Chapter VII: Part II (1)

We will now return to Mr. Alfred Oakly, and learn how the world in the interim has fared with him. Prosperity at the helm, his richly freighted vessels careered over the wide ocean, no devastating fires destroyed his dwellings, no whirlwinds up-rooted his forests, no blight or mildew stole over his fields to nip the golden harvest, and yet, with all this, there was many a beggar who gleaned the refuse from his kitchen, who knew more of happiness than did this cold, selfish man. In the first place his wife had never recovered from the shock to her affections in being forced to yield up her unfortunate child—not only her health but her temper suffered severely. Toward her husband in particular this change seemed pointed, and as much as she had loved him previously her coldness was now proportionate. Unhappily, too, for Louisa, the innocent cause of this rupture, it extended itself even to her, and thus childhood, that rainbow-tinted period of life was to her clouded and joyless. Her father, stern and morose, secluding her from playmates of her own age—her mother seldom greeting her with a word of affection or a smile of encouragement—her caresses met by both with coldness, and all the winning graces of childhood frowned down with disfavor. Her education, however, went on as though her frame were formed of iron. There was a stiff governess, whose cold gray eye was ever on her, to watch that she did not loll in sitting or stoop in walking—that her toes turned out and her elbows turned in—that she neither spoiled her mouth by laughing (little danger!) nor her eyes by crying. Then came the music-master with commands for six hours daily practice for those little fingers—and the dancing-master, saying “_Ma’amselle_, you must be very gay—you cannot never learn de dance ven you do look so vat you call fat-i-gued.” Then came the drawing-master, and the professor of languages; nor were these all to which her mind was tasked, for besides, were those branches which her governess professed to teach—her governess, Miss Pinchem, with whom in comparison Miss Blimber of Blimber Hall would have shrunk into insignificance!

Poor little Louisa!

She would sometimes wonder if the little children she read of in the Bible had to learn all such things to make them good—for Miss Pinchem was great on goodness—always beginning and ending her exhortations with, “Now, Miss Louisa, you must be _good_, and not raise your eyes from your book”—“You must play that tune with more scientific grace, Miss Louisa, or you will not be _good_”—“You must turn out your toes if you want to be _good_”—“You will never be _good_ if you don’t pronounce better”—in short there was a great deal of goodness on Miss Pinchem’s wiry tongue, let people say what they would, and though Louisa wondered _what_ made _Miss Pinchem_ good!

No sooner had Mr. Oakly accomplished his object in ridding his sight of the poor deformed, than he would fain have held himself excused from all obligation to the widow—but he dared not act out his wishes, fearful in such case that she would claim her own, and thus betray his disgraceful secret. When he received Mrs. Oakly’s letter informing him of her intended marriage, his apprehensions were anew awakened. Could it be possible she would keep the secret from her husband! Doubtless she would scorn the imputation that so unsightly a child as Agatha was her own offspring, and thus to preserve her maternal pride forfeit her word! O! a thorny pillow was that Mr. Oakly nightly pressed! How often in his dreams did the pale corse of his injured brother rise up before him, and ever in its fleshless arms it bore the shrunken form of Agatha! But as month after month rolled on, swelling finally to years, and hearing nothing further from the late Mrs. Oakly, he felt more at ease, so much so that he entirely forgot her request relative to the future advantage of his discarded child! an oversight very natural to such a man!

Louisa reached her seventeenth year, and as the bud gave promise so proved the flower, beautiful indeed and lovely. Mr. Oakly was really proud of this! He mentally contrasted her light elegant figure with the _probable_ appearance of Agatha, and congratulated himself that he had not to bear about the shame of acknowledging the latter! Still, he did not _love_ Louisa—strange that he almost hated her for possessing those very attributes of loveliness for which he had preferred her above his own offspring!

When Louisa emerged from the seclusion of the school-room to the brilliant circles of fashion, she was caressed, flattered, adored. Wealth and beauty tripping hand in hand seldom fail to win favor, and brought a throng of admirers to the feet of the heiress, who, however, did not seem easily moved; and many were the suitors to her favor who met with a kind but firm refusal. But, beware, Louisa, your affections will be held by your tyrant father just as much enslaved as your person; and now, wo to you, should they centre where he does not approve.

* * * * *

Moonlight, golden, twinkling stars, fragrant zephyrs, sweet from the lip of the lily, soft music from tinkling leaves, a murmur from the rippling river, and through the winding shrubbery, slowly along the path tesselated by the moonbeams, which glint through the leafy curtain, Louisa is straying—but not alone. A youth is by her side, one whose arm her own encircles, who clasps her willing hand in his; one whose whispers are of love, and to whom her own voice, gentle and low, speaks of hope and happiness in return.

Ah! foolish, foolish Louisa! what are you thinking of? Only a poor painter—and _you_ in love! True, he has talent, worth, grace, refinement, but—_no money_! And you, unfortunate youth, why did you love this beautiful maiden? Know you not that man of heartlessness and pride, her father, would gladly crush you to the earth for lifting your eyes heaven-ward to his daughter; that he would sooner buy her winding-sheet than that she should don her wedding-robe for _thee_! And yet, even now, closer and closer are you both riveting the chain, drawing heart to heart, which no hand but death can loose.

