Chapter VIII: Part X (2)

“Y-e-s dat my judgment, too,” put in the cook. “We wishes you well, Jack, and we wishes Miss Rose well, and Mr. Mulford well, but we can’t, no how, run ath’art hawse, as Josh says. Dat is my judgment, too.”

“Well, if your minds are made up to this, my darkies, I s’pose there’ll be no changing them,” said Jack. “At all ewents you’ll lend us a hand, by answering any hail that may come from aft, in my watch, and in keepin’ our secret. There’s another thing you can do for us, which may be of sarvice. Should Capt. Spike miss the boat, and lay any trap to catch us, you can just light this here bit of lantern and hang it over the brig’s bows, where he’ll not be likely to see it, that we may know matters are going wrong, and give the craft a wide berth.”

“Sartain,” said Josh, who entered heartily into the affair, so far as good wishes for its success were concerned, at the very moment when he had a most salutary care of his own back. “Sartain; we do all dat, and no t’ank asked. It no great matter to answer a hail, or to light a lantern and sling him over de bows; and if Capt. Spike want to know who did it, let him find out.”

Here both negroes laughed heartily, manifesting so little care to suppress their mirth, that Rose trembled lest their noise should awaken Spike. Accustomed sounds, however, seldom produce this effect on the ears of the sleeper, and the heavy breathing from the state-room succeeded the merriment of the blacks, as soon as the latter ceased. Jack now announced his readiness to depart. Some little care and management were necessary to get into the boat noiselessly, more especially with Biddy. It was done, however, with the assistance of the blacks, who cast off the painter, when Jack gave the boat a shove to clear the brig, and suffered it to drift astern for a considerable distance before he ventured to cast loose the sail.

“I know Spike well,” said Jack, in answer to a remonstrance from the impatient Rose concerning his delay. “A single flap of that canvas would wake him up, with the brig anchored, while he would sleep through a salute of heavy guns if it came in regular course. Quick ears has old Stephen, and it’s best to humor them. In a minute more, we’ll set our canvas and be off.”

All was done as Jack desired, and the boat got away from the brig unheard and undetected. It was blowing a good breeze, and Jack Tier had no sooner got the sail on the boat, than away it started at a speed that would have soon distanced Spike in his yawl, and with his best oarsmen. The main point was to keep the course, though the direction of the wind was a great assistant. By keeping the wind abeam, Jack thought he should be going toward the rock of Mulford. In one hour, or even in less time, he expected to reach it, and he was guided by time, in his calculations, as much as by any other criterion. Previously to quitting the brig, he had gone up a few ratlins of the fore-rigging to take the bearings of the fire on Mulford’s rock, but the light was no longer visible. As no star was to be seen, the course was a little vague, but Jack was navigator enough to understand that by keeping on the weather side of the channel he was in the right road, and that his great danger of missing his object was in over-running it.

So much of the reef was above water, that it was not difficult to steer a boat along its margin. The darkness, to be sure, rendered it a little uncertain how near they were running to the rocks, but, on the whole, Jack assured Rose he had no great difficulty in getting along.

“These trades are almost as good as compasses,” he said, “and the rocks are better, if we can keep close aboard them without going on to them. I do not know the exact distance of the spot we seek from the brig, but I judged it to be about two leagues, as I looked at it from aloft. Now, this boat will travel them two leagues in an hour, with this breeze and in smooth water.”

“I wish you had seen the fire again before we left the brig,” said Rose, too anxious for the result not to feel uneasiness on some account or other.

“The mate is asleep, and the fire has burnt down; that’s the explanation. Besides, fuel is not too plenty on a place like that Mr. Mulford inhabits just now. As we get near the spot I shall look out for embers, which may sarve as a light-house, or beacon, to guide us into port.”

“Mr. Mulford will be charmed to see us, now that we take him wather!” exclaimed Biddy. “Wather is a blessed thing, and it’s hard will be the heart that does not fale gratitude for a plenthy of swate wather.”

“The maty has plenty of food and water where he is,” said Jack. “I’ll answer for both them sarcumstances. I saw him turn a turtle as plain as if I had been at his elbow, and I saw him drinking at a hole in the rock, as heartily as a boy ever pulled at a gimblet-hole in a molasses hogshead.”

“But the distance was so great, Jack, I should hardly think you could have distinguished objects so small.”

