Chapter IV: Part II (1)

God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. Sterne.

Thank God, that yet I live.
In tender mercy, heeding not the prayer
I boldly uttered, in my first despair,
He would not rashly give
The punishment an erring spirit braved.
From sudden death, in kindness. I was saved.

It was a fearful thought
That this fair earth had not one pleasure left.
I was at once of sight and hope bereft.
My soul was not yet taught
To bow submissive to the sudden stroke;
Its crushing weight my heart had well nigh broke.

Words are not that can tell
The horrid thoughts that burned upon my brain—
That came and went with madness still the same—
A black and icy spell
That froze my life blood, stopped my fluttering breath,
Was laid upon me—even “_life in death_.”

Long weary months crept by,
And I refused all comfort, turned aside
Wishing that in my weakness I had died.
I uttered no reply,
But without ceasing wept, and moaned, and prayed
The hand of death no longer might be stayed.

I shunned the gaze of all.
I knew that pity dwelt in every look.
Pity e’en then my proud breast could not brook,
Though darkness as a pall
Circled me round, each mournful eye _I felt_
That for a moment on my features dwelt.

You, dearest mother, know
I shrank in sullenness from your caress.
Even _your_ kisses added to distress,
For burning tears would flow
As you bent o’er me, whispering “be calm,
He who hath wounded holds for thee a balm.”

He did not seem a friend.
I deemed in wrath the sudden blow was sent
From a strong arm that never might relent.
That pain alone would end
With life, for, mother, then it seemed to me
That long, and dreamless, would death’s slumber be.

That blessed illness came.
My weakened pulse now bounded wild and strong,
While soon a raging fever burned along
My worn, exhausted frame.
And for the time all knowledge passed away.
It mattered not that hidden was the day.

—

The odor of sweet flowers
Came stealing through the casement when I woke;
When the wild fever spell at last was broke.
And yet for many hours
I laid in dreamy stillness, till your tone
Called back the life that seemed forever flown.

You, mother, knelt in prayer.
While one dear hand was resting on my head,
With sobbing voice, how fervently you plead
For a strong heart, to bear
The parting which you feared—“Or, if she live,
Comfort, oh, Father! to the stricken give.

“Take from her wandering mind
The heavy load which it so long hath borne,
Which even unto death her frame hath worn.
Let her in mercy find
_That though the Earth she may no longer see,_
_Her spirit still can look to Heaven and Thee_.”

A low sob from me stole.
A moment more—your arms about me wound—
My head upon your breast a pillow found.
And through my weary soul
A holy calm came stealing from on high.
Your prayer was answered—I was not to die.

Then when the bell’s faint chime
Came floating gently on the burdened air,
My heart went up to God in fervent prayer.
And, mother, from that time
My wild thoughts left me—hope returned once more—
I felt that happiness was yet in store.

Daily new strength was given.
For the first time, since darkness on me fell,
I passed with more of joy than words can tell
Under the free blue Heaven.
I bathed my brow in the cool gushing spring—
How much of life those bright drops seemed to bring.

I crushed the dewy leaves
Of the pale violets, and drank their breath—
Though I had heard that at each floweret’s death
A sister blossom grieves.
I did not care to see their glorious hues,
Fearing the richer _perfume_ I might lose.

Then in the dim old wood
I laid me down beneath a bending tree,
And dreamed, dear mother, waking dreams of thee.
I thought how just and good
The power that had so gently sealed mine eyes,
Yet bade new pleasures and new hopes arise.

For now in truth I find
My Father all his promises hath kept;
He comforts those who here in sadness wept.
“Eyes to the blind”
Thou art, oh, God! Earth I no longer see,
Yet trustfully my spirit looks to thee.

* * * * *

MY LOVED—MY OWN.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

Nor the hush of the shadowy night.
Nor the glare of the busy day,
Nor the many cares of the world, from thee
Ever lure my thoughts away.
In dreams thou art by my side,
With thy babe, a rose unblown,
And thy voice for me breathes melody,
My loved—my own!

The page of the laureled bard
Thrills me not, since thou art gone;
And from earth below, and the sky above
Is an olden charm withdrawn.
Come back with thy beaming smile,
For my heart is mournful grown—
Fast the wild bird flies, when her sad mate cries,
My loved—my own!

I have prayed for a spell whereby
I might question the wind of thee,
And learn if thy cheek is flushed with health,
Or wan, while afar from me:
And I start when the casement jars,
And I hear a hollow moan,
But the churlish gale will tell no tale,
My loved—my own!

Not sooner the noon-parched flower
Would revive in summer rain,
Than a glimpse of thee and thy laughing boy
Would my sick heart heal again.
We have been, since wed, like leaves
By the breath of Autumn blown;
But home’s green bowers may yet be ours,
My loved—my own!

* * * * *

THE DARKENED HEARTH.

BY HENRY G. LEE.

Escaped from the heat and noise of the city, I went, a few years ago, some fifty miles into the country, to spend a short time with a friend, who lived in a pleasant village, the quiet air of which had never been disturbed by rushing steamboat or rumbling car. There was to me a Sabbath stillness about the place that made the brief time I sojourned in Heathdale a period of rest to my spirit.