It was the second summer after Louisa’s initiation into the gay world that the Oakly family were once more assembled at Oak Villa, their annual resort during the warm months of July and August. With no taste for reading, a mind not attuned for meditation, and the querulousness of an _ungraceful_ old age gradually stealing upon him, Mr. Oakly found the time drag most wearily on amid those quiet groves. In his extremity an idea suddenly flashed across his brain, which he eagerly caught at, as it promised to relieve somewhat of that tedious vacuum between those hours when such a man and happiness may alone be said to look each other in the face: viz., the hour of meals—and this was to summon an artist to the villa, for the purpose of decorating the walls of the saloon with the portraits of its inmates. He had not thought of it before, but, quite luckily, it now occurred to him that he already had the address of a young artist in his pocket, for whom some friend of struggling genius had solicited patronage. Now he could kill two birds with one stone, as it were, secure the plaudits of the world by taking the artist by the hand in so flattering a manner, and at the same time pull away the drag from the wheels of time. He looked at the card—“Walter Evertson,”—and to Walter Evertson did he immediately address a letter, requesting his presence at the villa.

He came—a fine, handsome youth of three-and-twenty, with an eye like an eagle, and hair dark as a starless night—a dangerous companion, we must allow, for the gentle Louisa. He was met with condescending affability made most apparent by the master of the house, and by Mrs. Oakly, who seldom manifested much interest in any thing, with cool indifference. No wonder, then, that he turned with a thrill of pleasure tingling his heart-strings, to the gentle Louisa, whose manners, at once so courteous and refined, offered so agreeable a contrast.

There are some, perhaps, whose hearts have never yet felt the power of love, who rail about love at first sight as a theory too ridiculous to dwell upon—a chimera only originating in the heads of romantic school-girls and beardless shop-boys; very well, let them have it so; I only assert that both Louisa and the artist, at that first interview, were favorably impressed; and that a brief intercourse under the same roof cemented their young hearts with all the strength of a first and truthful affection. Love (himself a sly artist) traced each on the other a heart in fadeless tints. Sincere and unselfish was the love which Walter Evertson had conceived for Louisa; a love which he intended to bury within his own throbbing breast—for he dared not flatter himself that it would be returned—she, the heiress of thousands—he, the poor, unfriended artist. Vain resolve! It was the evening with which this chapter commences, that, in an unguarded moment, he had revealed to her his love, and received the blest assurance of her own in return. But their cup of joy was even then embittered by the consciousness that her father, in his cold, selfish nature, would tear their hearts asunder, even though he snapped their life-strings.

In the meantime the business which had brought him to the villa was being accomplished. Mr. and Mrs. Oakly saw themselves to the life on canvas, and now it only remained to consummate his work by portraying the features of Louisa. Delightful, yet difficult task! Mrs. Oakly had so far aroused herself from her usual lethargy, as to insist that the figure of Louisa herself should be but secondary in the picture about to be executed. She was tired, she said, of those stiff, prim figures on sombre-tinted ground, looking out from gilded frames with eye-balls ever coldly glaring upon one, and would have a large painting of rare design and skill—woods, fountains, birds, and flowers, to relieve the form and face of Louisa from this dull sameness. Various were the sketches brought forward for her approval; and whole days, which Evertson wished might never end, were spent in vain endeavors to settle upon some one of them for the purpose. Accident, however, at length furnished the desired _tableau_ although it would be doing injustice to Evertson to imply that he lacked talent or originality—fine as were his sketches, they failed to please Mrs. Oakly, because—she would not be pleased.

One morning Louisa strolled out alone, and unconsciously pursued her ramble until she reached a beautiful meadow fringed with fine old trees, whose branches bent down to meet their dark, leafy shadows in the bright waters of the Susquehanna. Birds were singing merrily, butterflies sported their golden wings, and the grasshopper chirped, blithely leaping through the tall grass. Here and there, where the rays of the sun had not yet penetrated, were the gossamers of elfin broidery—mantles dropped by fairies on their merry rounds in the checkered moonlight beneath those old trees; there was a drop of bright nectar, too, left in the cup of the wild-flower, and the large, red clover-tops were sparkling with dew-gems. I cannot assert that Louisa saw all the beauties of this fine morning; for, absorbed in pleasing thoughts, upon which we will not intrude, satisfied as we ought to be that the artist occupied a full share, she seated herself beneath one of those shadowing trees, and resting her chin within the palm of her little hand, most likely, I am sorry to say, heard neither the warble of the birds, the cheerful chirping insect, or saw the bright glancing river, with the little boat which was just then dancing over its silver ripples.

The sound of voices approaching in the opposite direction suddenly broke in upon her trance, and she then, for the first time, reflected that she had passed the boundaries of her father’s land. The estate adjoining had lately been purchased by a wealthy Englishman, it was said. For many weeks repairs had been going on in the old mansion, which for several years had been tenantless; and the family were daily expected to arrive. That they had now done so was Louisa’s conclusion. The voices drew nearer; but, trusting to the thick foliage for concealment, she remained perfectly still; when apparently within but a few paces of her the party stopped.

“What a lovely view!” exclaimed a soft female voice. “I wish ma’ma had not turned back, she would have been so delighted.”

“It is truly fine,” was the reply, in a masculine tone; “it is even more beautiful than the view from the lawn we so much admired last evening; what if you were to sketch it.”

“If I had only brought my crayons, I would do so now. How lovely it is!” answered the lady.

“If you have strength for it after your long walk,” was the reply, “I will return for your portfolio; here is a nice shady seat for you—I will soon be back, but do not ramble away from this spot.”