“I went by the motions altogether. I saw the man, and I saw the movements, and I knowed what the last meant. It’s true I couldn’t swear to the turtle, though I saw something on the rock that I knowed, by the way in which it was handled, _must_ be a turtle. Then I saw the mate kneel, and put his head low, and then I knowed he was drinking.”

“Perhaps he prayed,” said Rose, solemnly.

“Not he. Sailors isn’t so apt to pray, Miss Rose; not as apt as they ought to be. Women for prayers, and men for work. Mr. Mulford is no worse than many others, but I doubt if he be much given to _that_.”

To this Rose made no answer, but Biddy took the matter up, and, as the boat went briskly ahead, she pursued the subject.

“Then more is the shame for him,” said the Irish woman, “and Miss Rose, and missus, and even I prayin’ _for_ him, all as if he was our own brudder. It’s seldom I ask any thing for a heretic, but I could not forget a fine young man like Mr. Mulford, and Miss Rose so partial to him, and he in so bad a way. He ought to be ashamed to make his brags that he is too proud to pray.”

“Harry has made no such wicked boast,” put in Rose, mildly; “nor do we know that he has not prayed for us, as well as for himself. It may all be a mistake of Jack’s, you know.”

“Yes,” added Jack, coolly, “it _may_ be a mistake, a’ter all, for I was lookin’ at the maty six miles off, and through a spy-glass. No one can be sure of any thing at such a distance. So overlook the matter, my good Biddy, and carry Mr. Mulford the nice things you’ve mustered in that basket, all the same as if he was pope.”

“This is a subject we had better drop,” Rose quietly observed.

“Any thing to oblige you, Miss Rose, though religion is a matter it would do me no harm to talk about once and awhile. It’s many a long year since I’ve had time and opportunity to bring my thoughts to dwell on holy things. Ever since I left my mother’s side, I’ve been a wanderer in my mind, as much as in my body.”

“Poor Jack! I understand and feel for your sufferings; but a better time will come, when you may return to the habits of your youth, and to the observances of your church.”

“I don’t know that, Miss Rose; I don’t know that,” answered Tier, placing the elbow of his short arm on the knee of a seemingly shorter leg, and bending his head so low as to lean his face on the palm of the hand, an attitude in which he appeared to be suffering keenly through his recollections. “Childhood and innocence never come back to us in this world. What the grave may do we shall all learn in time.”

“Innocence can return to all with repentance, Jack; and the heart that prompts you to do acts as generous as this you are now engaged in, must contain some good seed yet.”

“If Jack will go to a praste and just confess, when he can find a father, it will do his sowl good,” said Biddy, who was touched by the mental suffering of the strange little being at her side.

But the necessity of managing the boat soon compelled its cockswain to raise his head, and to attend to his duty. The wind sometimes came in puffs, and at such moments Jack saw that the large sail of the light-house boat required watching, a circumstance that induced him to shake off his melancholy, and give his mind more exclusively to the business before him. As for Rose, she sympathized deeply with Jack Tier, for she knew his history, his origin, the story of his youth, and the well-grounded causes of his contrition and regrets. From her, Jack had concealed nothing, the gentle commisseration of one like Rose being a balm to wounds that had bled for long and bitter years. The great poet of our language, and the greatest that ever lived, perhaps, short of the inspired writers of the Old Testament, and old Homer and Dante, has well reminded us that the “little beetle,” in yielding its breath, can “feel a pang as great as when a giant dies.” Thus is it, too, in morals. Abasement, and misery, and poverty, and sin, may, and all do, contribute to lower the tone of our moral existence; but the principle that has been planted by nature, can be eradicated by nature only. It exists as long as we exist; and if dormant for a time, under the pressure of circumstances, it merely lies, in the moral system, like the acorn, or the chestnut, in the ground, waiting its time and season to sprout, and bud, and blossom. Should that time never arrive, it is not because the seed is not there, but because it is neglected. Thus was it with the singular being of whose feelings we have just spoken. The germ of goodness had been implanted early in him, and was nursed with tenderness and care, until self-willed, and governed by passion, he had thrown off the connections of youth and childhood, to connect himself with Spike—a connection that had left him what he was. Before closing our legend, we shall have occasion to explain it.

“We have run our hour, Miss Rose,” resumed Jack, breaking a continued silence, during which the boat had passed through a long line of water; “we have run our hour, and ought to be near the rock we are in search of. But the morning is so dark that I fear we shall have difficulty in finding it. It will never do to run past it, and we must haul closer in to the reef, and shorten sail, that we may be sartain to make no such mistake.”

