is enough conscious of it to put her in the most bril- liant spirits. She was evidently very much admired, Aunt Vanderlyn scarcely less so. Her dress was rich—velvet and lace of the costliest kind, relieved by diamonds. “We were overwhelmed with calls from morning till ht. This. being my first ‘New Year’s’ in the city, 1 was amused at the beginning, but dis- gusted at the conclusion. Of course we had wine upon the table, and of course everybody else had. I am sure that uncle Vanderlyn, upon any other oc- ‘easion, would have had the servants put some of the visitors out of doors, had they Pn in his yon lors in so maudlin a state. Am I fault-finding? I am afraid Iam growing less charitable than I ought to be.” ; CHAPTER. IV. “Airy, fairy Lilien, Flitting, fairy Lillien.”” These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went ee up and down; But never more they saw the man Approaching from the town. Thus wandered these two pretty babes Till death did end their grief, In one another’s arms they died, AS babes wanting relief. The Children in the Wood. Two fairies sat in a gorgeous bower. Their names were Blanche and Elizabeth, Not in a bower like Titania’s, where the green woods glimmer in the moonlight, but in the boudoir . which terminated. Mrs. Vanderlyn’s, magnifi- be ah — 5 ee | accepting our cent suit of parlors. Nor were these fairies like those tantalizing creatures who shake their scarfs at you from the vanishing rainbow, or hide their evanescent beauty in the heart of some dew-bespangled flower. They were those more precious household fairies who win pet names, of such substantial make, and burdened with such pressing wants that a large purse full of money barely suffices for their ‘ absolute | necessities.” | Shall we say that Elizabeth, the smaller, de- murer fairy of the two, was fast following in | the footsteps of her extravagant cousin? It was twelve o’clock of a clear, cold Febru- ary day; but here you could hardly have told that summer was not still a lingerer. The atmosphere was of genial warmth, the songs of birds were tangled amid the lace draperies of this boudoir, whose windows opened upon a conservatory so large and so blooming that a tropic garden seemed transplanted into it. Blanche was lounging in an easy-chair; and no rich-breathed rose ever leaned amid her clustering leaves with a more dreamy indolence, than she amid the cushions of damask around her. Elizabeth, in a morning neglige of dark-blue silk, which set off the faint bloom of her cheeks, and the dainty fairness of her throat and hands, was down upon the carpet, with heaps of music all in disorder about her, and a guitar lying across her lap. “T have broken the string, and I have no patience to mend it with a new one,” she said. “T declare, Blanche, we have so much to do that we have no time left for our own pleasure, I’ve been trying these two days to read that new book Philip gaye me. But what with breakfast at nine, and music to practice, and the dressmaker, and going out in the carriage these brief afternoons, and dinner, and com- pany in the evening, one has no time for the improvement of the mind, or any other sensible object. Philip says we ought to improve our minds.” “ Does he?’ replied Blanche, with an accent of infinite scorn. ‘‘I presume our minds are a match for his—the conceited dandy. The next time I see him I will tell him that his curls need improving; he prides himself upon his beautiful hair, and I intend to mortify him.” Here there wasa low chuckle in the next room, but they did not hear it. The sunbeam went on tying its threads to Blanche’s hair, while Elizabeth’s hand wandered tenderly over her guitar, “T know it seems tome as if we were always busy,” resumed the former. ‘ Papa thinks we have nothing to do! That’s just the way with these men!” “Tt seems to me as if we wasted a great deal of valuable time. I spend mine very different- ly from what I had intended before I came here. I seem to have got into a whirlpool of guyety—all spray and bubbles, dancing in the sunshine, fascinating to look at, but bearing me round and round, and evermore back to the starting-point, except that I sink a little deeper with every circle. I wonder what Mr. Hastings would say!” “Fie! how serious you are. You talk like an essay. Who is Mr. Hastings?” ‘He is my minister.’ “ And you’ve been giving me a piece of one of his sermons, I suppose. How stupid he must be!” “He is far from stupid,” replied Elizabeth, flushing. Ah! is he a young man—or has he, like most country ministers, a wife and nine small children?” ‘“‘ No matter,” was the answer, in so vexed a tone that Blanche laughed—it wasnot often she could tease her cousin. ‘Neyer mind, Lizzie, dear, for you need not tell me. Ican infer that he has neither ‘wife nor children as yet.” . (Here there was a slight rustle, as of an impatient movement in the next apartment.) ‘‘ By the way, I wonder if our forty-second cousin, Bessie Bell, intends itaticn 1o spend a week with are so fearfully good. The Scribes and Phari- eae 4) ! tit a : hea tea An pe ’ ; ile: oe Es hee a . [: “ARNE + - ] ae us. She’sa nice little thing. Ican make her perfectly happy by giving her some of my cast-off dresses.” ; “That you’ve worn three times,” laughed js Elizabeth. - ‘“We’ll dress her up so that she will be quite presentable. The truth is, I like her better than I do my envious, elegant friends; she’s such a candid little goose.” gn Sa “Won't she even tell a white lie?’ queried : Lizzie, who had found that white lies were cur- rent in fashionable society. ‘No; and she has no vanity.” je “ Does Philip know her?” “‘T presume he does not remember her. I wonder if he will like her? I should be in doubt about it; he is so fastidious. If he loves any thing besides his own sweet self, it is tosee an elegantly-attired, self-possessed woman of the world.” ‘Nobody cares whether he likes her or not,” quoth Lizzie, breaking another string with a osu. twang. + The noise which she thus made concealed an ~ ominous “Hem!” proceeding from the other : room. If Lizzie had told a “ white lie” in that oe sentence, she was herself unaware of it at the : moment. r “T hate any one who considers himself per- ve fect, and takes the liberty of lecturing other 143 people,” she continued, with some energy. a “Ah, yes!” murmured Blanche, languidly oy: playing with the tassel of her girdle, ‘‘still, 2 Lizzie, I think Philip knows how to be very agreeable. He dances exquisitely. Grace Liv- ingston would die to please him.” “She’s in love with his fortune. However, —«— I do not blame you for liking him—he’s your brother.” "iin, “And your second cousin,” addéd Blanche, with a gay laugh. ‘“ But here comes the lunch ss? which I ordered brought here, for I feel indo- lent this morning. Come, let us have a nice quiet luncheon, all by ourselves.” “Not quite by yourselves,” said a voice, which they knew too well, and Philip emerged from his concealment in the bay-window of © the adjoining parlor. ‘‘ Exercise your hospi- tality, mesdemoiselles ”—and he ran his fingers — affectedly through his hair, as he stood wait- ing to be offered a seat at the board. ‘‘Listeners never hear any thing good of themselves,” said Lizzie, trying to suppress a blush, which grew the rosier for her efforts. “That must be because mortals—especially women—are so given to saying hard things. Who would think so much beauty was the — vail for so much uncharitableness? But, sister Blanche, you must give me a cup of tea. Thad no breakfast this morning. I was called out at eight o’clock to set the leg of a poor laborer, who fell from a building, and bruised himself terribly.” ; Pd “What will you gain by going among such ee people?—not the fame for which you are so ambitious,” spoke his sister. ea ~ “J shall gain the consciousness of having re- lieved human misery, my dear,” responded the young physician, gravely. ‘“‘ Not that I wish to x be considered good,” he added, quickly. “I~ bate charity—I hate philanthropy. Every- body knows there is nothing good about me.” Elizabeth looked at him with softening eyes. She was beginning to see further into the laby- rinths of Philip’s character. ‘ “Why should you put such a scornful accent upon the word good?” she asked. “ Because the kind of people whom I detest sees were, you remember. Your ‘Rey. Creani Cheeses’ are good, and so are your sallow- cheeked deacons who delight in threatening little children with everlasting tortures. Bro- kers and stock-jobbers, and those who prey upon widows and orphans, are, I know, gener- ally very pious—influentially so. There’s fa- ther! he owns a church and a minister—he has made a fashionable thing of it—and the shares are rising. It is a very good specula- tion. Mother’s a member, too, and would not miss a communion any more than she would
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— ise THE COUNTRY COUSIN. the rich dinner she keeps the servants busy in the mean time preparing.” “Oh, Philip, how can you talk so? You have not a particle of reverence in your com- position.” “Nor a drop of tea in my cup. A little more, if it please your highness to be so gen- erous.” Hours before the persons enacting this tab- leaw vivant had slipped from beneath their downy coverlids, their ‘‘forty-second cousin, Bessie,” had deserted her chamber in the old farm-house, and gone out of doors with a milk- ing pail on her arm. As she stepped off the wooden “stoop,” which fringed the dining-room door, she drew in her breath with a sigh of surprise, and stood in mute delight, regarding the marvelous trans- figuration of the landscape. A silent spirit from the cloud-realms above had been busy all night—and now, what a beautiful work was completed before her! The familiar yard with its long well-sweep, its picket fence, its rows of currant bushes ranged beneath, its high clustered locust trees, with the rose-vine by the stoop, all so brown, so bleak, the previous evening, were converted into a fairy bower, more exquisite than mortal hands ever elabo- rated. “All had suffered a snow-change, Into something rich and strange.” The snow had come down damp and thick, clinging to every branch of the old trees, and every spray of the bushes, and every symmet- vical picket, so long as a flake could find a point to hang by. The well-curb and the low bushes looked like couches of swan’s down, spread out for the repose of some invisible beauty. The trees were burdened so heavily that there was a soft gloom underneath, wrapping the scene in mystic quiet and repose. Bessie looked through the dreamy vistas, while to her eyes the interlaced boughs of the motionless trees