The scenery around the village was rather picturesque than bold. There were high hills, but no mountains; deep valleys, but no abrupt precipices. Far away along the distant horizon lay heavy blue masses, like clouds; but, though their shapes looked fantastic, they never changed.

My friend was a physician, and his practice lay for miles around the village of Heathdale. In order to have the pleasure of his society, as well as to enjoy the beautiful scenery, I usually went with him in all his country visits.

One morning he said to me, “I shall have rather a longer ride than usual to-day; but as it will be through some of the finest scenery we have, you must be my companion.”

I did not hesitate. Recreation of mind and body was my object in visiting the country, and in no better way could I find both. So, when the doctor’s light carriage drove up, I was ready to step into it.

In talking of the past, the present, and the future, as well as in remarking upon the various objects of interest around us, we spent an hour, by which time we were riding along an old, grass-covered road, winding in many a graceful sweep, and lined by tall poplars that had seen their palmiest days.

“Wealth and taste have left their marks here,” I said, as a fine old mansion, situated upon a gentle eminence, came in sight.

“Yes,” replied the doctor, “both have been here.”

“But are hardly present now, I should think.”

“No. They disappeared long since. Ten years ago a lovelier spot than this could hardly have been found; nor one in which were happier hearts. But now the hearth is desolate. ‘The bright fire quenched and gone.’ I never like to come here. Of the many who lived and loved in this sweet spot one only remains shivering by the darkened fireside.”

The doctor appeared to be disturbed. He was silent for some moments, during which time my eyes were marking all that was peculiar about the place. The house that we were approaching was a large, square-built, two-story edifice, with a portico, and handsome Corinthian columns in front. It stood, as just said, upon an eminence, one slope of which was in a beautiful green lawn, and the others terraced for gardens and shrubbery. Of the gardens, only the plan remained; and rank weeds grew where once had blossomed the sweetest flowers. The untrimmed shrubbery as strongly attested, by its wildness, tangled and irregular growth, the want of care and culture. Everywhere that my eye turned, I could see that the hand of taste had been—but not of late. The summer-house was in ruins; the fish-pond grown over with weeds; the statues that stood here and there, broken.

“To whom did this, or does this place belong?” I asked, rousing by my question the doctor from the musing mood into which he had fallen.

“To an English gentleman of fortune, taste, and intelligence, named Belmont,” he replied. “When a young man, he came to the United States for the purpose of seeing the country, with ample means and freedom from business. He lingered wherever he went as long as pleased his fancy. Something drew him to this part of our state, where he spent two or three months. In his rambles about he fell upon this spot, which had been cleared by a farmer, whose log-cabin stood upon the very site of that fine old mansion. Struck with its natural beauty, Belmont made the man a liberal offer for his farm, which was accepted. A year afterward he returned and commenced and completed as rapidly as possible, all the main improvements you now see. But, as we are at the door, I must defer this narrative until I have seen my patient.”

The doctor then left me in the carriage while he went into the house. He was gone nearly half an hour. When he returned he looked graver than when he went in.

“It always gives me the heart-ache to visit here,” he said, as we rode away. “_My_ medicine can do no good.”

“Your patient has a disease of the mind?”

“Yes, an incurable one,” he replied. “Hers is a heart-sickness beyond my skill to heal. She needs a spiritual rather than a bodily physician. But to resume where I left off. Mr. Belmont was occupied about two years in building that handsome house, and in improving these grounds. A part of his time was spent in superintending these improvements in person; but the greater portion of it was passed in England. When all was completed, the house was elegantly furnished, and Mr. Belmont, with a lovely bride, retired from the world, to live here in beautiful seclusion. People wondered why a young couple, who had evidently mingled in the gayest circles, and been used to elegant and refined society, should hide themselves, as it were, in the vicinity of a small village in Pennsylvania, thousands of miles away from their old homes and country. For a while there was a great deal of gossip on the subject, and dozens of little stories afloat as to what this, that, or the other servant at the ‘white house’ had said about the young wife of Belmont. It was alledged that she was often seen weeping, and that she was not at all happy. This, however, was not generally believed; for Mrs. Belmont was seen every Sabbath at the village church, and looked so cheerful, and leaned so lovingly toward her husband, that all idea of her being unhappy was banished from the mind. Still, people continued to wonder why a young and wealthy Englishman, of noble blood, for aught they knew, should prefer the deep seclusion of an almost forest-life in America. Subsequent events threw light on this subject, and enables me to give you the history of this young couple.

“Belmont belonged to a wealthy English aristocratic family, and was the legal heir, on the death of his father, to a large estate. As is too generally the case where the law of primogeniture exists, Belmont, as the eldest son, was not left to consult his affections in a matter of so much importance as marriage. A bride was chosen for him, long before he was old enough to think of or care for a bride. But when the boy became the man, he felt little inclined to enter into so close a union as that of marriage with one for whom not a single affection stirred.

“Not long after the young man entered society, he met Catherine H——, the only daughter of Lord H——, a lovely young creature, who soon captivated all his feelings. Catherine, it happened, had, like him, been early betrothed by her parents. Her hand was not therefore free. He might admire, but not love her. Unlike Belmont, she was not indifferent toward her betrothed. As they grew up together from childhood, their young affections intertwined, until the friendship of youth became love at mature age.