Rose begged her companion to omit no precaution, as it would be dreadful to fail in their search, after incurring so much risk in their own persons.

“Harry may be sleeping on the sea-weed of which you spoke,” she added, “and the danger of passing him will be much increased in such a case. What a gloomy and frightful spot is this in which to abandon a human being. I fear, Jack, that we have come faster than we have supposed, and may already have passed the rock.”

“I hope not, Miss Rose—it seemed to me a good two leagues to the place where I saw him, and the boat is fast that will run two leagues in an hour.”

“We do not know the time, Jack, and are obliged to guess at that as well as at the distance. How very dark it is!”

Dark, in one sense, it was not, though Rose’s apprehensions, doubtless, induced her to magnify every evil. The clouds certainly lessened the light of the moon; but there was still enough of the last to enable one to see surrounding objects; and most especially to render distinct the character of the solitude that reigned over the place.

The proximity of the reef which formed a weather shore to the boat, prevented any thing like a swell on the water, notwithstanding the steadiness and strength of the breeze, which had now blown for near twenty-four hours. The same wind, in open water, would have raised sea enough to cause a ship to pitch, or roll, whereas, the light-house boat, placed where she was, scarce rose and fell under the undulations of the channel through which she was glancing.

“This is a good boat, and a fast boat too,” observed Jack Tier, after he had luffed up several minutes, in order to make sure of his proximity to the reef; “and it might carry us all safe enough to Key West, or certainly back to the Dry Tortugas, was we inclined to try our hands at either.”

“I cannot quit my aunt,” said Rose, quickly, “so we will not even think of any such thing.”

“No, ’twould never do to abandon the missus,” said Biddy, “and she on the wrack wid us, and falin’ the want of wather as much as ourselves.”

“We three have sartainly gone through much in company,” returned Jack, “and it ought to make us friends for life.”

“I trust it will, Jack; I hope, when we return to New York, to see you among us, anchored, as you would call it, for the rest of your days under my aunt’s roof, or under my own, should I ever have one.”

“No, Miss Rose, my business is with the Swash and her captain. I shall stick by both, now I’ve found ’em again, until they once more desart me. A man’s duty is _his_ duty, and a woman’s duty is _her_ duty.”

“You same to like the brig and her captain, Jack Tier,” observed Biddy, “and there’s no use in gain-saying such a likin’. What _will_ come to pass, must come to pass. Capt. Spike is a mighty great sailor, anyway.”

“He’s a willian!” muttered Jack.

“There!” cried Rose, almost breathless, “there is a rock above the water, surely. Do not fly by it so swiftly, Jack, but let us stop and examine it.”

“There is a rock, sure enough, and a large piece it is,” answered Tier. “We will go alongside of it, and see what it is made of. Biddy shall be boat-keeper, while you and I, Miss Rose, explore.”

Jack had thrown the boat into the wind, and was shooting close alongside of the reef, even while speaking. The party found no difficulty in landing; the margin of the rock admitting the boat to lie close alongside of it, and its surface being even and dry. Jack had brailed the sail, and he brought the painter ashore, and fastened it securely to a fragment of stone, that made a very sufficient anchor. In addition to this precaution, a lazy painter was put into Biddy’s hands, and she was directed not to let go of it while her companions were absent. These arrangements concluded, Rose and Jack commenced a hurried examination of the spot.

A few minutes sufficed to give our adventurers a tolerably accurate notion of the general features of the place on which they had landed. It was a considerable portion of the reef that was usually above water, and which had even some fragments of soil, or sand, on which was a stinted growth of bushes. Of these last, however, there were very few, nor were there many spots of the sand. Drift-wood and sea-weed were lodged in considerable quantities about its margin, and, in places, piles of both had been tossed upon the rock itself, by the billows of former gales of wind. Nor was it long before Jack discovered a turtle that had been up to a hillock of sand, probably to deposit its eggs. There was enough of the sportsman in Jack, notwithstanding the business he was on, to turn this animal; though with what object, he might have been puzzled himself to say. This exploit effected, Jack followed Rose as fast as his short legs would permit, our heroine pressing forward eagerly, though almost without hope, in order to ascertain if Mulford were there.

“I am afraid this is not the rock,” said Rose, nearly breathless with her own haste, when Jack had overtaken her. “I see nothing of him, and we have passed over most of the place.”

“Very true, Miss Rose,” answered her companion, who was in a good humor on account of his capture of the turtle; “but there are other rocks besides this. Ha! what was that, yonder,” pointing with a finger, “here, more toward the brig. As I’m a sinner, there was a flashing, as of fire.”