Louisa heard the retreating footsteps, and was about to make good her own, when a beautiful Scotch air, very sweetly warbled, arrested her attention. The song ceased abruptly, giving place to a scream so loud and shrill, as blanched the cheek of Louisa with the hue of death. She sprang to her feet, and panting with terror, emerged from her shelter into the open meadow just as the scream was again repeated. She now almost breathlessly looked around to detect the cause of alarm. In a moment she saw it all. A noble stag, having probably leaped the park-pailings, came bounding swiftly across the meadow directly toward the spot where Louisa was now standing, no doubt with the intention of slaking his thirst at the tempting stream. The terrors of Louisa were at once allayed; and she now hastened to the spot whence the screams issued, to soothe, if possible, the fears of the unknown.

Trembling with fright, and clinging to a tree for support, was a female, dwarf-like in stature, and deformed in shape. Her countenance was deadly pale, and her eye-balls, almost fixed with terror, were strained upon the animal, as he came leaping onward. Ere Louisa could speak he had approached within a few paces, and, as if now first aware of their presence, he suddenly halted, arched his beautiful, glossy neck, and bending his antlered head, stood at bay. Seeing how utterly helpless was the poor unknown, Louisa sprung forward, and telling her not to be alarmed, quickly placed herself before her; but the noble stag, as if disdaining to war with women, after gazing upon them a few seconds with his wild eyes, suddenly turned, and tossing his head proudly, trotted off in another direction.

At that moment how rejoiced was Louisa to see her lover rapidly approaching—for the stranger had already fainted.

“Water! water!” she cried, “quick, or she will die!”

Without speaking, Evertson rushed to the river, and filling his hat with its cooling waters, was in a second at her side.

“Poor girl! she will die with terror, I fear. What fine features, and what beautiful hair!” said Louisa, as she swept back the long tresses from her neck and brow, purer than alabaster.

In a few moments the object of their solicitude opened her eyes. She could not speak, but pressing the hand of Louisa to her lips, pointed toward a mansion just discernible through a dense shrubbery at some distance.

“Shall I bear you home?” inquired Evertson.

The stranger looked her thanks; and lifting her in his arms as tenderly as if she were a babe, he proceeded with his almost lifeless burthen in the direction pointed out.

Thus met, for the first time, the discarded Agatha and the innocent usurper of her rights.

The fancy of Walter Evertson seized at once upon a scene so interesting as the one he had just witnessed. No sooner did he part with Louisa at the door of the saloon, than, hastening to his studio, he began sketching the outlines of his truthful conceptions. Rapidly did he hasten on his own misery—blissfully unconscious the while of the sad termination of his labors. Never had he wrought so well and so rapidly—not a stroke but told. There was the beautiful meadow, with its brave old trees, and the river gleaming through their branches; the fine stag, his antlered front bent toward the two females; the graceful form of Louisa standing beneath the old oak, shielding the terrified stranger, one arm thrown around her, the other slightly raised as if motioning the animal away. Love surely guided his hand; for, without a sitting, the artist had transferred from his heart to the canvas the gentle features of Louisa with an accuracy undisputable. Strikingly, too, had he delineated the form and face of the deformed—her long, waving tresses—her pale countenance—her large eyes fixed in terror upon the stag, and her small, mis-shapen figure. Something, too, had he caught, even in that short interview, of the features of Agatha. He could not, however, proceed in his task until it had received the approbation of the master and mistress of the mansion. He had purposely requested Louisa to be silent respecting the morning’s adventure, that he might, by surprise, obtain the mastery over the whims of Mrs. Oakly, so hard to be gratified. They were now respectfully invited to the picture-room, together with Louisa, to pass judgment upon his (to him) beautiful sketch.

To depict the scene which followed the withdrawal of the curtain he had placed before it would be impossible. Mrs. Oakly gave one look, and with a dreadful shriek, exclaiming, “_My child!_” fell senseless to the floor. Mr. Oakly, foaming with rage, his face livid and distorted, rushed upon the astonished artist, and in a voice choked with passion, cried,

“Out of my house, villain! Ha! do you beard me thus! Who are you, that have thus stolen my secret, and dare to show me that picture—dare to place that hateful image before me? Out of my house, I say, ere I am tempted to commit a worse crime!”

Astonished, bewildered, confounded, Evertson for a moment could not speak, nor would the enraged man hear him when he did. In vain Louisa, while striving to restore animation to her mother, interceded, explained, expostulated—alas! her tears and agitation only betraying to her father a new source of anger. Seizing her by the arm, and bidding her seek her chamber, he thrust her from the room, and then turning once more to the artist, as he raised the still inanimate form of his wife,

“I give you half an hour to make your arrangements for leaving my roof—beware how you exceed that time; when you are ready, you will find the sum due you in this cursed room—begone, sir!”

Without any attempt to see poor Louisa again, and trusting he might be able to communicate with her in a few days, Walter Evertson left the villa.

When Mr. Oakly next entered the painting-room the money of the artist was still there—but the fatal picture had disappeared.

* * * * *

A few years after his marriage, Mr. Sullivan took his family to Europe, where they remained until within a few months previous to the singular meeting of Louisa and Agatha.