formed arched windows lofty and intricate as the famous work in ancient cathedrals. _No alabaster ever was so white as the pure material of this en- chanted bower. Yet so bright was it, as the daylight strengthened, that it seemed asif it might have flaked off from the silver stars, and dropped down in gleaming radii. Stillness, both of motion and sound, reigned absolute. Bessie felt all the beauty of the time, pausing, herself so rosy and active, as if the spell were working upon her, and she might momently grow into a dream or a statue. But she bloomed on like a single rose in a garden of lilies, and a red ray shot from the quiver of the rising sun, piercing the bow- ery gloom, and striking her where she stood, deluging her cheeks with crimson, her eyes with light and her hair with gold. The sleepy _ chanticleer in the barnyard gave a shrill scream to find he had slumbered so late, and was an- swered here and there through the distance, by his cheery brotherhood. The cows lowed indolently as if still oppressed with dreams of summer pastures. Bessie, giving her milk-pail a swing, plunged into the untrodden path. The snow lay all around her so soft and deep that she could not resist the temptation to ruffle its unsoiled page. Breaking a stick from a lilac- bush, with this rude graver she traced figures and flowers with considerable skill upon its yielding surface. As the sun rose in his full splendor, glorifying the world at a glance, some lines from Tennyson’s Arabian Nights came into her mind, and she wrote them down upon a page as pure as her own young heart: Six columns—three on either side— Pure silver, underpropt a rich Throne of the massive ore, from which Down drooped, in many a floating fold Engarlanded and draperied With inwrought fiowers, a cloth of gold. Thereon, his deep 8d laughter-stirred With merriment of kingly pride, Sole star of all that place and time, Isaw him—in his golden prime The good Haroun Alraschid! Then she looked furtively into the enchanted bower, as if the magic lines might have called | ‘ ° i ¥ rp of : » ~ Bhd ait JF b Tren ee eee eee Re ee ee ee ed AS Tes ae up the king to sit upon the well-sweep. No king was there. She went on a little further, tracing thoughtfully, it may be unconsciously, the initials ‘‘J. A.” These she duplicated many times as she passed along, and once she wrote the name in full—“ Jesse Allen.” Just then her brother Will coming, whistling from the house, with a blush she blotted out the tell- tale record, and sped onward to the barnyard, where her own pet cow awaited her milking. Bessie did not stop to snowball her brother, as he would have liked, but hurried through with her task and back to the house; for it was a great day with her, and she must needs haste. At nine o’clock the train passed the station on its way to the city; she must make ready and ride two miles in order to reach it; for she had accepted her cousin Blanche Van- derlyn’s invitation to spend a week in New York, Philip was passing his cup for the third time, when a fuller burst of sunshine brightened the boudoir, and the three, looking up, beheld Bes- sie, all wrapped incloaks and mufflers, but as bright as a winter-berry peering out of a snow- drift. The girls gave her a welcome affection- ate enough to satisfy a more exacting nature than hers, and presented Philip, who made some pretty speeches about renewing old ac- quaintance. More luncheon was ordered for the new- comer. When the gay repast was finished, Blanche proposed that Bessie, if not too much fatigued, should accompany them upon their shopping expedition, as they did not like to leave her so soon after her arrival. She was not at all fatigued, and was as eager to go as most young girls would be when making a holiday trip to the metropolis. Philip threw himself upon a sofa, and tried to look handsome—in which attempt, it must be confessed, he succeeded, to Lizzie’s infinite distaste, who threw a glance at him from be- neath her drooping lashes, as she turned to leave the room, to make ready for the carriage. No sooner had the two girls vanished, than he shook off his air of languor and vanity, sat up like a man possessed of health and vigor, and proceeded to entertain Bessie in a manner which surprised her. Places he had visited, people he had known in the old country, scenery, customs, pictures, he talked of in a sensible, lively way. To see her innocent face light up with interest was stimulus enough to make him exert himself more to please her than he had any other person since his return. Elizabeth would hardly have recognized the con- ceited young physician, who loved to display his ‘‘ foreign graces” as if on purpose to call forth her contempt, and she heard him enter- taining their visitor. The moment she returned he put off all the eloquence which had held Bessie enchanted, and begged to be allowed to accompany the ladies, as there still was a vacant seat in the carriage. “ But Blanche is going to the dressmaker’s. How could you gothere? You would get out of patience waiting.” ‘*T do not purpose to wait, nor to have you wait. Wecan leave her at Mrs. Flummery’s, and drive about the city until it is time to call for her.” “ Of course you will have your own way,” said Lizzie, and there was a triumphant smile upon his lip, as if he meant it. When Blanche came down, flushed with the magnificence of her beauty and appareling, Bes- sie cast an uneasy look over her own modest attire. Blanche noticed it, and smiled. “Do not fret yourself, mia cara; that grace- ful head of yours in its little black velvet hat will look very well from a carriage window. Come, all, or we shall not get home for din- ner,” The horses pranced, their harness glittering in the sun, and the tasteful equipage, with its gay, handsome, and happy party, swept down the avenue. ws “Qh dear! Do look! Wil shy doings! the carriage a moment?” cried Bessie, as they passed a church. ‘That is one of our finest’ churches; I do not wonder that you admire it,” remarked Blanche. ‘*T was not thinking of the church at all. Those little children, there, upon the steps. Cousin Philip, will you not tell the coachman to stop until we can give them some money?” The snow, which had fallen so heavily fifty miles back in the country, had touched the city but lightly, and had inostly disappeared from the streets. It lurked here and there in cor- ners, soiled by coal-dust, and looking but a wretched relationship to that purity which had charmed the country girl at sunrise. Some of its draggled wreaths were hroken about the churen steps; and, shrinking away from these into a spot which the sunlight touched with wintry warmth, was a group of three little beggars, holding out their purple hands, and vainly trying to shelter their pinched feet be- neath their dreary rags. The two oldest were girls of eight and ten, and beneath them nestled a little brother. “ Pshaw,” said Philip, ‘“‘you will see such sights at every corner. Those are regular lit- tle villains, [Jl warrant.” “Tf they are not,” said Blanche, “ their parents are, and will take away whatever we give them, and spend it forrum. It is really an injury to society to encourage them and their parents in such idleness.” ‘¢ But these are too small to work, and they look so hungry. Indeed, I can not bear to pass them without giving them a little,” pleaded Bessie. Blanche laughed. “How unsophisticated you are, little one. You remind me of Lizzie when she first came here. I have lectured her out of it pretty well, as far as giving to street beggars is con- cerned; though I suspect she makes a simpleton of herself a great many times when I know nothing of it. I have heard of some of her Tbat sewing-machine, you re- member, Philip, that took the place of the silk dress,” ° “ And that consumptive school - teacher, whose board she is paying so that she can rest . awhile from her labors,” added Philip. Elizabeth blushed. She did not know that her charities were discovered. She was as modest as generous. “That has nothing to do with these chil- dren,” she said. ‘‘ I really wish we had given them something. They looked so dejected, so forlorn. Oh, to think that such childhood is, and must be!—here, all about us, little immor- tal souls tainted at their very birth, little sen- sitive bodies pinched by want before they can stand alone! And all for no sin of their own. They had no power over their own birth, no choice of the circumstances which surround them. Angels must weep at the sight; yet we have become so hardened to it, in this Chris- tian city, that we do not: realize the facts. Each one says, ‘It is no business of mine;’ the philosopher says, ‘It is a necessary evil of human society,’;—and we go on building churches and palaces of gorgeous beauty over, as Dr. Chapin says, ‘these cellars, this under- strata, that heaves with volcanic vice and misery beneath their foundations.” “ And to think that little children actually go to bed hungry,” added Bessie, the tears coming into her eyes. ‘¢ How serious you all are, I declare. Lizzie, I shall fine you for spoiling the pleasure of this glorious afternoon. Here we are in Broadway. Now open both those innocent eyes, Bessie} for the display to-day is quite brilliant,” “Nothing affects my dear sister’s happiness but a wrinkle ira new dress,” spoke Philip, in one of his provoking tones. I “But here we are at Madame Flummery’s—that’s her name, — isn’t it?—and I hope the dress will set well, — that we may not find a cloud upon that peer- less brow when we return.” . Blanche’s indolent eyes flashed for a mo- ment, but she concluded to smile, for she was very fond of her brother, taking his compli-