“If a fire, it must be that made by Harry. Let us go to the spot at once.”

Jack led the way, and, sure enough, he soon reached a place where the embers of what had been a considerable body of fire, were smouldering on the rock. The wind had probably caused some brand to kindle momentarily, which was the object that had caught Tier’s eye. No doubt any longer remained of their having found the very place where the mate had cooked his supper, and lighted his beacon, though he himself was not near it. Around these embers were all the signs of Mulford’s having made the meal, of which Jack had seen the preparations. A portion of the turtle, much the greater part of it, indeed, lay in its shell; and piles of wood and sea-weed, both dry, had been placed at hand, ready for use. A ship’s topgallant-yard, with most of its ropes attached, lay with a charred end near the fire, or where the fire had been, the wood having burned until the flames went out for want of contact with other fuel. There were many pieces of boards of pitch-pine in the adjacent heap, and two or three beautiful planks of the same wood, entire. In short, from the character and quantity of the materials of this nature that had thus been heaped together, Jack gave it as his opinion that some vessel, freighted with lumber, had been wrecked to windward, and that the adjacent rocks had been receiving the tribute of her cargo. Wrecks are of very, very frequent occurrence on the Florida Reef; and there are always moments when such gleanings are to be made in some part of it or other.

“I see no better way to give a call to the mate, Miss Rose, than to throw some of this dry weed, and some of this lumber on the fire,” said Jack, after he had rummaged about the place sufficiently to become master of its condition. “There is plenty of ammunition, and here goes for a broadside.”

Jack had no great difficulty in effecting his object. In a few minutes he succeeded in obtaining a flame, and then he fed it with such fragments of the brands and boards as were best adapted to his purpose. The flames extended gradually, and by the time Tier had dragged the topgallant-yard over the pile, and placed several plank, on their edges, alongside of it, the whole was ready to burst into a blaze. The light was shed athwart the rock for a long distance, and the whole place, which was lately so gloomy and obscure, now became gay, under the bright radiance of a blazing fire.

“There is a beacon-light that might almost be seen on board!” said Jack, exulting in his success. “If the mate is anywhere in this latitude, he will soon turn up.”

“I see nothing of him,” answered Rose, in a melancholy voice. “Surely, surely, Jack, he cannot have left the rock just as we have come to rescue him!”

Rose and her companion had turned their faces from the fire to look in an opposite direction in quest of him they sought. Unseen by them, a human form advanced swiftly toward the fire, from a point on its other side. It advanced nearer, then hesitated, afterward rushed forward with a tread that caused the two to turn, and at the next moment, Rose was clasped to the heart of Mulford.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

EVELYN GRAHAME.

A TALE OF TRUTH.

BY ELLEN MARSHALL.

It was at the beginning of my third year at boarding-school, that—being at the time a parlor-boarder—I was called down one day into the drawing-room, to be introduced to a new scholar, who had just arrived. Upon entering, I perceived a young girl of apparently sixteen or seventeen years of age, seated upon an ottoman, and weeping bitterly. She did not raise her head until Madame B——, calling me by name, introduced the stranger to me, as Miss Grahame. The poor girl, whose parents I found had just left her, merely removed her handkerchief from her face, and bowed slightly, without looking at me.

“Ellen,” said Madame B—— to me, “Miss Grahame will share your room; perhaps she would like to be shown to it now.”

I approached, and taking the young girl’s unresisting hand, whispered a few words of encouragement, and led her up stairs to my little sanctum, where, after having assisted her in removing her hat and shawl, I left her, judging by my own experience that she would prefer being alone for a short time. About two hours after, as I was walking in the garden, I heard a soft, sweet voice call me by name. I turned, and saw my new room-mate, who, approaching, extended her hand, and said, in a trembling tone, “You must have thought me very rude, when you were so kind to me; but, indeed, I never was so unhappy before. I feel better now, and have come to ask pardon, and hope to be taken into favor.” It was impossible to resist her sad, winning look, and, with my usual impetuosity, I flung my arms around her, and pressed her to my bosom. From that moment we were sworn friends.