In a beautiful cottage on the borders of Loch Katrine, their lives had been one uninterrupted scene of happiness—always excepting the yearning of a mother’s heart for her lost child. The education of Ruth and Agatha had formed their chief care, and was such as a kind-hearted, intelligent man like Mr. Sullivan was proud to give them, sparing neither money nor precept, and aided, too, by the superior judgment and example of their excellent mother. Ruth had grown up lovely and amiable, and at the time the family returned to America, was affianced to a fine young Scotchman. Poor Agatha had become even more unsightly in figure, yet retained all the simplicity and amiableness of her childhood. Whatever may have been her own private feelings upon her unfortunate deformity, it was rare, indeed, that she ever made allusion to it. When she did, it was with meekness and resignation to her Maker’s will; for early in life had Agatha given herself to Him whose love is more precious than all earthly advantages. She seldom mixed with society, yet when she did, even strangers, after a slight acquaintance, thought no more of her unshapeliness. The sweet expression of her countenance interested, her intelligence charmed them.

When Mrs. Sullivan took possession of her new residence on the Susquehanna, little did she dream how short the distance which separated her from her youngest born; and when Agatha related the fright she had received during her morning ramble, and spoke with such enthusiasm of the beautiful girl who had so nobly come to her assistance, how little did she think _whose_ arms had encircled the trembling Agatha, _whose_ voice it was had tried to soothe her fears.

Mr. Sullivan avowed his determination of calling immediately upon their neighbors to express his thanks to the fair maid, and the gallant young gentleman who had so opportunely come to the assistance of dear Agatha, his pet and favorite. He did so the next day, but he was too late—the house was deserted.

Agatha evinced much regret at the circumstance.

“How sorry I am!” said she; “O, I do hope we may hereafter meet again; the countenance of that charming girl haunts me like a dream—so lovely, and somehow so familiar to me—a stranger, sad yet not a stranger. Sometimes, ma’ma, when you look at me as you do now, I almost fancy her eyes are on me; and then again, only for being a blonde, it appears to me she greatly resembled dear Ruth.”

Mrs. Sullivan changed color, and evidently much agitated, she inquired of her husband if he knew the name of their late neighbor.

“I do not,” was his reply, “and our servants are as ignorant as ourselves. Ah! here comes an honest lad with berries to sell—and a fine tempting load, too. I will ask him while I purchase the fruit.”

As the boy measured out the berries, Mr. Sullivan said,

“Well, my son, can you tell me who lives in the fine old stone house just at the bend of the river?”

“Oakly, sir—_Squire_ Oakly we call him here.”

“Quick, quick, father, ma’ma is fainting!” screamed Ruth, springing to her side.

For a moment all was alarm and confusion; but at length Mrs. Sullivan slowly opening her eyes desired to be led to her chamber.

“I will lie down a few moments—I shall soon be better; it is nothing—nothing,” she answered to their affectionate solicitude.

When alone, then did she give way to her joy. What happiness! her dear Louisa—her long lost was found. She was good, too, and lovely; her kindness to a stranger proved the former, and the assertions of the grateful Agatha the latter. She might now hope by some fortunate chance to see her—they might now meet. O, how could she keep down her throbbing heart; how would she be able to refrain from clasping her to her bosom, and avowing herself her mother. When she thought she had recovered sufficient composure, she again joined the family; but it was almost as soon dissipated by the conversation which followed her entrance into the sitting-room.

“My dear,” said Mr. Sullivan, “do you know these foolish girls are for making out a relationship between themselves and our runaway neighbors—claiming a cousinship, even if several degrees removed, to the fair heroine of Agatha’s story—can it be so, think you?”

“This Mr. Oakly may possibly have been some connection of their father’s,” faltered Mrs. Sullivan.

“Had papa no brothers?” said Agatha.

“Yes, one; but some unhappy family disagreement, however, prevented any intercourse. They were as strangers to each other.”

“What if this Mr. Oakly should prove our uncle. Had he any family, ma’ma?” asked Ruth.

“I believe—one—one daughter,” was the almost inaudible reply.

“Do not say any more,” whispered Agatha to her sister, “don’t you see how it distresses ma’ma?”

Mr. Sullivan had observed the same thing, and the subject was dropped.

In a few days the papers announced among the list of passengers sailed for Havre, the name of Mr. Alfred Oakly, lady and daughter.

* * * * *

Another flight of years, and behold what changes in the fortunes of Mr. Oakly. Adversity had at last seized its victim, gorging to the full its revenge for those years when its existence had been but as a phantom to the wealthy merchant; he now felt its iron clutches to be something more tangible than shadows. The sea had swallowed his vessels; flames had greedily swept over his warehouses; blight had devastated his fields; failures of firms he considered as good as the bank—nay, even the bank itself failed; and in the short space of one year, Mr. Oakly found himself stripped of all save a mere pittance, which, with the most scrupulous economy, could hardly support his family. The teachings of adversity upon the cold, selfish heart, are sometimes blessed with happy fruits. And thus it proved with Mr. Oakly.

True, the change was not instantaneous; he lost not his property to-day, to become a Christian, a philosopher to-morrow. But as a drop of water will in time wear away the hardest rock, so, little by little, were the flinty feelings of his heart softened and purified. The wicked and selfish deeds of his past life arose up before him, each with its own accusing tongue. That fortune, for which he had risked his soul, had crumbled away, but these stood out plain and distinct, only to be effaced through the mercies of One whose most sacred obligations he had violated.

Mrs. Oakly met this reverse of fortune humbly and uncomplainingly. Happily, she was ignorant of the sin of her husband, in having, like a second Cain, destroyed his brother. Yet she felt that for another crime—_the disowning of his own offspring_—the punishment was just. Her own conscience, too, reproached her for the unjust feelings in which she had indulged toward the innocent Louisa; and now, almost for the first time in her life, she treated her as a daughter.