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THE COUNTRY COUSIN. res; ments and contempt usually with equal good- nature. When shopping and sight-seeing were done, they drove home in the early twilight. It had grown cold and clear, but not still; there was a sharp wind, not blustering but searching, that made the blood curdle at its touch, “Ah, how chilly it is,” shivered Blanche, as she stepped from the carriage, drawing her five hundred -dollar fur cape closer about her, ‘How pleasant home seems to-night,” said Philip, as they gathered in the luxurious par- lors, and all assented with unusual earnest- ness, They lingered long at the dinner-table. The ladies chatted over their coffee, the gentlemen laughed over their wine. Twice or thrice Elizabeth gave Philip an earnest look, which he could not misunderstand, as he filled and re- filled his glass, “‘T wonder if she thinks I can not take care of myself?” thought he, with a man’s willful- ness, and he took yet another, to show that he was not at all obliged for her mute interfer- ence. He was consequently in very gay spirits af- ter dinner, and it seemed as if some wicked demon at his elbow prompted him to make himself as fascinating as he could to their sin- gle-minded, unsuspecting guest. If Bessie’s heart had not been preoccupied by the owner of the initials graven in the snow that morning, she would probably have yielded it forthwith to the systematic besieger, who brought all his accomplishments—and they were manifold— to the capture of this little rustic hamlet. Bes- sie was as innocent of any coquetry, aside from those natural instincts of playfulness which are given to women to highten their at- tractions, as a child; she thought Philip took a great deal of pains to please her, and that he was the most elegant gentleman she had ever met, That he was trying toaddher to the long list of ‘‘broken-hearted ones” she never sur- mised. There was one present who had a clearer vision. Elizabeth was distressed. She was afraid that Bessie would really become too deeply interested, and that Philip, after he had won her innocent affections, would despise them. She thought him too ambitious to think of marrying Bessie Bell. She had seen him playing this game of conceit and heartlessness over and over, in the brief time she had known him, and had seen several of the belles of their circle as fascinated as a bird by a cat, and as ready to drop at his feet. But in their case she had no pity; she knew them as vain and capricious as their tormentor, and that their hollow hearts were filled more by his position, his money, his handsome looks, than by any appreciation of the excellent qualities which he purposely kept in the background. She had only wondered how he could so fritter away abilities which might be put to better purpose. Now she was indignant for Bessie’s sake, and uphappy for her own. Why unhappy for her own? That was more than she could answer. Perhaps she did not ask herself. We are all prone to put away self-questioning when the result is unpleasant. That she was becoming more and more interested in Philip—that per- son whom she daily saw and avowed was vain, tyrannical, and foppish, if nothing worse—was true; but she had persuaded herself it was the study of his peculiar character, which was always eluding and tantalizing ber, which ab- sorbed so much of her thoughts. Of one thing she had become convinced, that he was better than heappeared. Hissuperciliousness was put on to vex his mother and sister as much as _ anything, and he allowed all his self-love to _ appear upon the surface, because his lady friends were guilty of the most apparent and grossest flattery. Elizabeth never flattered him; and she could see that he had a secret respect for her opinions, no matter how closely he tried to conceal the fact. This evening she saw and heard his im- _and brother, probably, were pressive attentions and delicate compliments to Bessie with a pain which was something more than sympathy with the girl. She had not thought him so heartless; she had not blamed him for flirtations with accomplished coquettes, who invited him to a trial of skill; now that she was forced to blame him, she did it un- willingly, and there was a heavy pain at her heart which ought to have warned her. Her face was grave when she bade Philip good-night; he answered the silent rebuke in her eyes with a saucy arching of his brows. Bessie was radiant. She roomed with Eliza- beth, and kept up such a commentary upon her handsome cousin’s perfections, for an hour after their heads were laid upon their pillows, that her companion began to fear for her foolish little heart, but was relieved by the gipsy’s saying with a sigh, as she turned her rosy cheek closer to the bed, before dropping off to sleep; “But, heigho! I would not give my Jesse for a thousand men like him—no, indeed!” The next morning, while those who were up were at breakfast, including Philip and his two cousins, Lizzie took the paper, as usual, to read the news of the day to her uncle. While read- ing in the list of local items, her voice faltered and came to a pause. ‘Oh dear! I shall never forgive myself,” she exclaimed, looking quite pale. All inquired the cause of her emotion. read in reply: She * PAINFUL INcIDENT.—Three Hiab children, sisters ound in the doorway of the church of the Ascension, early this morning, frozen to death. A watchman, passing about two o’clock, discovered them huddled together in a cor- ner, as if to shelter themselves from the wind, but it was too late to recover them. The night was the coldest of the year.” Elizabeth looked toward Bessie, when she had finished, whose lip was trembling, and who finally burst into tears and left the table. “Girls, what does all this mean? Your sensibilities must be unusually acute,” said Mr. Vanderlyn. ‘Tt means, uncle, that we passed these poor little things yesterday, as they sat on the steps, and although we saw they were small and help- less, cold and hungry, we passed by on the other side, without risking so much as a dime out of our overflowing store, for fear we might harm society by our liberality! We came home and eat a luxurious dinner, laughed, jested, went to our warm beds, while all the time those— Oh, uncle, it impresses me as if their death would be laid to our charge!” “‘ Nonsense, Lizzie! You're a good girl, and you give enough we all know. It is unfortu- nate that you did not chance to bestow some- thing upon the children, seeing it has turned out as it has; but, such things happen, and will happen, and nobody is to blame, unless it be their improvident parents,” Lizzie could not satisfy herself with such reasoning. A servant brought Mr. Vanderlyn his fur- lined cloak and gloves, and another sat, wrap- ped to the lips in robes, upon the box of the carriage, waiting to drive his master to Wall street. Even the horses were more warmly covered than those children had been. She saw and reflected upon it; was thoughtful all day, renewing her good resolutions, and trying to solve the problem of the unequal distiibu- tion of blessings among the inhabitants of the earth; how some were born to the inheritance of poverty and ill-health, and evil inclinations, and some to riches which they could not spend upon their pampered senses; how beautiful souls were in ugly bodies; ugly souls in beautiful bodies; how boors could purchase pictures to line their palaces, and starving poets, thirsting likewise for refreshment to their spiritual na- ture, must be kept away from the shrines of art and loveliness to which the boor could bring his gold. And through all her musings ran an undertone—the wail of hungry and freezing “eee eae hungry and freezing child- ood, CHAPTER V. A VALENTINE AND A VISITOR, ** You shall be my Valentine.” With a passionate glow in her crimson heart, The rose satin her bower.—BayarpD TAYLOR. I wonder if I shall have a Valentine this morning?” quoth Bessie, as she sprung out of parture. “‘Valentines are going out of fashion; I do not expect any,” replied Blanche, from the dressing-room. ‘‘T do not care for the fashion; I know I shall have one,” continued Bessie, her fingers almost too tremulous to tie her shoe-strings at the thought. bed, the morning before that fixed for her de- f She had never been away from “J. A,” since _ they were betrothed, long enough to have a — letter, until now; soit is no wonder that her heart beat somewhat fast with expectation. True enough, they had not yet gathered. around the table in the breakfast-parlor, when the postman called with a whole package of missives, and among them was one for Bessie Bell, which sent the roses flying to her cheeks _ at the mere sight of the envelope. As for reading it, she would not think of that before so many profane eyes. Everybody, even her uncle and aunt, rallied her, insisting upon their right to hear her Valentine; but she put it in her pocket and sat down to breakfast— without much appetite, however—and it was observed that she took the first opportunity for slipping out of the room, This ought to have distressed Philip, considering the attention he had paid her; but, as usual, he was willing to give up one flirtation and commence another. Blanche had several notes, a bouquet, and a jewel-box containing an exquisite bracelet. Elizabeth had a missive, accompanied by a splendid bouquet; she threw the missive in the grate, and gave the flowers (costly and fra-_ grant as they were) to Towser to play with; for the Valentine contained an offer of mar- — riage from her rich admirer, Mr. Thompson. She told no one the contents of the burnt | epistle, but Philip guessed what they were. “You will never get such another ‘ catch ’— I believe that’s the term among innocent, un- selfish young maidens; and you had better think twice before you discard eight hundred. thousazd dollars.” “Thank you, Philip, for your advice; but I hold myself worth more than that sum, when it comes to making a bargain;” and she broke the seal of a second note, a small sheet where- on were inscribed four lines of poetry, without — any signature: “ Those feet, so undefiled, so pure, Shall lead, and I will follow still; Would st thou my heart’s high good secure? Take it, and mold it to thy will.”’. She looked up quickly at Philip; his eyes were bent upon her with an expression which . she had never before seen—earnest, question- ing, passionately appealing. The look thrilled her, and, before she thought, before she re- flected, upon the impulse of the moment, with a blush and smile of divine sweetness, she placed the note in her bosom. ‘¢-You promise?—you take the whole respon- . ay sibility then?’ he whispered with a flushing cheek, and turning away, he went out of the room, as if to conceal the too turbulent rising of his soul into his eyes. The next time they met it was not alone. She had stolen into the boudoir with a book in her hand, and sat in an easy-chair, apparently reading. But she couli not see a word of the page before her. Her bosom was in a tumult, such as had before never troubled it. Doubt if Philip really meant what his look and whisper led her to infer; fear that he was trifling with her as she had seen him with others; doubt if she loved him; fear that she ought not, if she did; doubt of his goodness; fear of his follies; but, above all— __ yes, the crested wave that rose highest of all — that surging sea of feeling, and caught the sun- — light upon its crown, was hope—that he loved, that he would prove himself worthy. Then came another, rolling higher still; that was’ \ na > 2 : hy ¢ ‘ 4 * ¢ mR i q E b.