Evelyn was just sixteen; and never did a sweeter face, or a warmer heart, animate a lovely form. Her features were not regularly beautiful, but the expression of almost angelic purity which pervaded her countenance, when in repose, made her more beautiful than the most studied regularity of feature could have done. The extreme gentleness of her manners, the half-reluctant, half-confiding way she had of speaking of herself, made me think her weak and timid, until I knew her better. She was never gay, but always cheerful; and never did I see her polished brow ruffled by a frown. She was the only child of fond and wealthy parents, residing in Mobile; and the fame of Madame B——’s school had induced them to leave her in New York for a year, in order that she might finish her education.

Six months passed away, and Evelyn and myself were still inseparable. We unfolded to each other every secret of our hearts; and I often smile now to think with how much importance we treated a thousand trifling things. We would sit hours together by the window in our little room, laying plans for the future—that future so short and sad to my sweet friend. Beloved Evelyn, dear companion, thine was a sad lot, born to all that could make life joyous, yet doomed to so cruel a fate.

In one of our confidences, not long after her arrival, she spoke to me of one very dear to her—a cousin, a passed-midshipman in the navy. He had spent several months with her family, and had sailed on a short cruise to Brazil only a few days before she left home; but ere they parted, he had won her consent to an engagement, which was to be kept a secret from all until her return from school. “He will be home just about that time,” said she in conclusion; “he will then tell father all, and we shall be so happy!”

Oh! how often does her image come before me, as she stood and blushingly told me of her joyful hopes. What a blessed thing it is that we know not the trials the mysterious future may have in store for us. We can at least be happy in anticipation; and if our bright dreams are dissipated by a dark and mournful reality, memory can still lessen the gloom of many a lonely hour by recalling those pleasant visions.

Six months, as I have said, passed away, each day only endearing Evelyn Grahame more to my heart. About this time she received letters from home, announcing the death of Mrs. Grahame’s only sister, Mrs. Dutton; and, also, that the latter’s eldest child, a daughter, one year older than Evelyn, had been adopted by her aunt. Mrs. Grahame wrote in the most flattering manner concerning Sarah Dutton; and from the letters the young girl herself wrote Evelyn, I was led to entertain a high opinion of her mind and heart. Evelyn had often visited her aunt, and therefore knew her cousin well. She often spoke to me in the warmest manner of Sarah’s beauty and amiability.

In the meantime, Arthur Noel, Eva’s lover, remained at sea; but the time was drawing near when he would return. The months rolled swiftly by; and as the period approached for her leaving school, Evelyn became more impatient each day. She was expecting her father to come on for her, when a letter arrived, telling her that it was impossible for him to leave his business, and that she would be obliged to remain at school for a few weeks longer, until some good opportunity offered for her to reach home.

Eva was very much distressed at this. She felt sure that Arthur would reach Mobile before her, and she had promised to meet him there. But she was forced to submit; and after some little persuasion, consented to accompany me to my father’s summer residence on the North River. She was charmed with the scenery of the Hudson, and arrived in much better spirits than I expected at “Lily Grove”—the fanciful name my dear mother had bestowed upon our dear, beautiful home. The day after our arrival, Evelyn received a letter, which had been forwarded to her from school, where it was directed. It was from Arthur Noel, the first she had ever received from him. How brightly her eyes beamed as she read it. Fourteen months of separation had failed to erase her image from his heart. He was at Pensacola, and thinking she would soon be on her return home, designed meeting her in Mobile.

“O, Ellen!” she exclaimed, when she had finished reading the precious missive, “I never felt before how truly, how devotedly I am his.” Poor Evelyn! she loved with a woman’s first, deep, passionate love—a love that either makes or mars her happiness—a love that rude neglect may chill, but naught but death destroy.

The next week brought my dear Eva another tender letter. Arthur had reached Mobile, and though much disappointed at not meeting her there, felt obliged, he said, to smother his desire to fly to New York for her, as so sudden a move, before he had visited his own family, would cause “very unpleasant remarks.” Evelyn was chagrined at this, and so was I. We had both yet to learn how little of the world’s opinion a man is willing to sacrifice for the sake of the one he pretends to love. My friend said little upon the subject, however; but I saw that she anxiously awaited the coming of the following week, when she felt sure of hearing again from her lover. The week came, but brought disappointment—there was no letter. Three weeks more of great anxiety were passed, and still Evelyn heard nothing from home. She was beginning to be seriously alarmed, when one morning, at the beginning of the fourth week, I flew to her room with a letter that the servant had just brought from the village post-office. She grasped it eagerly—the superscription was Arthur’s. She broke the seal, but, as if a sudden presentiment of evil had come over her, she laid it down, and sinking into a chair, burst into tears. “Ellen,” said she, “you must read it first—I have not courage; I feel as if it contained bad news.” I laughed at her, but she insisted upon my reading it first. I took it up, opened it, and silently read as follows:—