Kind, gentle, affectionate Louisa! only that she saw her parents deprived of many comforts which would have soothed their declining years, she would have rejoiced in a change of fortune which had brought with it their love. In her heart there was a secret sorrow which she might breathe to none—it was her love for Walter Evertson. Never, since that fatal day, had she seen or heard again from him; but that he was faithful, and would be faithful unto death, her trusting heart assured her. When ease and affluence surrounded her, this sudden separation from her lover, and under such afflicting and inexplicable circumstances, had seemed to paralyze her energies. Books, music, travel, all failed to excite more than mere mechanical attention; but now, in the sorrows of her parents, she lost the selfishness of her own, and strove in every way to comfort them.

What now had become of the once proud merchant? His name was no longer heard on ’change, unless coupled with a creditor’s anathema; and summer friends, like the sun on a rainy day, were behind the cloud.

* * * * *

It was a cold, cheerless day in December; one of those days when one hugs close to the fire-side, and when even a glance at the dull, sombrous out-of-door atmosphere makes, or ought to make, one thankful for the blessings of a pleasant fire, to say nothing of the society of a friend, or the solace of a book. With all these comforts combined, the family of Mr. Sullivan had assembled in the breakfast parlor. There was the grate, heaped to the topmost bar of the polished steel, with glowing anthracite; the soft carpet of warm and gorgeous hues; luxuriant plants of foreign climes, half hiding the cages of various little songsters, whose merry notes breathed of spring-time and shady groves; and the face of grim winter shut out by rich, silken folds of crimson drapery.

The pleasant morning meal was already passed, and the breakfast things removed, with the exception of the beautiful coffee-set of Sevre’s china, which Mrs. Sullivan was so old-fashioned as to take charge of herself; in preference to trusting it with servants. Seated at the head of the table, a snowy napkin in her hand, she was now engaged in this domestic office. Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Danvers (the husband of Ruth) had just gone into the study, to talk over some business affairs. Ruth had taken the morning paper, and upon a low ottoman by the side of her mother, was reading the news of the day—now to herself, or, as she found a paragraph of peculiar interest, aloud for the general entertainment. Agatha was reclining upon the sofa, and nestling by her side was a beautiful boy of two years old, playing bo-peep through the long, sunny curls of “Aunt Gatty,” his merry little shouts, and infantile prattle, quite overpowering ma’ma’s news.

“Why what can this mean?” suddenly exclaimed Ruth; “do hear this, ma’ma. ‘If the former widow of Mr. John Oakly (the name of her present husband unknown) be still living, or the children of said John Oakly, they are requested to call at No. 18 —— street, and inquire for A. O., or to forward a note to the same address, stating where they may be found.’ What can it mean, ma’ma?”

Without answering, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair; she trembled in every limb, and her countenance was deadly pale.

“Ruth, dearest,” said she, “ring the bell, and order the carriage immediately to the door.”

“Ma’ma, you surely will not go out alone,” said Ruth.

“Yes, alone! do not disturb your father,” answered Mrs. Sullivan; “alone must I meet this trial. My dear girls,” she continued, “ask me no questions. God knows what I am about to learn, whether tidings of joy or sorrow; but I trust all may be explained when I return.”

In a few moments the carriage was at the door, and tenderly embracing Ruth and Agatha, she departed upon her anxious errand.

After passing through so many streets that it seemed they must have nearly cleared the city, the carriage turned into a narrow street, or rather lane, and stopped at No. 18, a small two story wooden building. Mrs. Sullivan alighted and rang the bell. The door was opened by a little servant-girl, to whom she handed a card, on which she had written with a trembling hand, “A person wishes to speak with A. O.”

In a few moments the girl returned and ushered her up stairs into a small parlor. Her fortitude now nearly forsook her, and it was with difficulty she could support herself to a chair. As soon as she could command herself she looked around to see if she could detect aught which might speak to her of her child. Upon the table on which she leaned were books. She took up one, and turned to the title-page; in a pretty Italian hand was traced “Louisa Oakly.” Several beautiful drawings also attracted her eye—they, too, bore the name of “Louisa Oakly.” But before she had time to indulge in the blissful hopes this caused her, the door opened, and Mr. Oakly, with an agitation nearly equal to her own, entered the room.

Many years had flown since they met, and time on both had laid his withering hand; but while Mrs. Sullivan presented all the beautiful traits of a peaceful, happy decline into the vale of years, the countenance of Mr. Oakly was furrowed and haggard with remorse, and all those evil passions which had formerly ruled his reason. Quickly advancing, he extended his hand, and attempted to speak, but emotion checked all utterance, while the big tears slowly rolled down his cheek.

“O, speak—speak! tell me—Louisa!” cried Mrs. Sullivan, alarmed at his agitation.

“Compose yourself,” replied Mr. Oakly, “Louisa is well. I have sought this interview, that I may make all the reparation now left me for my injustice and cruelty. You see before you, madam, a miserable man, haunted by remorse, and vain regrets for past misdeeds. From my once proud and lofty standing,” he continued, glancing around the apartment, “I am reduced to this. Yet think not I repine for the loss of riches. No! were millions now at my command, I would barter all for a clear, unaccusing conscience. Wealth, based on fraud, on uncharitableness, must sooner or later come to ruin. I once despised poverty, and cherished a haughty spirit toward those I arrogantly deemed my inferiors. Have I not my reward!”