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40 bliss—a bliss she could not help, nor restrain, nor reason with—it would have its sweeping way. While she sat there mute, inwardly filled with tumultuous joy, dashed a little with uncertainty, a servant brought her a card. “¢Mr. Hastings!” She hardly paused, after reading the name, to wonder how he came to be waiting for her in the parlor. Now she could see an old friend! Now she should hear from home! With a face ra- diant with pleasure she hastened into the room. ‘Philip was there, and had been speaking with im. His quick glance was upon the stranger ‘as Elizabeth made her appearance, and he de- tected the tremble of the lashes, very slight though it was, the rush of color to the face, the sudden throb of the breast. He cast a pen- etrating glance, too, upon her countenance, vhich was radiant with pleasure—pleasure and affectionate interest certainly—he could not decide if it were more. exes ‘‘Tt is enough to shake the self-possession of ; iz any man to be welcomed by such a creature as Cog that,” muttered Philip, under his breath. She «ss wwas, indeed, looking most beautiful. In her ss face was a light which made its pure and deli- cate lineaments unusually lovely. The rose _ which she had fastened on her breast was not Poe fine and transparent in its texture than _ her fresh complexion. She introduced her friend to Philip, There was a slight reserve in her manner, which either of the men might have taken as a favor- able augury of her interest in himself. Her cousin wondered whether the unexpected ap- pearance of the minister, or the remembrance of his own words, caused it. In five minutes he had made up his mind that Mr. Hastings - loved Elizabeth; he knew it as well as the min- ister himself—much better than the object of his passion. “ How have you chanced to be in the city so unexpectedly? You said nothing of coming, n your last letter.” _ “Ha! they ‘correspond, then,” remarked Philip, sotto voce. The young pastor told the truth, but not the whole truth. He said that, taking a sudden cold upon his lungs, which unfitted him for preaching, he had obtained some one to supply his place for a Sabbath, and had come down to : the city, thinking a change of air would cure his transient malady. He did not add in the presence of a third _ person, that, unable any longer to endure the |. suspense which was gnawing at his heart, or to ‘ deny himself the happiness of seeing her face, and hearing her voice again, he had seized upon the first opportunity which offered itself, to come and listen to his fate from Miss Ward’s own lips. He found her apparently but jlittle changed. Her dress and. manners were somewhat more _ studied in accordance with the society in which she lived. She greeted him in the old manner, and sat by his side while she asked questions ’ aunt, her old home, the village, the church, himself, his health, his iabors, his studies. Philip excused himself, and for a couple of hours they had. an undisturbed chat upon the - past. It was a joyful time to Lizzie, whose affectionate remembrance clung to old associa- tions. Twice or thrice the heart of the minis- - ter almost overflowed his lips, but he restrained himself, for he, too, had been cognizant of that subtle magnetism which warned him that in 2 Philip Vanderlyn was a rival. He must wait ~~ and watch. , “Have you not discussed your old home sufficiently to permit us now to share in wel- -, coming your friend?” said Blanche, coming into the room with her brightest smile. _ She was in full dinner costume, superbly £ attired, and appeared fairly dazzling to the country pastor. Little Bessie followed her, ‘and a little before the dinner hour came Mrs. * Vanderlyn. The family all were affable, and gratified Lizzie exceedingly by the attention "they bestowed upon Mr. Hastings. He could not be otherwise than grateful; and, it may 4 ee . Be 5, * —= THE COUNTRY COUSIN. | be, that for a time, his better judgment was held in abeyance; he admired all he saw, with- out questioning its intrinsic excellence. They would not allow him to return to his hotel, sending for his carpet-bag, and assign- ing him a room in the house. At dinner he took a single glass of wine with his hostess. Wines and liquors were in profusion upon the board. Mr. Vanderlyn drank freely, as usual, and his son followed his example, though in a less degree. Even Blanche must sip a glass of sherry, to give a brighter witchery to her eyes. “ Speaking of Valentines, here is one which I received this morning,” quoth Philip, as they still lingered at the table, and were teasing Bessie about hers. He read: ‘Thy bark being set with silken sails, And manned by pileasure’s jolly crew, Flew swift before the spicy gales From youth’s Arcadian lands that blew. But now, in manhood’s deeper seas, It buffets with life’s rougher breeze— Oh, may it still as safely ride ‘As when it skimmed youth’s sparkling tide; And when its silken sails are furled, Beit in some still happier world.” “ Lizzie wrote that. I caught her at it yes- terday,” cried Bessie. “Well,” replied Lizzie, with a laugh, “I have not committed myself very far, have I?” “No, it’s entirely too mnon-committal,” growled Philip. Mr. Hastings looked around to see if there was any meaning in the jesting. ‘¢ Philip is so vain, he would like to have the whole feminine world at his feet,” said Blanche, laying her fingers upon the guest’s arm, and drawing him away to a picture upon the wall. Elizabeth knew Blanche well enough to dis- cover when she was trying to be particularly fascinating; and was surprised that she should give herself so much trouble to entertain Mr. Hastings. But she, like her brother, liked to flatter her insatiate self-love by continual conquests; and there was something new in trying her powers upon a quiet, reflective young minister. Mr. Hastings was not handsome; scarcely good-looking, though his face impressed you as a fine one. His form was short, with broad shoulders, and, his head massive, His brow was pure as a child’s, yet expressive of solid intellect; his eyes were a very dark blue, lighted deeply from within, by a spiritual glow. He was a man most deserving of a love like Elizabeth’s; and why she had not thought of it long ago is a mystery. A love like his, rightly appreciated and returned, must confer upon a woman the highest happiness permitted in this imperfect world. But it seems that life is full of perversities, and all its aims are at cross-purposes. If Mr. Hastings bad spoken, as he would have done had not too much rever- ence and self-distrust prevented, before his young parishioner went out into the world and became enamored of one of its brilliant chil- dren, no doubt he would have been successful, and we had not had so much reason to doubt the wisdom of Elizabeth’s choice. That evening he could only worship his star from afar. Visitors were in; music, whist- playing, gay repartee filled up the hours, until he sought his pillow to dream of what he should say upon the morrow. Blanche and Bessie were running up the stairs, and Lizzie about to follow them, when Philip caught her by the hand and drew her back into the deserted par- lor. He held her hand so tight that it pained her. “T want to know, this very night, Lizzie, if you love Mr. Hastings.” “Love him?” queried she—the thought had not come to her before, 4 “Yes! You must decide, for his sake and mine. One thing is certain—he Joves you, fer- vently, with his whole soul, Now answer, do you return his love?” ‘“ Why do you question me thus, Philip? What right have you to declare that he loves me when he has never breathed such a thing? He would hardly like it.” “T know it. But it is ae to blind the eyes of a rival—and I am his rival, Lizzie. I tell you he loves you, and he will tell you so n himself the first opportunity. Having ‘said as ‘ much as I did to you this morning, I shall ‘ finish my declaration, that you may know your true position before he speaks. I love you, Lizzie, I never knew how deeply until to-day. What do you say, darling?” , She said nothing. Brow and cheeks were crimson; she was afraid to lift her eyes, lest he | should see the happiness that was lighting | them, “You have won me fairly and completely , by your goodness, your purity, your ignorance " ‘ of fashionable faults and sins. It is my better | half that loves you. I am filled with shame | and regret fur my frivolities; I desire to be- ' come more worthy of you; I wish I had had as sacred influences surrounding my childhood as blessed yours. I am sick of the life I lead. If you will, you can make a good man of me. Without you I shall be worse than ever. Speak, Lizzie!” : “‘T believe I love you, Philip,” “* Dear Elizabeth!” “But I know not if I do right in saying it. Tlove you against my best judgment, You have ways that do not please me, and I do not have perfect confidence in your sincerity, without which there is no happiness, Why did you try so hard to win Bessie’s pure heart?” ‘Bless you, Lizzie, she told me all about her engagement, with the prettiest simplicity, the first evening. I knew she was safe—and—and —I was trying to see if I could provoke you into caring anything for me.” ‘« Indeed !”—her face growing happier all the time. “True! unmanly as it may have been, I could not help it.” “Well, that seemed to me the worst thing I ever saw in you, because so unprincipled. But you have habits I do not like, and you do your- vo self injustice all the time. I could not have — liked you at all had I not discovered the gener- osity, humanity, learning, and common sense oe which you take so much pleasure in putting out of sight—dressing them up in the cap and bells.” ‘cad “You shall cherish all my good qualities; 2 root out all my bad ones.” ~ Where is there a woman who is not made happy by thinking that her love has the power to win a man from evil? It has tempted many a young girl to incur dangerous risks. Eliza- beth looked up at him with eyes elcquent of love. ee} “When you are my wife, I shall try to be al] you wish,” He spoke the words very tenderly. She shook her drooping head, though her cheeks glowed roseate through her curls. “Tt do not promise to marry you, Philip, until I see that you are changed in some re- pects. But I love you—love you!”—and sliding from his arms, which would have held her, she gave him one bright glance, and flew from the room. ; , And so the journey, upon which hung the most important errand of Mr. Hastings’s life, was an unsuccessful one. He did not need to bé told this by Elizabeth; he saw it all; the happy, triumphant face of Philip, the timid yet joyful manner of the young girl; the inter- changed smiles, the stolen whispers. He was aware, too, of a restraint in her manner toward himself, and attributed it to the true cause, : He shortened his visit, remaining only threo — days, during which time he studied the char- acter of young Vanderlyn closely. He was in- capable of wishing to do him injustice because _ he was a successful’ rival; on the contrary it pained him to discover any thing unworthy of his respect, or of the esteem of the woman h loved. The outward beauty, which is always more or less effective in winning approbation, had but little power over him—he looked — straight through at the principle of the man— =| the motives which influenced his actions; he — saw an undercurrent of bravery and generous