_Mobile, May 20, 18—._

Dearest Eva,—You will be surprised upon receiving this, to find
that I am still in your city instead of being with my own family
in New Orleans. But you will, I fear, be pained to learn the
object that detains me. Oh, Eva! would to God we had never met;
or rather, would that I had died, ere I strove to win your fond,
pure heart to myself. But, Eva, I know you well; beneath a
gentleness which angels might covet, you bear a proud, firm
spirit; and I know further, that you would rather learn the
truth now, painful as it may be, than some time hence, when it
would be too late to repair the evil. I came here, my Eva, with
a heart full of love and joy at the prospect of seeing you
again. I was disappointed, most sincerely so, at not meeting
you. But another filled your place in the family circle—our
orphan cousin, Sarah. I will not say aught in her praise, for
you have seen and loved her; but—must I confess it—day after
day found me lingering at her side, listening to the music of a
voice that I have never heard equaled; and, ere long, I learned
to know how sadly I had mistaken my feelings toward you, Evelyn.
Condemn me, curse me, if you will—I love, madly love, Sarah!
Oh, Evelyn! what words to write to you my own, noble-hearted
cousin; but you may, perhaps, thank me for my candor. As yet, I
have not committed myself to Sarah—all rests with you. To you I
owe all my duty and my hand; say but the word, dear Eva, and it
is yours forever. I do not ask you to release me from my
engagement; but, having told you all, shall most anxiously
expect your answer. My heart is breaking, dear Eva, at the
thought of the pain this may cause you; but with your own brave
spirit, cast from you the image of one who is unworthy of you;
one who has so traitorously repaid your love.

Arthur Noel.

The letter had evidently been penned in a state of great agitation. I thought it the wildest thing I had ever read, but at the moment, indignation mastered every other feeling. I continued silent for some moments after I had finished reading it—for I was too much distressed to speak. I did not know how to break the matter to my friend. I knew she had been watching my face for some seconds, and my feelings must have revealed themselves very strongly; for when she saw me standing so long silent, she said, “Tell me what that letter contains, to move you thus.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, but seeing me still silent, she sprung toward me, and grasping my hand, exclaimed, “have mercy on me, Ellen. Tell me what it is; I can bear all, any thing, so that Arthur is well!”

“He is well, Evelyn,” said I; “it would be better for you, poor girl, if he were dead.”

“Oh! say not that,” she again exclaimed, “you would have me think him false; but that cannot be. Arthur loves me; oh, God! say that he loves me still.”

She sunk at my feet as she said this, and burying her face in my dress, sobbed violently.

“Evelyn,” I cried, endeavoring at the same time to raise her, “Evelyn, you have a hard trial before you, but one which I know your woman’s pride will enable you to bear with fortitude. I will leave you; read that letter yourself, and when I come again in an hour, let me find that my friend has been true to herself.” I gently disengaged my dress from her clasp, placed the letter in her hand, kissed her cheek, and left the room.

I retired to my own room, and there wept for my friend, as I had never wept for myself. I trembled for the consequences that might ensue. I knew how deeply Arthur was beloved; and I could not but fear that even Eva’s firm spirit would not bear the blow with fortitude.

In an hour I knocked at her door, and called her by name. “Do not come in yet,” she said, but in a voice so hoarse and hollow, that I could scarcely believe it hers; “do not come in yet, I am not what you wish to see me.”

Once again that morning I attempted to see her, but she still refused to admit me; and it was not until eight o’clock in the evening that my maid came and told me that Evelyn wished to see me.

Never, never shall I forget the look with which she received me. Her color was more brilliant than I had ever seen it, but her eyes were dull and fixed, and a ghastly smile played round her mouth, as she bade me enter; but the expression of her forehead, if I may use such a term, shocked me more than all else. It seemed to have grown old—twenty years in advance of the rest of her face. It was wrinkled, and literally old, with the agony of thought she endured.