“But my child—tell me of my child!” interrupted Mrs. Sullivan, scarce heeding his remarks, “where is she? May I not see her!”

“Bear with me a little while longer,” said Mr. Oakly, “in half an hour she shall be yours forever!”

“My God, I thank thee!” exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, bursting into tears of joy.

“Yes, I yield her to your arms,” continued Mr. Oakly, “the loveliest daughter that ever blessed a mother, and relieve you forever from the charge of an unfortunate, to whom my conduct has been both brutal and unnatural. Listen to me, madam, for a few moments.”

He then as briefly as possible made confession of the base part he had acted toward his brother, and the means employed to ruin him with his father; the selfish motives which led to the exchange of the children; related the incident of the picture, and consequent removal from Oak Villa—for well did he divine _who_ the deformed was. He then spoke of Louisa; of her uniform loveliness of character, and the gentleness with which she had borne, as he acknowledged, his oft repeated unkindness.

“She knows all,” said he in conclusion, “and waits even now to receive a mother’s embrace. I will send her to you, and may her tears and caresses plead my forgiveness!” So saying, Mr. Oakly quickly withdrew.

A moment—an age to Mrs. Sullivan—the door gently unclosed and mother and child were folded in each other’s arms!

There are feelings which no language can convey—and which to attempt to paint would seem almost a sacrilege!

In a short time Mr. Oakly re-entered, accompanied by his wife. The meeting between the mothers was painful—for each felt there was still another trial for them! Mrs. Oakly now really loved Louisa, and that Mrs. Sullivan was most fondly attached to poor Agatha the reader already knows.

“O she has been a solace and a comfort to me!” said she to Mrs. Oakly. “A more noble-minded—a more unselfish, pure being never lived than our dear Agatha! believe me, to part from her will cause a pang nearly as great as when I first gave my darling Louisa to your arms!”

Another hour was spent in free communion, and then tenderly embracing her new found daughter, the happy mother returned home—the events of the morning seeming almost too blissful to be real!

It was sometime ere she could command herself sufficiently to the task before her. At length summoning all her resolution she made known to her astonished husband and Ruth the strange secret she had so long buried in her breast.

Mr. Sullivan undertook to break the intelligence to Agatha.

Poor Agatha was very much overcome, and for several hours her distress was such as made them almost tremble for her reason. Although the circumstances were related in the most guarded and delicate manner, nor even a hint given as to the motives of an act so unnatural as her father had been guilty of toward her—her sensitive mind too well divined the cause.

“Yet how can I blame them,” said she, glancing in a mirror as she spoke, “who could love such a being! Ah forgive me,” she cried, throwing her arms around the neck of Mrs. Sullivan, who now joined them—“forgive me—_you_—_you_ received me—my best, my dearest, my only mother—_you_ took the little outcast to your arms—_you_ could love even the mis-shapen child whom others loathed!”

Mrs. Sullivan strove by the most gentle caresses to sooth her agitation, and at length succeeded so far that Agatha listened calmly to all she had to say, and expressed her desire to be guided by her in every thing relating to this (to her) painful disclosure.

Almost in a fainting state was Agatha given to her mother’s arms, and at sight of her father she shuddered and buried her face in her hands.

O the pang that went to the soul of her wretched father as he witnessed this!

“Agatha, my _child_, will you not then look upon me! will you not say you forgive me?”

She extended her hand wet with tears:

“Father, I have nothing to pardon. I am not now less hideous in form than when to look upon me caused you shame and sorrow. In giving me to my dearest aunt you gave me every blessing, every happiness, this world has for me—but do not, O do not now tear me from!”

“O God! I am rightly punished!” exclaimed Mr. Oakly—“my own child in turn disowns me!”

“Agatha,” said Mrs. Oakly, “will you not love _me_—love your mother, Agatha?”

Agatha hesitated, and her beautiful eyes streamed with tears—

“_Mother!_ I can give that name to but _one_!—_here—here_ is my _mother_!” turning and throwing her arms around the neck of Mrs. Sullivan.

Not so was it with Louisa. Like a dove long panting for its rest, she had at last reached that haven of love—a mother’s heart!

Indeed so much distress did the thought of being separated from her more than mother cause poor Agatha, that, fearful for her health, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan prevailed upon her parents to take up their residence with them for a few months, to which request they finally acceded.

Soon after her first interview with Mr. Oakly, Mrs. Sullivan presented him with a deed of the cottage, which so many years before he had given her, little dreaming that any reverse of fortune would ever make _him_ grateful for so humble a shelter!

“The rent,” said she, “has been regularly paid into the hands of a faithful person, who also holds in trust the remittances which you from time to time forwarded me. I placed them there for the benefit of Agatha, should she survive me. It came from you originally—it is again your own—then hesitate not to receive it from my hands.”

“Excellent, noble woman!” exclaimed Mr. Oakly, overwhelmed with emotion, “how little have I merited this kindness!”

Indeed, together with principal and interest, what at first was but a trifling sum, had in the course of eighteen or twenty years amounted to quite a little fortune. It was now settled that as soon as the Spring opened Mr. and Mrs. Oakly were to take possession of the little cottage, and rather than be separated from their dear Agatha, the Sullivans were soon to follow and take lodgings for the summer months.

* * * * *

“But, my dear madam,” says the reader, “you have entirely forgotten to tell us what became of the unfortunate artist, the lover of Louisa, whom you appear to think happy enough in her present situation _without_ a lover.”