“A year spent on the Continent, and particularly in the gayest circles of Paris, tended in no wise to elevate the moral sentiments of Belmont; nor did absence from home weaken the attachment he felt for Catherine H——, whose society he sought on his return at every favorable opportunity. Between the ardor of a lover who seeks to win a heart, and the quiet, gentle, unobtrusive attentions of one who believes that he has already made a love-conquest, there is and must be a marked difference. This was just the difference between the manner of Belmont and the lover of Catherine. The lady, not indifferent to admiration, found, ere long, the image of the former resting upon her heart, and hiding that of the latter. Belmont was quick to perceive this; but the lover of Catherine, who was not of a jealous temperament, remained altogether unconscious that any change had taken place in the feelings of his bride elect.

“From his false and delusive dream, something, not necessary to mention, awoke Belmont; and in the effort to break through the meshes of love in which he was entangled, he left England, and spent nearly twelve months in the United States. While here, the beautiful site upon which he afterward built himself an elegant residence, struck his fancy, and, in a moment of enthusiastic admiration, and with, perhaps, a half-formed resolution to attempt what was afterward done, he purchased it, and then went back to England. When he again met Catherine H——, he was struck with the change a year had wrought in her appearance; and he was also struck with the marked expression of pleasure with which she received him. The half-quenched fire which he had been endeavoring to extinguish in his bosom, again burst into a flame, and burned more brightly than ever. In a moment of passion, he avowed his love, and the maiden sunk in silent joy upon his bosom.

“Meantime, the betrothed of Belmont, as well as her friends, were fretted and angry with the coldness and indifference which he manifested toward her. A near relative, a young man of a fiery temper, undertook to ask explanations, and considering himself insulted by the answer he obtained, sent Belmont a challenge to fight. This was accepted; and at the hostile meeting which followed, the young man received a severe wound that came near costing him his life. Belmont took advantage of this circumstance to break off all intercourse with the lady, and to arm himself, ready to give any of her friends who chose to espouse her cause, whatever satisfaction they might desire. All this caused a good deal of excitement in the circles immediately affected by it, and a good many threats were made by the lady’s friends; but they amounted to nothing.

“Erskine, the lover of Catherine H——, at length saw cause for suspicion that all was not right. He had repeatedly urged her to consent to an early performance of the marriage rite; but she had as often evaded any direct response to his wishes. At length there was no disguising the fact that she was becoming colder toward him every time they met. He complained of this; but his complaint elicited no warm denial of what he alledged. Erskine, who was deeply attached to the lady, now became alarmed. It was too plain that she had grown indifferent. Why, he was for some time at a loss to understand. But at length his suspicions took the right direction. Just as he was about demanding from Belmont an explanation of his conduct toward Catherine, the father of the latter died; and before he could with any appearance of decency refer to the matter after this afflictive occurrence, Belmont left England, it was said, for America. His errand to this country you know. As soon as he had completed the improvements he had projected, he returned home to consummate the purpose that had been uppermost in his mind for nearly two years. He married Catherine H—— secretly, and left for the United States before the fact had transpired, bringing with him his lovely and loving young bride.

“I do not wonder that the servants sometimes saw Mrs. Belmont weeping. Smiles could not always rest upon her sweet face. And yet she was happy—that is, happy as she could be under the circumstances, for she loved devotedly her husband, and he in turn almost idolized her.

“Erskine, when the truth became known, was deeply afflicted at the infidelity of his ‘betrothed,’ and for a time suffered the severest pangs. The reaction upon this was angry indignation, and a final vow of retribution. The ardent lover was changed to a cruel hater and seeker for revenge.

“‘I’ll bide my time,’ he said, bitterly. ‘When they think I have forgotten all, my hand will find them out, and my shadow will fall upon them. When their fire burns brightest, I will extinguish it.’

“Year after year he nursed this bitter purpose in his heart. He had found no difficulty in learning where the young bride had retired with her husband, and from thence he managed to obtain frequent intelligence. All that he heard but made the fire of hate burn fiercer in his bosom. Catherine was represented as being happy amid her blooming children; and the lovely spot where she dwelt was described as a little paradise.

“Fifteen years were permitted to go by, and then Erskine sought to effect his fiendish purpose. An instrument by which this was to be done, came into his hands, as he felt, most opportunely, in a young man of fine exterior, elegant manners, intelligence, and varied accomplishments, but without honor or feeling. He was a perfect man of the world, and at heart an unprincipled villain. The name of this person was Edgerton. By loans of money and other favors, Erskine attached this man to him. The tie was, of course, that of self-interest. To him he unfolded what was in his mind. He told him of the wrong he had sustained, and the burning thirst for revenge that ever since had filled his heart. Then he described, in glowing language, the beautiful spot where Catherine dwelt, and the happiness that filled her bosom.

“‘Will you steal, as did the serpent of old, into this lovely paradise?’ he asked. ‘I have been your friend, but if you will serve me now, you may command me in every thing. The wife of Belmont you will find to be a lovely creature; and if you can win her from him, as he won her from me, you will gain possession of a magnificent woman. She is a prize, Edgerton—just the prize for a man like you. Gain it, and I will furnish you with all the means of flight and security.’