“Ellen,” said she, in the same hollow tone with which she had addressed me at the door, “Ellen, I have sent for you, to ask you where is now all my boasted firmness; where my pride, my dignity? Ah, Ellen! I was never tried before. You think me calm—despair makes me so. I did not arrive at despair even without a hard struggle; and now, my heart, full freighted as it was with the fondest hopes girl ever cherished, lies crushed and dying beneath the waves of that gloom which will henceforth be my portion in life.” She ceased, and for a moment stood silent; then suddenly looking up, she said in a calmer voice, “I am very silly to talk in this way to you. Do not weep, dear Ellen; you see I can bear my sorrow without weeping. Read my answer, and tell me how you like it.” Mechanically I took the paper she handed me. Through my tears I read the following concise letter:—

“Miss Grahame presents her compliments to Mr. Noel, and is
extremely happy that she has it in her power to gratify him. Mr.
Noel might have spared himself any anxiety on the occasion, as,
had he known Miss Grahame better, he would have felt sure that
she would never have laid a serious claim to a midshipman’s
promise, made to a thoughtless school-girl. He will, therefore,
accept Miss Grahame’s congratulations on the prospect of
felicity before him; and believe that no better wishes will
follow him and his bride to the altar than will be offered by
her.

_“Lily Grove, June 2d._”

And this was the letter. Not one word of the breaking-heart; not a word of the anguish that had so wrung her gentle spirit that day. Ah, Evelyn! I did not mistake you, noble girl. I have since entertained a different opinion of that letter. It was sent, and for a day or two Evelyn was as cheerful, apparently, as usual; but I saw the effort with which she concealed her grief, and anxiously watched her. Gradually, however, her calmness left her, and she would sometimes give way to bursts of grief, fearful to behold. This continued until she received letters from home, urging her return, as Sarah and Arthur were soon to be married. There was no scorn on her lips as she read Sarah’s account of her approaching nuptials; but the words were perused again and again, and she seemed to drink in every syllable as if it were her last draught of happiness.

I must now hasten to the close of my sad tale. A friend of Mr. Grahame called on us a few days after Evelyn had received the letters urging her return, and informed her that he was about starting for Mobile, and would be pleased to act as her escort home. To my surprise, she excused herself by saying she still hoped her father would come on, and she would prefer waiting for him. When the gentleman left, she said to me, “Ellen, I do not wish to go until all is over, I can then meet them calmly, but now it would be impossible.”

Sarah was married without her, for Arthur had his own reasons for urging the matter. It will be remembered that no one but myself knew of Eva’s unfortunate attachment, and therefore there was no restraint in the letters she afterward received, giving a description of the wedding, and the happiness of the newly married pair. Alas! could one of them have seen the change that had come over Evelyn, happiness must have fled. A few weeks of misery had made sad havoc among the roses of her cheeks. She was now pale and drooping, her step had lost its lightness, and she seldom smiled.

As soon as the news of the marriage reached her, she made preparations for her return, and an opportunity offering shortly afterward, she left me, promising to write as soon as she reached home. I remember looking after her as she walked down the lawn, and wondering if I should ever see her again. Little did I then think how and where I should see her. I never received the promised letter from her, but one from her mother informed me of what I am about to relate. Arthur Noel had expected to leave for New Orleans a few days after his marriage; but an unexpected summons to attend as witness on a court-martial, then in progress in Mobile, detained him; and he and his wife were still at Mrs. Grahame’s when Eva arrived. She had not been expected until the next day. The family were all assembled in the drawing-room, when the door was thrown open, and the old negro porter exultingly announced, “Miss Evelyn.” All sprung forward, except Arthur, and he stood spell-bound. Evelyn advanced hastily into the room, but as soon as her eye fell upon him, her early, her only loved—a shriek, so wild, so shrill, burst from her lips, that none present ever forgot it. With one bound she was at his side, and looking into his face with an expression of wo impossible to describe, she faltered out his name, and sunk senseless on the floor, for Arthur had no power to move. It was no time now for Mrs. Grahame and Sarah to inquire into the meaning of this. Arthur was aroused to lend his aid in placing the prostrate girl on a sofa. A physician was sent for, but she lay insensible for many hours; and when she did awake, it was only to make those who loved her so fondly, more wretched. Reason, which for weeks had been tottering on her throne, had fled forever—and Evelyn Grahame, the lovely, the idolized daughter, was a raving maniac!

* * * * *

It was in the Spring of ——, two years after the events related above, that, with a party of friends, I visited the city of ——. The morning after my arrival, the servant brought me up a card, and said a gentleman was waiting in the drawing-room to see me. I read the name—it was “Arthur Noel, U. S. Navy.” I started, and almost fainted. _That_ name! how vividly it recalled the past. Eva, my never-forgotten friend, stood again before me in all her pride of beauty, and then—I shuddered, and dared not end my reflection. A hope, however, soon rose in my breast that Arthur might bring me cheering news; and with a lighter heart I descended the stairs. I had never seen Mr. Noel, but Evelyn had often described him to me; and I expected to see a very handsome man. What was my astonishment, therefore, when I entered the room, to behold a tall, pale, haggard-looking man, with a countenance so sad, that I almost trembled as I looked at him.