“O no, dear reader—but this is not a love-story, you know—if it were I would tell you the particulars of a most interesting love scene between Walter Evertson and his adored Louisa. Suffice it to say, they were married, and that the picture which caused their unhappy separation occupies a conspicuous place in their beautiful villa, a few miles from the city of P——.”

* * * * *

ON A SLEEPING CHILD

Step softly! step lightly! I would not disturb her!
She’s wrapt all unconscious in innocence’s charms;
Her slumbers are peaceful, her dreams are as gentle
As when she reposed in her fond mother’s arms.

And thus may it last—may no cause for repining
E’er darken the unsullied days of her youth—
May she as age deepens, when backward reviewing,
Find mem’ry well stored with Virtue and Truth.
S. E. T.

* * * * *

THE RASH OATH.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY MRS. JANE TAYLOE WORTHINGTON.

During my childhood my mother carried me every year, toward the close of autumn, to spend a month with one of my aunts. It has been a long while since then, but, nevertheless, the memory of my sojourn with her appears as vivid as the events of yesterday, and I fancy myself once more in her handsome château, which was situated on the right branch of the river Meuse, at the place where the stream, still far from its mouth, has not attained its greatest width, and where it is bordered with rugged rocks and precipitous steeps, which remind one of many portions of Switzerland, and of the delicious banks of the Rhine.

To linger near a beloved sister was a great pleasure to my mother; she had arrived, too, at that age when the glories of nature produce the deepest impression, and enjoyed with enthusiasm the exquisite landscape unrolled before our eyes. As to myself, I dwelt but little on the picturesque charms of the country. I was too young for the inhabitants of the château to interest themselves much concerning my amusements, and left to follow my own will, I discovered sources of happiness which I tested with all the eager vivacity of a child. First I found an orchard filled with young fruit, which, though still indifferent, I gladly availed myself of; then in the mountain I claimed a grotto, whose entrance I closed with boughs of trees, and pompously styled it my house; and lastly, I delighted in a gallery that was narrow and dimly lighted, and hung on both sides with old family portraits.

I saw there, warlike men, clothed in complete armor, the hand clenched, the head held high and proudly; others, habited in black, wearing immense ruffs, and having their hair braided, and their beards cut in a point; and others were handsome gentlemen, with coats of embroidered velvet, and _coiffés_, with enormous wigs, which covered even their shoulders.

The ladies there were yet more numerous. Some of them wore their hair in small curls, and long robes bordered with fur; others had hoops, and powdered heads, laden with plumes, pearls, and flowers, carrying in their hands an immense rose, or a very small bird. Several were in fancy costumes; there were Dianas, the quiver on their shoulders, the crescent on their brows; Floras, in white satin, sprinkled with blossoms; and shepherdesses, with a crook, and tiny hat.

I passed in this gallery every moment I could steal from my lessons and my mother. I glided there unperceived, and remained until I imagined all those figures, their eyes fixed on mine, seemed to move from their frames; sometimes I thought their features grew more stern, their smiles more scornful—and I would depart hastily, in fear and trembling, with the firm resolution to return no more. But what is it at last—the firm resolution of a little girl. By the next day I had forgotten the terrors of the preceding one, and found myself again in the gallery, feverish with emotion, and drawn by some powerful attraction I could not resist, to gaze on those old pictures I had so often contemplated.

Among these paintings, the one that I loved the best, that I always sought for, and that never frightened me, was the portrait of a youthful woman, dressed in a black robe. The sleeves were looped with agrafes, inlaid with pearls, leaving uncovered the loveliest arm in the world, and long, fair hair, entirely unadorned, flowed in large waves on her shoulders. With her large, blue eyes, her peculiarly regular features, and singularly gentle expression, her beauty would have been faultless, but for the frightful paleness which spread itself over her countenance. She was as white as the column of marble against which her brow was pictured as leaning; and I have frequently thought since, that there was, perhaps, something of coquetry in this posture. The melancholy face of the young lady, contrasted with the smiling visages of the dames who surrounded her, and this strange sadness, combined with the languid grace of her position, exercised over my mind a sort of inexplicable fascination. In my childish admiration, I asked myself if a being so beautiful had ever really existed. The impression produced by her haunted me every where; and I remembered it even in my dreams. One day, which had been appointed for a visit in the neighborhood, I contrived to escape, for the purpose of seeing again my cherished favorites, before leaving them for several hours. I had intended remaining with them but a moment; and I flattered myself my absence would be unperceived by the family. But gradually I forgot the anticipated trip, the pleasure awaiting me, my aunt, my mother, in fact, every thing, and lingered, as if chained to my stand, with eyes fixed rapturously on the Pale Lady, (it was thus I designated her,) and blending her image with the wildest adventures my youthful imagination could conceive.

Already I had been called twenty times, and the domestics were sent to search for me; but my abstraction was so profound, that I was insensible to all, and still lingered motionless before the portrait, when my aunt opened the door, and surprised me in the gallery. My lengthened absence had begun to occasion alarm, and the frightened manner of my aunt recalled suddenly my wandering thoughts. Perhaps conscious of my fault, or it may be, ashamed of being thus entrapped, I threw myself into my aunt’s arms, and a few tears moistened my cheeks. The reprimand died upon her lips, but yielding to the astonishment inspired by my intense admiration for these old pictures, she said,

“My child, you are beholding a woman who has been very beautiful, and very unhappy.”

“Very unhappy!” I had then imagined rightly. “Dear aunt, will you relate to me her history!”