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sentiment, a courage of character, that acting upon the outside in the levity of foppishness, was capable, when called into action, of exer- _ eising resistance to evil, and daring the sneers of the world in a good cause. There was no- thing dishonest or penurious about the young physician; his heart was as hardy as an oak tree, which, outwardly, is fancifully bedecked with climbing roses and purple grapes. So Mr. Hastings took courage to hope -that all , would be well. His own heart was as heavy, as if dead in his bosom. It was only with a mighty strugglo that he gave up the hope which had filled his future with unspeakable splendor. It was a long time before Elizabeth could shake off the haunting memory of his parting glance, trou- bled to its inmost depths, love struggling against the will which kept it back. “Farewell, Elizabeth. Remember that I pray always for your welfare—your best good. Be true to yourself, be good, be happy. No one deserves happiness more than you. God bless you.” CHAPTER VI. THE CONSUMMATION. “ Breakfast setts, dinner setts, tea setts of gold— Sweet little finnified fixin’s to hold Mustard, eggs, salt, celery, sauce hot and cold— Bohemian crystal, worth prices untold— Porcelain modern and porcelain old— A tea-kettle also of pure, solid gold, For making tea in the kitchen; Ruby setts, diamond setts, pearls in great strings, Ear-bobs and necklaces, brooches and rings, Jewels the brightest the orient brings, Baskets and trinkets and exquisite things, To entangle the souls of the rich in,” Tue first of June was set for Elizabeth’s wedding-day. Loving Philip as she did, she could not refuse to consent to an early marriage. She had meant to keep him waiting, as she at first threatened; but that very audacity of his, which had given a manly air even to his van- ity, bore all opposition before it, and her will had given way in this asin many other mat- The household was charmed with the pros- pect of a marriage and itsattendant bustle and gayety. Mrs. Vanderlyn liked the match, which is saying a great deal for Elizabeth, Mothers who have sons, be they handsome or homely, gifted or stupid, are apt to think there is no living woman quite good enough for them. She liked Lizzie, her ways, her personal - appearance, her good seuse. Philip was sucha fly-away himself, she thought a girl of as much dignity as Lizzie would keep him ‘in bounds. If she was not very wealthy, she had enough for pocket-money; the Wards were an excel- Jent family, related to her own. _ Mr. Vanderlyn had no objections either; he hoped Philip’s bills would be smaller, and his industry greater, when he got ‘a nice wife, never known to do an extravagant thing. Blanche was in her element. The prepara- tions afforded just the kind of excitement she ‘liked; and after the marriage was the promise of along season of change and gayety. Her mother, herself and Philip arranged all the de- tails; the bride-elect was indifferent to them— except that she confessed to being annoyed at the prospect of so much display. Philip, on the contrary, was fond of fine effects, luxurious festivities and costly dress. He was resolved that the beauty of his chosen one should be hightened by every elegant surrounding. Eliza- beth yielded to superior numbers. She did not care how they arranged things, only that they would give her some peace and quiet of her life—which Blanche declared was impossi- bless2 All the thoughtfulness and depth of Eliza- _ beth’s character was aroused by the nearness of an event of such importance. She would _ fain have got away from the silk and ribbon, lace and frippery which pursued her every- where, and found leisure for careful meditation upon the new duties opening before her. She ~ wanted, too, hours of silence, in which to real- ize the strange joy which pervaded her heart, -andto accustom herself to thoughts of the new j i THE COUNTRY CO position she was to occupy. Earnestly she asked of Heaven strength to bear her happiness meekly, wisdom to use her influence rightly; but it was only late at night, when the hurry of the day was over, and Blanche’s busy tongue was silent in sleep, that she found the repose which she needed. Elizabeth had quite a sum of money which had accumulated out of her income, before she came to New York, and which she could de- vote to her trousseau without intrenching upon the principal. She had a Waluable set of pearls which had belonged to her mother; and she did not purpose purchasing any jewelry. Indeed, there was little need. Philip was lavish of his gifts. And every one of their wealthy relatives gave in proportion to the splendor of the oceasion. If Blizabeth had been a poor bride, marrying only ‘‘a rising young man,” the presents would have been none too costly; but now; there was a rivalry of ostentatious gifts. Blanche was vexed because Lizzie would not consume half her property in preparing” her dresses; and finding she could not persuade her into the purchase of an elaborate pattern of Honiton flounces and vail, she brought Philip’s influence to bear. “T would wish my Elizabeth to look lovelier upon that occasion than upon any other of her life; and not only lovely, but queenly. I would have nothing but the most exquisite fabrics to adorn her beauty. You know I am very fastidious, my darling.” That “my Elizabeth” melted her resolve, and the fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of lace for'the bridal-robe was ordered. And having begun by yielding, she found that the wish to please the man she loved, or the fear of offend- ing his fastidious taste, influenced more and more frequently against the principle of action she had marked out for herself. It was surprising what an amount of fatigue Blanche could endure in a cause like this which now interested her. Her private apartments were full of seamstresses, and the furniture was |- draped and loaded down with every tint and tissue of the innumerable delicate and expensive articles which go to make up a trousseau. As she was to be bridemaid, she had about as much to do for herself as for Lizzie; who, poor child, was dragged out upon shopping expedi- tions, and kept standing to have new dresses fitted, until she was nearly ready to elope and bé married by some country squire. “Tf they would only have allowed me to go home to aunt Faithful, and be married there, in quiet, how much happier I should feel about it. It seems as if all the sacredness of the time was buried up in trifles.. ITlong to be out of this atmosphere—it oppresses me. I pine for the repose of my aunt Faithful’s cottage home.” So Elizabeth often whispered to herself, while all the time she was riveting the gilded chains tighter, winding them around every noble aspiration, and narrowing down her soul to the compass of a flounced silk or a lace berthe. Mrs. Vanderlyn interested herself in choosing guests, arranging rooms and tables, the wedding breakfast, and general effects. She prided her- self upon her entertainments. The first of June arose, calm, sunny, prom- ising. With the first red ray of the sun, Eliz- abeth glided from her couch, and throwing a white wrapper about her form, sat by the open casement, to gather courage during the quict hour, for the important events of the day. The small garden lay beneath her window, sweet with early roses and glittering with dew. A wild longing possessed her heart to be out in the open fields, gathering a simple garland of wild-flowers to adorn her brow for the mar- riage sacrament. In that peaceful hour, the birth of another morning, when God seemed visibly present in the east in the miracle of creation, overwhelm- ed by a sense of the relationship she was about to take upon herself, she blamed herself for the frivolous routine into which she had allowed herself to be drawn. She saw that instead of opposing her mo. ignity and sense of duty USIN. to admire the profuse display of beautiful pres- fee Se to the light wishes of" her friends, and especial- ea ly of him whose welfare was, in a measure, in cs eae her keeping, she had yielded one stand-point abs after another. She bad not been true either to her best self or the best self of her lover, She had promised herself to excite his con- ; scientiousness, his nobler ambitions; and to s hold in check the rushing wheels of dissipation, Ag that, loaded as the car might be with flowers, — was wearing out the solid foundations of his _ character, All about her was vanity. She Pree _ was lost and perplexed in a maze of frippery, Life seemed to have no purpose higher than 7 dressing and being flattered. A wedding was a scene gotten up for the display of fancy goods, She yearned for aunt Faithful’s homely ad- vice, for the fervent blessing of her minister, __ for the freedom of her old life. One breathof = = country air, blowing in at her casement, would’ — ; have been sweeter at that moment than any incense of praise which could have been of- fered. “Oh, my mother,” she cried at last, with a sudden burst of tears, ‘‘ where art thou? Bend down from the heaven that holds thee so far away from me, and press my head a moment to thy tender bosom. Thou wert. so different from these—thy life was so much _ holier, so much more truly lovely. I feel unworthy to be thy child. Give me thy blessing, mother.” 