“An adventure like this just suited the debased, impure, heartless Edgerton; and he entered upon it with an ardor of feeling, and coolness of purpose, that too sorely foreshadowed success.

“For sixteen years scarcely a cloud had rested upon the hearts of the happy family of Belmont. He had three daughters, between each of whom there was but little over a year’s difference in age. The oldest was a tall, exquisitely beautiful girl of fifteen, and her sisters gave the same promise of opening loveliness. Just at this time, and while Mr. Belmont was in search of a musical instructor for his children, Edgerton managed to fall in his way, and by the most perfect address and assumption of a false exterior, to win his good opinion. He showed credentials of ability from well-known personages in New York and Philadelphia; and also testimonials of character from eminent clergymen, and others. These represented him as highly educated, belonging to a good family, and distinguished for high moral excellence. They were, of course, spurious.

“When Edgerton was introduced to the family of Mr. Belmont, Mrs. Belmont shrunk from him with instinctive aversion. This was her first impression; but it slightly wore off during the interview; and she was rather inclined, after he had gone away, to think that she had permitted herself to feel prejudiced against him without a cause.

“After due deliberation, Edgerton was engaged as instructor of the young ladies in music and the modern languages—in all of which they had made some proficiency; and also to superintend their studies in other branches. To do all this Edgerton was fully qualified. He entered upon his duties with patience and assiduity. In all his intercourse with the family he was modest and unassuming, yet managed, in every conversation that passed between himself and either Mr. or Mrs. Belmont, to show that he possessed a discriminating, well-furnished mind. He had traveled throughout Europe and Asia Minor, and been an accurate observer. This made him an interesting and intelligent companion to both Belmont and his wife, who had been over the same ground. In short, Edgerton soon became the highly valued friend of the parents, as well as the instructor of their children.

“For two years Edgerton remained in the family of Mr. Belmont, during which time nothing occurred to awaken a suspicion, or to shake his confidence in the young man. About this time business required him to go to New York. He was absent over two weeks. Separation from his family was painful to him, and therefore he hurried home as quickly as possible. He had never, since his marriage, been so long absent from his wife, and he grew impatient to be with her again, and to hear her voice, which, in memory, was sweeter than it had ever seemed. He wrote her, during his absence, many times, each letter warmer in its expressions of tenderness than the one that preceded it. In the last letter, written three or four days before he reached home, he said,

“‘I do not think I shall ever venture to go away from home again without taking you with me. The separation has filled my heart with an indescribable sadness. I think of you all the while; I see you all the while; there is not a moment that I do not hear the sound of your voice. But I cannot press my lips to yours, glowing with love; I cannot take you in my arms—you are not really present. Dear Catherine! I shall soon be with you. Ah! how the idea will force itself upon me that the day must come when there will be a longer separation than this. But I will drive the cruel thought from my mind.’

“As Belmont approached his home, his impatient spirit chafed at what to him seemed the slow pace of the stage-horses, by which he was conveyed the last twenty miles. At last time and distance intervened between him and his earthly paradise no longer. As he sprung from the horse that had borne him with swift feet from the village, he felt a slight chill of disappointment at not seeing his wife at the door, with open arms, to meet him. In the hall he was met by his youngest daughter, in whose face there lighted up a smile, but it was not the free, glad, heart-smile that ought to have been there.

“‘Where is your mother?’ he eagerly asked.

“‘I do not know. She went away somewhere day before yesterday, before we were up in the morning.’

“‘Who did she go with?’

“‘I don’t know. But Mr. Edgerton went away at the same time. We think she went with him.’

“Belmont caught hold of the door, and leaned hard against it.

“‘Where are your sisters?’ he asked.

“‘Catherine has been sick ever since. I can’t tell what is the matter with her; but she cries all the time. Mary is in her room with her.’

“‘Does nobody in the house know where your mother is gone?’

“‘No, sir. She went away before any body was up. But there is a letter for you in your room.’

“Belmont tried to run up stairs, but his knees trembled so, and were so weak, that it was with difficulty that he could support himself. When he reached his room, he grasped the letter to which his daughter had referred, and sunk into a chair. It was sometime before, with his quivering hands, he could break the seal, and then many minutes passed before he could read a line. The blasting contents were as follows:

“‘My Husband,—How can I break to you the dreadful truth that
must be told? Long and devotedly as I have loved you, and still
love you, I am impelled to leave you, under the influence of a
stronger, more fiery, and intenser passion. I am mad with the
bewildering excitement in which I am whirling, as in the charmed
circle of a fascinating serpent. I do not love you less, but I
love another more. Forgive me, if you can forgive, and in mercy
both to you and to your unhappy wife, forget me. You know not
how I have been tempted and tried; you know not how, by the most
imperceptible approaches, the citadel of my heart has been
taken. God forgive him who has wronged you, and her who
permitted herself to be made an instrument in that wrong. You
will be far happier than she can ever be. As for my chil—’

“Here the paper was blotted and soiled, as if by a gush of tears. It contained no word more.

“An hour afterward, when Mary Belmont and her younger sister stole softly into their father’s chamber, they found him sitting motionless in a chair, with the letter he had read crumpled in his hand. His eyes were closed; and he did not open them as they drew near. They spoke to him in timid voices, but he did not look up, nor appear to hear them.