“Not this morning, they are waiting for us; and beside, you are yet too young.”

“Too young to hear her history? Ah! how unfortunate that is! But never mind, by our next visit I shall be twelve years of age, then I will be tall—promise I may hear it then.”

She granted the wished for promise, and a few days afterward we quitted the château.

The following year we repaired, as usual, to my aunt’s, and had scarcely exchanged the greeting caresses, before, longing to satisfy my impatient curiosity, I seized my aunt’s hand with an air of gravity whose cause she did not comprehend. I conducted her to the gallery, and pausing before my favorite picture, “Good aunt,” I said, “now is the time to fulfill your promise!” She regarded me, surprised and smiling, and deferred only until that evening the recital of the history so much desired.

Orders were issued to prepare the gallery for our reception, and in the presence of the portrait of Wilhelmine de Cernan, I learned the strange misfortunes of her life. They appeared to me so interesting that I have since endeavored to find further details to fill the deficiency of my memory; and it is her history which, in my turn, I am about to relate to you.

Wilhelmine de Cernan, reared by her mother in the country, had grown to girlhood in the seclusion of her own family, and the intimacy of a few cherished friends. Her simple tastes prompted her to love retirement, and her disposition, naturally a melancholy one, shrunk timidly from much which usually makes the happiness of women. The pleasures of society, those gay balls and animated assemblies youth is prone to love so intensely, had for her no attractions. Her mother, by whom she was idolized, never imagined that this tendency of character could injure her daughter; she therefore never sought to subdue it, and only throve to inculcate those doctrines of piety which had formed the basis of her own education.

Religion appeared to the spirit of Wilhelmine robed with all its noblest and sublimest coloring; and its mystical beauty tinged for her the most trivial details of life. She seemed almost like an angel, who claimed communion every day, every moment, with heaven. God and her mother! in these two thoughts lay all her existence.

When she had attained the age of eighteen, the Baron de Breuil was presented to her as a desirable connection, and scarcely pausing to interrogate her heart as to the nature of her sentiments, she tranquilly accepted his hand, confident that she could repose on her mother the care of her happiness. Wilhelmine could not, in truth, have made a selection more worthy of her, for M. de Breuil was in all respects a good and estimable man. His château was but a league distant from the residence of Madame de Cernan; the mother and daughter met daily, and nothing was changed for Wilhelmine. The baron believed himself the most fortunate of men, and was unceasingly occupied in cultivating the powers of his young wife. He lavished all his care to adorn her intellect, to direct her talents, and to elevate her mind to the appreciation of whatever is truly grand and beautiful. One portion of their time was dedicated to reading, another to drawing, a third to music and exercise; and they never concluded a day without a visit to some poor dwelling, where their presence carried consolation and benefit. In the midst of these peaceful employments and pure pleasures, the life of Wilhelmine glided tranquilly on. The spectacle of crime had never saddened her eyes; and misery had appeared to her only to be relieved. It seemed as if an existence so uniform, so gentle, should have lasted long; but He whose will is not as our will, had ordained otherwise. At the end of two years of happiness, the Baron de Breuil was attacked by violent illness, and the physicians soon declared his life was in imminent danger. Wilhelmine, bathed in tears, never quitted the bedside of her husband, but, unable to conceal the agony of her grief, she lavished upon him all the attentions of the truest tenderness. Himself resigned to death, but profoundly grieved by the deep affliction of his wife, he endeavored to console her by the most comforting expressions; but Wilhelmine, overcome by anguish, would listen to nothing he could say. She sunk at length into a state of torpor, from which she could scarcely be aroused, even by her desire to attend on the invalid.

“God is merciful!” at last said M. de Breuil to her, “he will sustain you in your misfortune, he will enable you once more to find charms in existence. You are young; the future proffers you bright days; the prospect of life before you is calm and smiling. Alas! I fondly hoped we might have trodden its pathway together; but Heaven has ordained otherwise. Perhaps another—”

“Never!” exclaimed Wilhelmine, “never! _I_ love another after loving you! _I_ unite my lot with another’s! _I_ forget you! Ah! rather would I die a thousand times!”

“Wilhelmine! Wilhelmine! grief at this time distracts you, but remember, nothing here is eternal, not even an affection as pure is ours. Believe a man who has had much experience; your heart will feel the ‘strong necessity of loving.’ Happy will he be who fulfills that want! May he be worthy of that enjoyment!”

Wilhelmine covered her husband’s hands with kisses; she seemed almost indignant at being thus misunderstood, thus illy judged; she repulsed these mournful predictions; but the dying one drew her gently toward him, “My love, life departs, the last moment approaches. Here, take back this ring, I release thee from all thy promises!”

“Ah! have pity on me! retain this ring, and if ever your fatal prophecies should be realised; if ever I bestow on another the affection you should bear with you, unbroken in the tomb, it is from yourself I will demand the right; it is in your grave I will seek this ring; it is from your finger I will dare to take it! _Most solemnly I swear it!_”

“Wilhelmine! no impious words—no rash oaths!” The baron pronounced these words with difficulty—and they were his last. He revived only to fall into renewed paroxysms, and after a few hours, expired in the arms of his despairing wife.

Wilhelmine sincerely mourned for the man who had acquired so many claims on her gratitude. During a long period the young widow remained shut up in her château, surrounding herself with all objects calculated to recall her past felicity, and seeming to revel in her sorrow, by refusing every means by which it might have been alleviated.