4 ae Her fair face, wet with tears, wasupturned, and her hands stretched forth imploringly. When her prayer was ended, she bowed her head, like a weary child, upon the windowssill, and wept quietly, until her breast was relieved of its weight. ‘What! in tears upon your bridal-morn?’? — exclaimed Blanche, entering the chamber, half ~ _ an hour Jater. ‘Sec! here is the last gift of your affianced—the wedding bouquet. He just knocked at my door and left it for you. He went to the florist’s himself to see it made — up. .Is it not magnificent?” Quickly Elizabeth sprung to her feet, while the warm color rushed to her bosom and brow. It was her wedding-morn! Philip was up, ard thinking of it, had been out and arranged those pure white symbols. Every drop of blood in her body thrilled at the sight of them. Silent- ly she took them, kissed them, and put them in a vase of fresh water. “You do not say if you like them, Lizzie.” “Does if need words?’ answered she, with a glowing smile. a The hour arrived, and Philip saw only the shy, soft glance of his bride’s eyes, and the fluttering of her heart, as she came to his side, At that moment he was indifferent to the effect of her Honiton yail, to the splendor of the bridemaid, the imposing array of the bridal party, or the critical glances of his “ dear five hundred friends,” \ : ‘His mother assured him, afterward, that she had never witnessed a ceremony. more grace- ful and complete in all its appointments, __ Blanche had eyes for the discontent with which her unmarried lady friends were forced — ents, and her own importance as bridemaid. She loved to provoke the envy of her asso- ciates, The breakfast was all that could be expected, even at Mrs. Vanderlyn’s, who moved about | as hostess, well pleased with herself, her son, her daughter-in-law. _ It had been arranged that two couples of particular friends, including Blanche and the groomsman, should accompany them upon the | round of excursions which were expected to oceupy most of the summer. Beer.” = Three hours after the ceremony, the travel- + ing party were on their way to the south. eee They were to spend a month in visiting some ae beautiful portions of Virginia, where they had ; friends; return to the sea-side, from thence, in August, to the White Mountains, and from there, go to Fitchville, making aunt Faithful a short visit—then back to town. it This programme of changé and excitement — was delightful to Blanche. She was constantly —
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ee ; all seeing new faces, making, or trying to make, new admirers, wearing new dresses. She lived in a sort of rarefied atmosphere of pleasure. Every one was anxious to do something to please her. The days were but rounds of en- joyment; the only study, how to be gayest. Even Elizabeth forgot that life was any , thing but a dream of love and idleness. Happy in Philip’s society, blessed by his tender atten- _. tions, surrounded by summer warmth and de- light, she felt like murmuring with the Lotus- i es, eo. "7? ™ eaters: phere “Propt in beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly,) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy To watch the long, bright river drawing slowly _ His waters from the purple hill— To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave through the thick-twisted vine— To hear the emerald-colored waters falling Through many a woven acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine Only to hear were sweet, stretched out eneath the pine, Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotus-land to live and lie reclined On the Moar oad gods together, careless of man- Beier It was nearly the first of September before the bridal party reached Fitchville, and were | welcomed by good aunt Faithful, in her best hy fe. touslin cap with the fluted border, and the . tears dimming her fine old eyes. She loved - Elizabeth as a child, and wished her joy of her new life with a trembling earnestness which contrasted well with the elegant compliments which had been lavished upon her of late, ; Lizzie’s own cheeks were wet with tears as she ies Po se same Philip to her aunt. Appreciating the character of the old lady, ‘he put aside all unnecessary display, and with true high-breeding, kissed her cheek reverent- _ ly, and received her blessing solemnly as she _ gave it. The gay young people of the party looked on with curiosity; the whole affair was different from any thing which had transpired within their city observation. They saw nothing how- ever, but what they, careless as they were, could respect and admire. , Aunt Faithful was quaint, and her house and housekeeping were quaint, but right re- freshing they all seemed, upon that sultry afternoon, during which her visitors arrived. The cottage was low, but large, and so shel- tered by trees, and so blown upon by a cool breeze from the mountains, that it was more desirable by far than the crowded chambers of _awatering-place. She had met them upon the porch, and now conducted them into the par- lor, whose muslin curtains were tied back with biue ribbons, and whose atmosphere was deli- cious with the breath of the honeysuckles at the windows. Bouquets of flowers, among 2 which were the homely china-asters and ever- ._ Jastings of her garden, with pinks, phlox and v verbenas, were arranged in the old-fashioned é _ vases upon the mantle. A carpet of her own Pa manufacture, almost as fine as “ boughten,” Ae covered the. floor, and the dark, solid mahog- any furniture and low ceiling made the room refreshingly dim upon that glaring day. Aunt Faithful was a widow, and her only son was away upon the sea. She lived alone, with the exception of a couple, a man and bis wife, who attended to the overseeing of her Fuh > work, There never was a neater mistress of a Ser household than aunt Faithful; she was what her Puritan fathers would have called a nota- ble woman. Elizabeth could not remain long in the parlor. She just paused to throw off Sie large dining-room the other side of the hall, ; back into the kitchen to shake hands with Mar- us -garet, out into the yard, hot as the sun was, darting hither and thither, wild as the hum- . ming birds that flew about the honeysuckles. e After a time Philip went in search of her. “‘Oh, I think it is so delightful here, so much better than any other place I ever wasin. It is haunted with sweet memories for me. Oh, = her traveling-mantle, and was out into the | Philip, I wish we were going to live here for- ever?” of consciousness, although she still breathed. They had brought their family physician with Philip smiled at the enthusiasm of his young | them. It was as if Death stood in waiting at wife. ‘This is just the place to have raised a pure wild flower, like the one I have gathered to wear in my bosom,” he said. What a pleasant tea was that which was partaken of that evening. A long portico ran around two sides of the dining-room. The doors and windows*were all open; the cool, green trees stood silently outside; and straight out of the golden heart of the sunset, a west- ern breeze blew lightly, just quivering their leaves. There was no carpet upon the floor, which was white as the wood could be made, and waxed. The table was spread with ancient china, with patterns of bright-colored birds and flowers upon its white sur- face. The silver tea-things over which the hostess presided were still more antique—they had been brought over from England by her forefathers, two centuries previous. The fare might have pleased an Epicurean. There was only one guest from the village, and as no New-England festivity is complete without the minister, of course it was he. Mr. Hastings came at the appointed hour. He greeted the bride with earnest kindness; his manner was quiet and composed. After he had interchanged greetings with all and was seated in conversation, Elizabeth saw that his face was a little thinner than when she met him last, and his brow even more _ thoughtful. There was nothing melancholy in his demeanor; his talk was delightful; he inspired respect while he checked nothing of the natural gayety of a party of young pleasure-seekers. Every- body liked him. Blanche contrived to get by his side at the table. She was ready to renew her flattering attentions. So ready, that the next morning, when her escort was preparing to go on to the city, she begged permission of dear aunt Faithful to allow her to remain as long as Philip and Lizzie did. The new-married pair, to please the wife, had resolved to spend several weeks in her native village. Blanche was so charmed with everything there, so fresh, so pure, sucha place for rambles and rides, she wanted to stay. Blanche was truly delighted with this aspect of rural life, at this pleasant season of the year, and would probably have stayed had there been no Mr. Hastings in the village; but she certain- ly promised herself a more piquant enjoyment upon that account. To-morrow—who shall tell what it will bring forth? Blanche, young, vivacious, beautiful— Blanche said in her heart that to-morrow should bring her fresh stores of pleasure and praise. When they had been at Fitchville about a week, a riding party was made up. Blanche rode by Mr. Hastings’s side; her eye was bright with health, her cheek blooming with exercise, the dark plumes waved above a face of glowing beauty; her laughter rung silvery clear; her form, erect, full, queenly, seemed exultant with its own loveliness. Suddenly, as she bent to say some gentle word, careless of her hold upon the rein, look- ing into the minister’s face with an arch glance, a paper which had been caught up from the roadside by