“‘Father! dear father!’ they said, coming up close to his side.

“Slowly he drew an arm around each, and pressed them tightly to his bosom—but he did not utter a word.

“‘Papa, where has mother gone?’ asked Mary, in a quivering voice.

“‘I do not know,’ was the low, mournful reply.

“‘Will she never come back?’

“‘No—never!’

“The children burst into tears, and wept for a long time bitterly. The agitation of Belmont’s mind now became agonizing. It was his first wish to conceal what he felt as much as possible from his children; he therefore asked to be left alone. Mary and her sister retired from the room, but with slow and lingering steps. When left to himself, the father sunk down again, like one paralized, not to think but to feel. An hour afterward, Ella, his youngest daughter, came quietly in, and said,

“‘Papa, I wish you would see Catherine. She does nothing but cry all the while.’

“Feeling the necessity, at least for his children’s sake, of rousing himself under this terrible affliction, for which there was no healing balm, Mr. Belmont arose, and taking the hand of Ella, went with her to the chamber of his eldest child, now a tall, beautiful young girl, in her eighteenth year. Her face was turned toward the door when he entered. At a single glance he saw that it was exceedingly pale, had a strange expression, and was full of anguish. In a moment after it was buried beneath the bed-clothes, while the whole body of Catherine shivered as if in an ague fit. Sobs and deep moans of anguish followed. To all that the father could say, not a word of reply was given. Suddenly there flashed through his mind a dreadful suspicion, that caused him to clasp his forehead tightly with his hands, and stagger a few paces backward. Soon after he left the chamber, and retired to his own room to make an effort to think. But it was a vain effort—all the elements of his mind were in wild confusion. At one moment he would start up with a fierce imprecation on his lips, resolved to pursue the fugitives; but before reaching the door of his room, a thought of the utter hopelessness of his condition would cause him to droop, nerveless, into a chair, or sink with a groan upon the bed.

“For nearly the whole of the night that followed, Belmont paced, with slow and measured tread, the floor of his chamber. Toward morning, his mind became calmer and clearer. He was like a man suddenly pressed to the earth by a burden that seemed impossible to be borne, who had re-collected his strength, and risen with the burden upon his shoulders, feeling that though almost crushing in its weight, he could yet bear up under it. The first clear determination of his mind was to ascertain, if possible, the cause of Catherine’s strange distress. He had a heart-sickening dread of something that he dared not even confess to himself. He felt that the specious villain who could draw his wife from virtue, would not be one to hesitate on the question of sacrificing his child, if by any means he could get her into his power.

“Late in the morning he left his bed, and had nearly completed dressing himself when some one knocked at his door. On opening it, he found Ella, with the tears raining over her cheeks.

“‘Oh, papa!’ she exclaimed, ‘Come, quick! and see Catherine. I don’t know what’s the matter with her, but she says she is dying.’

“A cold shiver passed through every nerve of the unhappy man. He sprung away at the last word of Ella, and was quickly at the bed-side of his daughter. A great change had taken place since he saw her on the day before. Her face, that was pale then, was now of an ashy whiteness, but her eyes and lips had a calm expression.

“‘Papa,’ she said, in a voice that thrilled through the heart of the unhappy man, it was so inexpressibly mournful, ‘I do not think I can live long. I have a strange feeling here,’ and she laid her hand upon her heart. ‘If I have done wrong in any thing; if I have been betrayed into evil, I pray you forgive the innocence that suspected no wrong, and the weakness that could not endure in temptation.’

“‘Catherine, my dear child! why do you speak thus? What is it that you mean?’ asked her father. ‘Has that villain dared—’

“Mr. Belmont checked himself for he saw that his daughter had become greatly disturbed. She raised up partly from her pillow, while a rapid play of the muscles agitated her whole face. Before, however, she was able to articulate a word, she sunk back paler than ever. Two or three deep groans struggled up from her heart, and then all was still—still as death. Mr. Belmont looked for some time at the young, white face of his first-born and dearly beloved child, upon which the great destroyer had so suddenly set his seal, and then, answering groan for groan, turned from the withered blossom that lay before him, and again sought the silence and solitude of his own room.

“Two months subsequently to this, Erskine received a letter from Edgerton. It was in these words:

“‘My Dear Sir,—The work is done—and well done. I have
succeeded fully in my plans. Your old flame has been with me in
New York for a month. But she takes the matter rather too hard,
and weeps eternally. I can’t stand this; and if she does not
improve very shortly, shall abandon her. If it had not been for
my wish to follow your instructions to the letter, I should have
taken the eldest daughter instead of the mother, who is much
more to my fancy. I have not yet heard any thing from Belmont,
though I look every day for him to pounce down upon me; but I am
not afraid of him. I suppose this affair will drive him half
mad, for he was exceedingly fond of his wife. This I mention for
your particular gratification. You may expect to see me in
England by the next arrival. Whether I shall bring my lady-love
along or not, I cannot say. It is, however, doubtful. Addio.

Edgerton.’