“Miss M——, I presume,” said he. I bowed, and requested him to be seated.

“I arrived here this morning,” continued he, “from Norfolk, and seeing your name upon the register, have taken the liberty to call and ask a great favor of you.” He paused, and seemed to be endeavoring to suppress some violent emotion. He then resumed, in a faltering tone, “You were Evelyn Grahame’s dear friend.”

“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed, “what of Evelyn—how is she—where is she?”

His voice was stern, as he replied, “she is still what my baseness made her. Where she is, I will show you, if you will go with me. I must go—but I cannot go alone.”

I rang the bell, sent for my hat and shawl, and we went out together. I could not help shuddering, as I saw that my companion led the way to the Lunatic Asylum. As we walked along, I ventured to ask after his wife.

“She is dead,” said he; “she died in giving birth to a little girl, whom I have named Evelyn. Oh! Miss M——, if Eva could only be restored! It is the harrowing thought of my conduct toward her, that has made me what I am—a gloomy, forlorn man. I shun mankind, and feel unworthy to look my little daughter in the face. But the physician who attends dear Eva, has given me a hope that the sight of me might cause a reaction, which would give a favorable termination to her malady. Your presence at the same time may assist this.”

“God grant it!” I fervently ejaculated; and at that moment we entered the court-yard of the Asylum. The matron met us at the door, and Arthur, having given her a note from Dr. ——, she immediately led us to Eva’s apartment.

“She is asleep now,” said the good woman, “but you can go in, and wait until she awakes; she is perfectly gentle, and will give you no trouble.”

We entered the small, but very neat room, and approached the bed, whereon lay all that remained of Evelyn Grahame. I felt as if my heart would burst as I looked upon her. She lay upon her side, one arm supporting her head. Her breathing was soft and gentle as an infant’s. Her beautiful hair had long been cut away, and the exquisitely shaped head was fully exposed. Her beauty had all fled. She looked forty years old; and the contraction of the muscles about the mouth, peculiar to lunatics, gave her face so stern an expression, that I could scarcely believe she was the gentle Evelyn of happier days. My tears flowed fast, while Arthur stood and gazed intently upon her, his arms folded, and a look of settled misery on his face. We had stood at her side about ten minutes, when she suddenly started up—“Mother!—Arthur!” she cried.

“I am here, Eva, my own!” exclaimed Arthur, throwing his arm around her. Her face instantly flushed up, her eyes kindled; she leaned eagerly forward, and gazed upon him; it was but for a second—her head fell back, and she fainted.

Assistance was immediately called, and she soon opened her eyes, looked around, then closed them again. But that look was enough. We saw that reason had again assumed its empire. The wildness of the eyes was gone, and the mouth looked natural. Involuntarily Arthur and myself fell upon our knees. My heart was full of thankfulness, and I prayed; but he, burying his face in his hands, sobbed aloud. The noise roused Evelyn. She again opened her eyes, passed her hand across her brows, and then raising herself with an effort, said faintly, “Where am I—where have I been. Arthur! and you, too, Ellen! what does this mean; quick, some water! Oh, God! I am dying.”

Arthur sprung to his feet, and let her head droop upon his arm. She took his hand in hers, then motioning me nearer, grasped mine also; and for some moments did not move. She then looked in my face, and whispered, “I remember all, now; but Arthur—dear Arthur! I do not blame you. I hope you are happy—I soon will be. I feel that I am dying. Surely, Sarah would not grudge me the happiness I feel in breathing my last in your arms.”

“Oh, Evelyn!” cried Arthur, while his sobs almost choked his utterance, “you must not, you shall not die. You must live to forgive me, and let me make some reparation for the wrong I have done you. Speak to me, Eva! tell me that you will live.”

The poor girl made an effort to speak, but it was in vain—one grasp of the hand—a short sigh—and the pure spirit of Evelyn Grahame had fled to a brighter sphere.

* * * * *

Arthur Noel still lives, a poor, broken-hearted victim of remorse.

* * * * *

REALITY VERSUS ROMANCE,

OR THE YOUNG WIFE.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.