the wind, came fluttering down before her horse’s eyes; he plunged fiercely to one side, and his rider was thrown heavily to the hard ground. The concussion was terrible, and the alarmed attendants reached her, to find what to them seemed but a dead body. CHAPTER VII. THE FRUITS OF SUFFERING. * Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in its head.” —SHAKSPEARE, Mr. and Mrs. Vanderlyn were telegraphed to, and received the fearful news in time to take the night train out. When they reached the bedside of their child, in the gray dawn of she had not yet given token <a the next morning, the portals, while they waited for nearly an hour for struggling nature to sink or rise. The doctors were doing what they could. The mother was obliged to repress her shrieks, the father his bitter groans; all hung pale and shivering as with cold, upon the fluttering breath now drawn with a more distinct effort. At length she opened her eyes and looked slowly from face to face; she made an effort to stir, when her breath was cut suddenly off with a spasm, her eyes closed, a deathly pallor came over her face, she was dying. “Oh God, be merciful!” exclaimed aunt Faithful. Mrs. Vanderlyn gave a wild scream and fell into the trembling arms of her husband. At this instant Philip shook off the clinging hand of his wife and sprung forward with his pen- knife in bis hand; tearing away the covering from the swollen, empurpled wound, he struck the sharp point several times into it, the others looking on as if they thought bim mad; but blood flowed freely from the deep cuts, and relieved the excruciating pain a little, that had snatched away the breath of the sufferer. Powerful restoratives were used to arouse her from her sinking state; for a while life fluttered to and fro, and hope flared and waped in the breasts of her friends, like the flame of an expiring lamp. Presently the medical attendants allowed themselves to con- firm this hope; she was better, and might rally. By night they announced that her symptoms were favorable; careful nursing might raise her, if she had the constitution to bear long pain and confinement; but, she would not leave her bed for weeks, if for months, and her health would probably be always impaired. This was distressing tidings; but so much better than they had at one time expected, that her friends received it with heartfelt gratitude. To the skill and untiring watchfulness of Philip, who remained by her bed, noting her symp- toms and reporting them to the elder physician, and to the gentle, patient nursing of Elizabeth, Blanche owed her life. Hour after hour, day after day, the two remained with her, taking just rest enough to keep their strength from failing. At the end of ten days the parents returned home. With her inefficiency and rest- lessness, Mrs. Vanderlyn was only a hindrance; her daughter, who was now permitted to whis- per a few sentences at a time, herself urged ber to go, knowing how irksome confinement, dark rooms, hushed voices were to her mother. If Blanche should have a relapse she could be summoned in less than a day. So she very gladly concluded to return, though she wept freely upon parting with her unhappy child, and declared over and over again to all, that nothing which had ever happened to her so completely prostrated her as this terrible blow. She did not think she could ever be gay again a single instant, even if her daughter recov- ered, After she arrived home, she took to her room, sitting in an elegant dressing-gown in her easy-chair, with her vinaigrette in her hand, receiving calls of condolence, and weep- ing over the messages which were sent once or twice aday, faithfully repcrting the condition of the sufferer. Selfishness had been supreme with her so long that she was helpless to aid or comfort others; all the consolation she had was in the sympa- thy which was expressed for her own great trouble in being so afflicted. For her husband, harassed by business as well as by this calam-— ity, she had not a soothing word. When h came home of an evening, it was to find he exhausted by a day of tribulation, ready give up, nervous, sick. Mr. Vanderlyn the blow as deeply as one of his temperament could; all the heart he had was set upon his beautiful daughter; as he looked aroufd upon the magnificence which he had acquired, he felt that he could give it all up for the assur- 4 \
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le eel THE COUNTRY COUSIN. ee ance that she would be restored to her former health and loveliness. That was a terrible sick-bed to Blanche Van- derlyn. When the first month of darkness was over, and her sufferings had taken on a dream-like aspect, their memory being too agonizing to remain palpable; when her pain was tolerably endurable; when the curtain could be put back a little, and people could speak aloud in her room, and she could give a smile and word of thanks for the flowers, dainties, and messages that were lavished upon her, then her spiritual affliction was the greatest. Hersoul was bowed with fear and trouble. She expected to be an invalid all her days. She could not, would not be reconciled to the thought! She, so young, so ambitious, unaccustomed to restraint or sickness! She, so admired, so beautiful, to arise and find the roundness wasted from her limbs, the luster of her eye dimmed by wearing pain; to give updancing, dressing, festivity; to sit in her room, or perchance creep down to a corner of the sofa, a pallid ghost, haunting the places where she once ruled as queen: no! it i could not be, Often she prayed for death, and then shrunk from her own supplications, She did not wish to die, and she could not take up the terrors of life; the burden was too heavy, laid upon her too suddenly. Often her brow was darkened with ‘impatience, and bitterness : breathed from her pale lips. She would either ‘be lost in a mute melancholy, or so fretful and repining that her tender, untiring sister had her feelings sorely tried. Still, she forgave every thing tothe poor invalid, devoting her 4 time to her wishes, reading to her, talking, striving to divert her mind, and, at the same _. time, strengthen it for itsnew task. At this time, when she became able to bear “3 conversation and reading, Mr. Hastings be- came almost a daily visitor. He saw the un- happy frame of her temper; he pitied her, and approached her as kindly as a father would a : wayward child. He saw that it was hard for 9 her, with her education, tastes and habits, to > give up to this calamity; it would have been | exceedingly trying to him, or any one, how- ; ever firm theirtrust in eventual good, however trained their minds to meet adversity; and how much more fearful to this glittering crea- ture of fashion and vanity! He wisely fore- * saw that the only way she could be reconciled, or won away from her melancholy, was to in- terest her in new thoughts and pursuits. He began very gently. He did not sit down and dictate a stern creed to her. He read enter- taining books, of a higher order than she had been accustomed tc seek, revealing to her view glimpses of the pleasant vistas which the poets had opened for her feet to wander through, and of the wonders of science, relat- ing, in an elegant yet amusing manner, some of the new discoveries so full of vivid interest —leading her on gradually to think of the - Ruler of the Universe, so great in creating, ‘ and of the human soul, so quick in percep- tion. . Faraway, as in some fiseting dream of un- substantial things, floated the frippery and idleness of Blanche’s past life. She could hard- f ly realize that things so worthless could have absorbed her so completely. Her present life, helpless as she was, seemed far more real and full of events. She promised herself that, if health was ever given to her, it should not be _ for her own pleasure alone. By degrees her impatient, irrituble spirit was bowed in sweet humility. The change was apparent in her countenance. Though thin and pale, it had S aequired a spiritual look which made it very lovely. She no longer wearied and tried her By? * friends by needless expectations. Only at cer- es Ma an times was she very restless, and that was when Mr. Hastings failed in his daily. visit. } Nae Yes; asshe re- oi] aes _ Blanche loved the minister. bs i _ clined upon her couch in the calm Indian sum- ‘mer days, looking through the open window | upon the purple hills and gorgeous forests, surely asthe mist stole up from the valleys - 8 > ; a and caught the red glory of the sun upon its snowy bosom, so surely her soul was transfig- ured and glorified in the light of this new pas- sion. It could hardly have been otherwise that his spirit should have obtained such influ- ence over hers, without awakening in return a deathless interest in her teacher and coun- selor. To be well—well enough to work for him and with him, to bless him with beauty and love, and to be led by him safely, where other- wise her feet might falter, was now the one wild, unattainable wish of her heart. She did not expect it. She was growing bet- ter in body as her mind was ministered to, and had the promise of being able to go home before the extreme cold weather. But she had scarce- ly a hope that Mr. Hastings loved or ever would love her: she knew that to him she was as a pupil or a child, whom he delighted to teach. But to her he was every thing which on earth she desired, teacher, friend, and more— oh, so much more. Now she knew the full meaning of love, and how, to those to whom it had been revealed, impossible and impure, marriages of ambition and convenience must seem. The nobility of the sentiment she enter- tained was proven by the fortitude with which she tried to resign herself to the thought that he could not return her affection, and by the courage with which she tore herself from cir- cumstances which were binding her faster to her passion. As soon as she could bear the journey, she expressed her desire to go home, and some time in December, taking two days to the brief trip, she and Philip and Elizabeth arrived at the home where they were so anxiously expected. Blanche burst