“The death of his oldest daughter, under circumstances of so much doubt and distress, added to the desertion of a beloved wife, wrought a great and melancholy change in Mr. Belmont. I only saw him a few times afterwards, and then it was at his own house, where I was called to visit as a physician. A few months had made the impression of years. His face was thin, and marked with strong lines; his countenance dull and depressed; his eyes drooping and sad. He moved about slowly, and spoke in a low, quiet, pensive voice.

“One cold night in November, some six or seven months after the afflictive events just described had occurred, Mr. Belmont, after laying awake for hours, trying in vain to sleep, arose from his bed, and going to the window, stood there for some time. The moon was shining brightly through the clear, frosty air, making every object distinctly visible. After standing at the window for some time, Belmont was about turning away, when his eye was arrested by a figure that came slowly along the main avenue through which we drove up to the house a little while ago. Sometimes it would stop for the space of a minute, and then move on again, until at length it stood in the clear moonlight, directly under his window. He then saw that it was a woman. Her head was bowed down at first, but soon she looked up, and the moonlight fell strongly upon her face. Belmont started with a low exclamation, and retreated from the window, and staggering back, sunk with a groan upon the bed, where he lay for nearly five minutes. He then arose, dressed himself, and descended with a deliberate air. On opening the hall-door, he perceived that the woman had sunk down upon the steps. She did not move at his approach.

“‘Catherine!’ he said, in as firm a voice as he could assume.

“But there was no motion—no reply.

“‘Catherine!’ But she did not answer.

“Stooping down, he placed his hand upon her, and then she looked up, and the moonbeams fell upon her face. Her lips were thin and tightly compressed; her pale cheeks deeply sunken; her eyes tearless, but, oh! how full of mingled penitence, humility, and hopelessness. She uttered no word, but lay upon the cold marble, at the threshhold of her husband’s mansion, with her eyes fixed upon his face, that, if not stern and angry, betrayed no sign of affection.

“‘Catherine,’ he said at length, in a cold, steady voice, ‘you have returned to the old home that your conduct has made desolate. I do not see that you have been any happier than those you left behind. I forgive you, as I hope God will. I believe you were once worthy of all the love I bore you, and for the sake of what you then were, I will not spurn you back from the threshhold you now seek to pass.’

“He then took her arm, and raising her up, conducted her into the house, and up into her old chamber, where every thing remained as she had left it. The thoughts and feelings of other days came rushing upon his heart, but he sternly drove them back. It was too late. They could never again have place in his bosom. What she thought and felt is not known, and can hardly be imagined. In the old chamber Belmont left his fallen wife, with but a single word, and that a caution to remain where she was until he visited her in the morning.

“Belmont did not again retire that night. Until near day he was busily engaged in writing, and in evident preparation for a journey. About 5 o’clock the servants were aroused, and directed to prepare an early breakfast. The coachman was ordered to have the carriage at the door by 7 o’clock. Then Ella and Mary were awakened by their father, who desired them to dress immediately, and come to him in the library. When there, he informed them that it had become necessary for him to leave for England immediately, and that he wished them to accompany him. All necessary preparation could be made in New York, where he would remain two or three weeks. The girls were surprised, as may well be supposed, by this announcement; but their father was too much in earnest to leave them room to ask for a longer time to prepare for the journey than he had given them. Precisely at seven they entered the carriage and drove into Heathdale. On arriving there, Mr. Belmont said that he would have to return, and that while he was gone they must remain at the hotel. Mary wanted to go back with him for something that she had forgotten, but he said that he would rather have her remain where she was, in a tone that prevented her from saying any thing more.

“The object of Mr. Belmont in returning, was to have a parting interview with the mother of his children, for whom he could not but feel the deepest commiseration. But her own hands had placed the burden upon her heart, and it was not in his power to remove it. She had been false to her marriage vows, and false to those who had called her by the tender name of ‘mother.’ He could not again take her to his bosom, nor again bring her back among her children. He found her a sad wreck, indeed, and could scarcely keep back the tears when he met her again, with the searching light of day making visible all the marks of grief, crime, and suffering.

“‘Catherine,’ he said, in a voice that trembled, spite of all his efforts to be composed, ‘I meet you now for the last time. I shall return to England, never again, I hope, to visit this country. This is your home for life, if you wish to make it so. I have settled upon you an annuity; and these papers, which I leave here upon the table, will give you all necessary information in regard to the manner of drawing it. I will not upbraid you for what you have done, for I do not wish to add a single pang to the thousands you must suffer; I would rather mitigate than increase them.’

“‘My children,’ she said, in an eager voice, as he paused, ‘where are they—am I not to see them?’

“‘But two remain,’ Belmont replied, ‘and you cannot see them. You are dead to your children, and must remain so. Catherine is in heaven. She died, to all appearance, of a broken heart, a few days after you went away.’

“The whole frame of this wretched woman quivered.

“‘Dead!’ she ejaculated, in a deep, hoarse whisper; and then covering her face, wept for some moments violently.

“‘But Mary and Ellen,’ she at length said, looking up with streaming eyes. ‘May I not see them? They are my children, Edward, and, erring and sinful as I have been, I still love them. Do not, then, in mercy, deny me this, the only boon I will ever ask at your hands. Oh! Edward, let me see my children once before I die.’

“Belmont was deeply moved, but his purpose did not falter.

“‘You are dead to them, Catherine,’ he replied, with assumed coldness, ‘and must remain so.’

“Even on her knees the wretched woman prayed to see her children; but she prayed in vain. Hard as it was for Belmont to resist her agonized entreaties, he remained firm to his well-formed purpose.

“The moment of parting with her, and leaving her in loneliness and misery on the very spot where she had once been so happy, and with a thousand things around her to remind her of that happiness, was a most painful one. It was with difficulty that Belmont could restrain the desire he felt to take her in his arms, press her to his bosom, and forgive and forget all. But her sin had been too deep—she had fallen too low. He could not throw over the past the blessed mantle of forgiveness; and so he left her alone, to shiver by the cold ashes of a darkened hearth.”

“Has her husband never returned?” I asked.

“Never! Five years have passed since he left, but no one has seen him in this region. There came a rumor a few years ago, that he had met Edgerton, and made him account with his life for his crime. But I know not whether this be so.”

A year afterward I received a letter from my excellent friend, the doctor, in which he mentioned that death had given the unhappy Mrs. Belmont a kind release; “and, we may hope,” he remarked, “that through much suffering she was purified and forgiven.”

* * * * *

THE WAYSIDE DREAM.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

The deep and lordly Danube
Goes winding far below;—
I see the white-walled hamlets
Amid his vineyards glow,
And southward, through the ether, shine
The Styrian hills of snow.

O’er many a league of landscape
Sleeps the warm haze of noon;
The wooing winds come freighted
With fragrant tales of June,
And down amid the corn and flowers
I hear the water’s tune.

The meadow-lark is singing
As if it still were morn;
Sounds through the dark pine forest
The hunter’s dreamy horn;
And the shy cuckoo’s plaining note
Mocks the maidens in the corn.

I watch the cloud armada
Go sailing up the sky,
Lulled by the murmuring mountain-grass,
Upon whose bed I lie,
And the faint sound of noonday chimes
That in the distance die!

A warm and drowsy sweetness
Is stealing o’er my brain;
I see no more the Danube
Sweep through his royal plain—
I hear no more the peasant-girls
Singing amid the grain!

Soft, silvery wings, a moment
Seem resting on my brow:
Again I hear the water,
But its voice is deeper now,
And the mocking-bird and oriole
Are singing on the bough!

The elm and linden branches
Droop close and dark o’erhead,
And the foaming forest brooklet
Leaps down its rocky bed;
Be still, my heart! the seas are passed—
The paths of home I tread!

The showers of creamy blossoms
Are on the linden spray,
And down the clover meadow
They heap the scented hay,
And glad winds toss the forest leaves
All the bright summer day.

Old playmates! bid me welcome
Amid your brother band!
Give me the old affection—
The glowing grasp of hand!
I worship no more the realms of old—
_Here_ is my Fatherland!

Come hither, gentle maiden,
Who weep’st in tender joy!
The rapture of thy presence
Overcomes the world’s annoy,
And calms the wild and throbbing heart
Which warms the wandering boy.

In many a mountain fastness—
By many a river’s foam,
And through the gorgeous cities,
’Twas loneliness to roam,
For the sweetest music in my heart
Was the olden songs of home!

Ah! glen, and foaming brooklet,
And friends, have vanished now!
The balmy Styrian breezes
Are blowing on my brow,
And sounds again the cuckoo’s call
From the forest’s inmost bough.

Veiled is the heart’s glad vision—
The wings of Fancy fold;
I rise and journey onward.
Through valleys green and old,
Where the far, white Alps reveal the morn
And keep the sunset’s gold!

* * * * *

SONNET.

Sun of the new-born year! I hail thy light;
As bursting through the dark clouds that so long
Had veiled the glories of each morn and night,
Thou pourest over all thy radiance strong;
Bidding the chilling rains their fury cease,
And smiling on the drenched and languid earth,
That, all exulting in her glad release,
Puts on the beauty of a second birth,
And joys to greet thee. Type art thou, O Sun!
Amid the parting clouds thy bright path making,
Of that clear Star—the never setting One!
That through the pall of darksome ages breaking,
With healing beams, still moves, eternal on!
And lights the living soul when life’s dim day is gone!

* * * * *

SOPHY’S FLIRTATION.

A COUNTRY SKETCH.

BY MRS. M. N. M‘DONALD.

“Well, to _my_ mind, a nicer young man doesn’t live any where than Archie Harris. So pleasant spoken, so good tempered, so civil as he is. You ‘may go farther and fare worse,’ I can tell you, Sophy. It’s all very well for girls to be dainty and particular about looks, when they are young and handsome themselves, and think they may catch anybody, but it’s no joke for a girl to settle herself with a man who may be unkind to her by and bye. Archie Harris has that in him which will last in dark days as well as sunshine; something that wont wear out in old age, like your grandfather here, that I’ve lived with forty-five years come next Christmas, and found him just the same, winter and summer. So, as I said before, ‘you may go farther and fare worse,’ Sophy.” And having delivered her sentiments, old Mrs. Middleton took a pinch of snuff, drew her chair a little nearer the fire with an emphatic “hem,” and then resumed her knitting, while she glanced over her spectacles to observe what had been the effect of her speech upon her pretty granddaughter, who was seated on the opposite side of the little round table, engaged in sewing.