into tears as she crossed the threshold, at thought of how happy and triumphant she had last passed over it—but that was almost the only token of weakness that she gave. The delicate state of her health, which still confined her mostly to her room, precluded the round of festivities which would otherwise have honored the young married couple. No one regretted this but Mrs. Vanderlyn. Eliza- beth was glad of a pretext for withdrawing from the round of excitement and dissipation which it was the fashion to regard as pleasure. She, too, had profited by old association, by the reflections of that sick-room, and association with a mind like that of Mr. Hastings, She taJked much and earnestly with Philip about the true method of seeking happiness, and the true ideal of a noble life. She found him will- ing to enter into her plans, one of which was to remove themselves from the temptations of a merely fashionable life, by taking a house of their own, and keeping it ina style suited to their ideas of propriety. For a while they hesitated on Blanche’s account, who thought she should be very lonely without Elizabeth in the same house; but she was getting better all the time, and promised to be able to exchange Visits, It was spring before all arrangements were completed, and Elizabeth a housekeeper upon her own responsibility. A tasteful house, charmingly furnished, selected without refer- ence to the grand suits of rooms necessary for unlimited entertainments, was presided over by the happiest young wife in Christendom. When the warm weather came on, Lizzie hardly felt like shutting up her beloved new house to go anywhere; but Blanche needed a change of air, and desired to make a visit to aunt Faithful. Her mother, of course, must go to Newport; and so Lizzie and Philip ac- companied her, The friends she had made in Fitchville were glad to find how much her health had improved. Mr. Hastings was really touched by the sweet serenity of a countenance once so haughty. She could walk quite a little distance, and her cheeks were rounded out into bloom again; the only serious consequence of her accident still lingering, was a haunting pain in her side, which increased with too much exertion, or by taking cold. It was thought that her excellent constitution would outwear even this in the course of time. gor "ae Whether Mr. Hastings, absorbed in serious projects as he was, could be much with so lovely a woman and not guess at the interest es he had awakened, we do not know. But he knew that she was fast becoming worthy of the love and respect of any man. And he could hardly have been human and not have been touched by the gentle deference she ex- pressed for his opinions and the faint blush which came to her cheek, the dewy luster to “ her eye, when he was present. ot Aunt Faithful’s visitors stayed but a few " weeks this summer. Philip was now a practi- ee | cing physician, with an office and regular prac- * tice, and must not neglect his duties. Lizzie, ) too, had duties; the sweetest and most sacred ey that cluster about the hearthstone. Hereisan extract of a letter which she wrote to Mr. | Hastings three months after her return: 5 “T have put off the boy’s christening until you can come down and perform the rite yourself. I wish, ‘ 4 with your permission, to name him after you. i need not you how happy Iam. A mother’s re- ie rine are heavy, but I would not shrink from | the least of them, only pray for strength to fulfill” them rightly. To your example and precept both Philip and myself owe much of our present resolves. + We have retired a great deal from eran society, but our friends know we are always glad to see them. Philip’s indolence has enti disappeared; heisone _ of the most energetic men I know, and the busiest. __ 2 Come to strip off the husks from the golden grainof = wee his nature, it is rich in charity and good deeds. As — ane a physician he does truly Samaritan deeds. Hewill leave a rich patient at the call of a poorandfriend- less sufferer. He does an immense amount of | visiting among those who reward him with nothing - better than their gratitude. He can afford todo it, and [ encourage in it. F ow “You must come soon, and see howcharmingly — we live. My boy, too, cannot wait long f name. He is a splendid little fellow, my frien Blanche makes the greatest pet of him. I believe ‘ she thinks he is as much hers as mine. She is ee zk say. +4 a entirely well, at least we hope so, and much more beautiful than ever. Why do you not chooseher for a wife? She will make a magnificent wife for Ae !—but she would hardly forgive me if she knew hat I had said so. Iknow of no couple so worthy of each other; and although not given to match- = making, I believe Iwould do all in my power to ~— bring about this one.” Bert 5 If Elizabeth could have seen the manner in which the minister dropped his head upon his hand in a sudden happy dream of future pos- sil ilities, she would have been satisfied with the result of his reading of her communication. The christening was performed without needless delay, and it is expected that a wed- ding will shortly follow. : ‘““A queer match for Blanche Vanderlyn,” will be the probable remark of her fashionable acquaintance; but, she does not consider their opinion of such vital importance as she once did. She will marry a man for the love she bears him, and will love him for that whichis — most worthy of her affection. : phe THE END, The Saturday Journal, “The Model Family Paper es —AND— 4 Most Charming of the Weeklies.” oh A pure paper; good in every thing; bright i prilliant ead atinecive. age 3 ch Serials, Tales, Romances, i "ge Sketches, Adventures, Biographies, oe Pungent Essays, Poetry, i= Notes and Answers to Correspondents, Wit and Fun— al All are features in every number, from such tee celebrated writers as no paper in America can Ae boast of. i a | What is best in POPULAR READING, that the esa paper always has; hence for Homr, Sxop, Li- BRARY and GENERAL READER it is without a _ rival; and hence its great and steadily increasing circulation. The SaruKDAY JOURNAL is sold everywhere by newsdealers ; eee six cents per number ; or to subscribers, post-paid, at the following cheap rates, Viz. : Four months, one dollar; one year, three dollars ; or, two copies, five dollars. Address BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.
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tel \ WEBSTER, CHOATE, xo « - TA LMAGE, CHAPIM, “~ANGFELLOW, READE, PRENTICE, €TORY, DICK&NSON, KENT, SEWARD, BRET HARTE, CARL PRETZEL, . JOHN HAY, BILLINGS, @RYANT, rf =| | STREET, \ WALLACE, | HOLMES, HAMILTON, RANDOLPH, MADISON, WINTHROP, REV. JOS. COOK, CUYLER, DURYEA, WAYLAND, ) MAX ADELER, MARK TWAIN, OOFTY GOOFT, DOESTICKS, CARLYLE, MACAULAY, WILBERFORCE, PITT, SHAKSPEARE, MILTON, , BYRON, eS BURNS Ee! E, E. REXFORD, a B, F. TAYLOR, Bete. STODDARD, ae u ALDRICH, Be j WALL CARLETON, | JOE JOT, Jn, ae soe a % a ‘ . i aa? go * | gee DIME SPEAKERS # DIALOGUES. THE MOS? ATTRACTIVE SERIES, ¥ 4 ILABLE SING COLLEQ, Rete ierelt ts Raangts er POMoys —oFr— Declamations, Farces, Recitations, Notable Passages, Dialogues, Minor Dramas, ; Speeches, Extempore Efforts, Colloquies, Acting Charades, § Orations, Addresses, Burlesques, Dress Pieces, ' IN ALL THE FIELDS OF Wit, Humor, Burlesque, Satire, Eloquence and Argument, FOR | Schools, Exhibitions 7 Amateur Theatricals. THE DIME SPEAKERS. WHITEHORN, 1—Drm AMERICAN SPEAKER, 2—Diméz NaTionaL SPRAKER, 8—Diwe Patriotic SPEAKER. 4—Dim= Comic SPEAKER, 5—Dime ELOcurIonist. 6—Die Humorous SPEAKER. 7—Dom STANDARD SPEAKER. 8—Dime Stump SPEAKER. Dime JUVENILE SPEAKER. 10—Dnore Spreav-EaGue SPEAKER. li—Dom DeBaTER AND CHAIRMAN "= GUIDE. 12—Dime EXHIsitrIon SPEAKER. —Dno: ScHOOL SPEAKER, 14—Drrz: Lunicrous SPEAKER. 15—KARL PRETZEL’S KoMIKAL SPEAKER. 16—Dime Yourts’s SPEAKER. 17—Dimm ELOQUENT SPEAKER. 18—Dime Har, @otumBra SPEAKER, 19—Dimx Srerro-Comic SPEAKER, 20—Dime SELECT SPEAKER, 21—Diwe Funny SPEAKER, 22—Diae JOLLY SPEAKER. 23—Dime DIALECT SPEAKER. Zach Speaker, 100 pages 12mo., containing from 50 to 75 pieces. THE DIME DIALOGUES d contributions from favorite and popular Are filled with original an and caterers for the amateur and burl any other collection ever offered, Diz Dranoaurs NuMBER ONE, Dime DraLocurs NumsBer Two. Diaz DiaLoGurs NuMBER THREE, Dims Dratocurs Numser Four, Dre DiaLocuEs NuMBER Five. Dive Di1atoaurs Numer, Srx. Dive DiaLoaurs NuMBER SEVEN. Divx DiaLtocurs NuMBER EIGHT. Drove DiaLocurs Numser Ning, Dow Diratocurs Numser TEN. Dom Dtatocurs NumsBer ELEVEN. pecially pre hool Drive DiaLocurs NuMBER TWELVE. Dom: DiaLoaues NumBer THIRTEEN. pare dts tage—giving more taki ues, social comedies, domestic farces, exquisite dress an Dre Diarocurs NumBer Fourteen. Dore DiaLocurs NuMBER FIFTEEN. Dime DraLocures NuMBER SIXTEEN. and effective asia exhibition dramas ¢ Dore DiaLoGurs NuMBER SEVENTEEN, Little Folks, Dre DiaLocures NumBER EIGHTEEN. Dimz DiaALocurs NuMBER NINETEEN Dore Drarogurs NuMBER TWENTY. Driz Dratocurs NuMBER TWENTY-ONE. Dime DraLocurs Numser TWENTY-TWo. Dive DraLocGurs NuMBER TWENTY-THREE, Dime DraLoGures NuMBER TWENTY-FOUR Each volume, 100 pages 12mo., containing from 15 to 25 pieces. BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 beter St., N. Y. DR. CROSBY, FAT CONTRIBUTOR, MAGOON, DANBURY NEWS, REV. DR. HALL, DETROIT FREE PRESS, SCUDDER, HAWKEYE, BEN ZEEN, DOANE, BELLOWS, SPRAGUE, DUGANNE, LOWELL, BAYARD TAYLOR, POE, BE. EB, HALE, PIERPONT, Dime DiaLocuns NumpBer TWENTY-FIVE. PERCIVAL, PANAp Al x JOHN NEAi., OSGOUD, SAXE, » PARTON, ‘| ¥ § LINCOLN, & SHERIDAN, ¥ ft | " OPF™THUS C, KERR, : ; | SUMNER, i SDIPSON, PHILLIPS, SARGEANT, WASHINGTON, JEFFERSON, JACKSON, EMMET, BURKE, MEAGHER, MILES O'REILLY, GEO. F, TRAIN,’ CROCKETT, DICKENS, SIDNEY SMITH, TOM HOOD, ae JERROLD, % | HOLT, WILSON, , JOHNSON ‘PARKER, COLLYER, WILLET? , ANNA DICKINSON, MRS. VICTOR, Se THE OARYS, "FANNY FERN 1 GREELEY, | BISHOP WHIPPLE, 4 ———————— | MILBURN, EVARTS, SCHURZ, CURTIA “ REV. DR. WOOD, DR. NADIR, _ ~ HAWKE» | SPURGEON, KOSSUTH, BENTON CALHOUN, STEPHENS, HENRY CLAY,
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