Sophy Middleton plied her needle with something of a petulant air, while her grandmother spoke, and answered with a slight tone of vexation—“Everybody can’t think alike, that is certain. Archie Harris is well enough in his way, but he isn’t the only man in the world, that is one comfort.”

“And why don’t you like him?” pursued the old lady, resolved not to give up the point. “Tell me of one in the whole place that is better, or kinder, or cleverer. _I_ never saw such a one at any rate, and once upon a time, Sophy, you thought Archie a little better than most folks yourself, and have only changed your mind since Philip Greyson came home, I’m thinking.”

“Philip Greyson, indeed!” exclaimed Sophy, with a toss of her head, while her cheeks crimsoned in spite of herself.

“Yes, Philip Greyson,” said the old lady. “I suppose you think, Sophy, because I wear spectacles, I am half blind, and can’t see as far as I used to do. But I have my eyes about me, and maybe spy a little farther for my glasses, and I fancy that Philip, with his spruce uniform and navy buttons, will make you forget poor Archie altogether.”

“I am sure,” said Sophy, whose thread at that moment had got into such a knot that her undivided attention was necessary to disentangle it. “I’m sure Philip Greyson is nothing to _me_.”

“I hope he never may be, indeed,” said Mrs. Middleton emphatically. “These young midshipmen are wild blades, my dear, and I should never know a minute’s peace if you were to marry one. But Archie Harris, ah! Sophy, he is the husband for you; such a good son and brother—so quiet, and steady, and—”

“Stupid,” said Sophy, supplying with a laugh the word for which her grandmother paused. “Why, last night at Mrs. Morgan’s he scarcely said ten syllables, and say what you will, grandmother,” she continued, roused by the recollection of her last evening’s visit, “everybody likes a merry, talkative beau, who has seen something of the world, better than a fellow who sits by with a long face, and can do nothing to amuse one.”

“And that fellow isn’t Philip Greyson, I guess,” said her grandfather, who, on the opposite side of the fire, was calmly knocking the ashes from his pipe. “Phil is one of those chaps that have no lack of words in any company, if I may judge from the way in which I have heard him chatter at his own father’s table.”

“Chatter! that he can, like a magpie, and with but little more sense, to my mind,” said the old lady. “If Archie Harris speaks but seldom, his words are always to some purpose, and he doesn’t think it amiss to be civil to old people either. Philip has enough and enow to prate about to young folks, but if an elderly person comes by, he is at no pains to entertain him. Times have changed since my day, when young men and women were taught to reverence their betters. Ah! well,” and Mrs. Middleton drew a long deep sigh, and shook her head significantly as she leaned over to mend the fire.

It was in the prettiest, neatest white house, in the main street of a pretty village, somewhere in the Empire State, that Sophy Middleton and her grand-parents resided. Samuel Middleton, who from his silvery hair, and general knowledge of past events, together with the melancholy fact that he is totally blind, has long been dignified with the title of “the oldest inhabitant,” which title, by the way, the old gentleman particularly glories in, being fond of relating anecdotes of the place, which happened when he was a boy, and adventures with persons long since dead, and though Brookville has not improved materially during the last twenty years—being off the rail-road—yet the old man imagines in his blindness that great changes have taken place, because the Episcopalians have built a church, and Squire Edgewood a new house and barn, and descants largely upon the good old times, when Brookville was just settled, and “no folly or fashion had got into it.”

A youth of industry—for it was not until advancing years that darkness fell upon him—had secured for Samuel Middleton a moderate competency, and at the old homestead, with the kind partner of his joys and sorrows, and the orphan child of an only son, he had learned to bear with patience and fortitude the sore trial which it had pleased God to send him; thankful for the past, contented with the present, and fearless of the future.

Sophy, so early orphaned as scarcely to remember any other care than that of her grand-parents, was the life and light of the old man’s home. Her cheerfulness beguiled very many of his wearisome hours, and her merry voice, and mirth-inspiring laughter, seemed to cheat him of half his sorrow. He knew her step upon the gravel walk when she came in from school, as readily as if his sightless eyes could have looked upon her face, and felt only too proud and happy when his friends said “that Sophy was growing up a comely girl, and would be a beauty one of these days.” As his beloved child grew older, this prophecy seemed likely to prove true. Sophy’s blue eyes were full of vivacity, and her oval cheeks and sweet lips were colored with Nature’s pure carnation. By degrees the scrawny figure of the school girl was moulded to the grace of early womanhood, and we introduce Sophy Middleton to our readers, at this particular moment, a blooming country maiden of nineteen summers, very much petted at home, sufficiently admired abroad, and therefore a little, very little bit _spoiled_.

But who is Archie Harris, that we find the old lady eulogizing so warmly? Why, Archie Harris and our Sophy went to the same school; sat on the same bench; learned out of the same book, and were friends from the time they were “no bigger than a midge’s wing.” Being next door neighbors, this friendship had strengthened with their years rather than diminished. Sophy had found a sister in Mary Harris, and, in the natural course of things, a lover in Archie; and although no positive engagement existed between them, it seemed such a matter of course that they should love each other, and so desirable a connection on both sides, that everybody—that wise person found in all villages—said it would certainly be a match at some future day.