The deserted family, or, Wanderings of an outcast
page: 0Illustration[View Page 0Illustration] page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ] THE DESERTED FAMILY; OR, WANDERINGS OF AN OUTCAST. BY PAUL CREYTON. "GENTLY SCAN YOUR BROTHER MAN." BOSTON: L. P. CROWN AND COMPANY, "CORNHLL. PHLADELPHA: J. W. BRADLEY, 48 NORTH FOURTH STREET. 1853. page: 0-3[View Page 0-3] Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851 by L. P. CROWN & CO. In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts STEREOTYED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYE FOUNDRY, THE title of this little volume indicates its character. It has been the author's design to tell an interesting story, which might exert a good influence in softening the heart, warm- ing the affections, and elevating the soul. How well he has succeeded it is for the kind reader to judge. It is hoped that the writer will be par- doned, if he appear to have wandered too far into the misty realms of romance, to ob- tain attractive material for a tale of real life in our own times. But he feels that he has hardly passed the boundary of every-day ex- perience. All the characte s in the following pages have lived, have sinned, have suffered; (3) page: 4-5 (Table of Contents) [View Page 4-5 (Table of Contents) ] have felt the night dew of grief and the sun- shine of joy. The scenes are painted from actual life: only the painter's license having been used in grouping, and in blending light and shade. I. THE WANDERER, ...... . 7 IL THE COUSINS, ...... .. 21 "I. THE SCHOOLMSTRESS, . . . 35 IV. MRS. SILBY'S EXPERIENCE, ..... 48 V. MR. BRANCE'S ADVENTURE, .... 66 VI. THE CATASTROPHE, . ... .. 76 VII. THE NIGHT AND-THE MORNING, . .88 . :, VIII. THE DESPATCHES, .. ..... 101 IX. WANDERINGS, .. ... . 10 X. THE PRISONER, ........ 17 ,XL LKhrERS, 139 r b XII. THE SEARCH, .... .... 148 'I XIII. THE GAMESTER, ....... 159 XIV. THE TRIAL, ........ 167 :::: XV. THE VERDICT, . .. 181 XVI LOVERS' TRIALS, ..... 192 xvIL AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, .. j XVIIL MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, .... 219 XIX. THE INTERVIEW, . .. .227 JJr 2. THE CONFESSION, ..... . 237 XX T CO NCLUSION.,. 2.143 I L (5) J' page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] CHAPTER I. ia THE WANDERER. ON the afternoon of a quiet summer's day, a weary foot traveller turned aside from a dusty country road, and on the grassy slope of a pleasant hillside sat down upon the ground. With a heavy sigh he removed from his brow a torn and faded straw hat, and brushing back the moist locks of gray hair that fell upon his forehead, gazed sadly down into the beautiful valley before him. mured; "this is the spot, Yonder, half con- cealed by oak trees, is the school house I have sought. The scene is new to me, but I should know that little building among hundreds of dwelling houses. The school house is like nothing else. Ah, how quiet it looks! whileb there is probably a score of young hearts, im-s patient of restraint, confined within its walls. I will wait here until the school comes out." page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] Using his arm for a pillow, the wanderer reclined upon the ground, and closed his eyes in the soft sunshine which bathed the hillside in a mellow flood of light. In a few minutes he was sleeping soundly. His mind was lost in unconsciousness, and his weary frame lay motionless, in perfect repose. But a sad picture was the wandereri as he lay sleeping on the hillside. A middle-aged man, his brow was furrowed with care, and his sallow features bore the traces of sickness, sor- row, and toil. His beard was long and silvery, and his lineaments were marked with sweat and dust. A coarse, threadbare dress, soiled and torn by hard usage, covered his limbs, and the dust of travel lay heavy upon his garments. Before the wanderer awoke, the cool shadow of a noble elm had crept along the turf, length- ening as the afternoon wore on, until it blotted the sunshine from his face. As he opened his eyes, a, shimmer of light in the branches of the old tree, where the sun shone through the quiv- ering leaves, attracted his attention, and he did not observe- a man who stood by his side. ".You've a rather hard bed, my friend," said a voice THE WANDEUIER4. 2f The traveller turned quickly, and his eyes rested upon the figure of a portly, well-dressed, comfortable-looking man, whose florid counte- nance contrasted strongly with the sallow visage of the being he addressed. "There are harder beds than this in the world," exclaimed the traveller, briefly. "The pavement of a jail, or the floor of a poorhouse, I suppose," said the portly gentle- man. The traveller cast an angry look, at the speaker, and drew his form up proudly. "Do you take me for a thief or beggar?" he demanded with a dark scowl. "O, I take you for nothing, my good fel- low," replied the portly gentleman; "though, perhaps, there are those who might take you for something, Ha, ha! But no offence, no of- fence, man!" And the portly gentleman, laughing heartily at his attempt at wit, approached, as if to ob- tain a nearer view of the traveller. The lat- ter's brow gathered, as he grasped his staff and looked defiance at his chance acquaintance. "Who are you," he muttered through his teeth, that you should take the liberty to page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] insult a stranger, who has never troubled you, and who has no desire to quarrel with any man?" * "My dear fellow, you seem put out at my familiarity," cried the portly gentleman. "Ha, ha! you wish to know who I am! Well, I happen to be the proprietor of the turf you stand on. My name is Brance." The traveller drew back apace; his fingers closed more tightly on his staff, a sudden flush overspread his pallid features, and his eyes twinkled with passion, on hearing this an- nouncement. For a moment he regarded the portly gentleman searchingly; then, with teeth closed firmly on his nether lip, turned slowly and marched away. The portly gentleman, with a smile of im- perturbable coolness, as if he regarded the wretched figure of the stranger as a fit subject for his amusement, advanced and laid his hand upon the arm which carried the heavy staff, saying,- "Lisen to me a moment. I have no desire to drive you off my land." "Touch me not!" growled the stranger, with an angry start, " or I may do you some injury " THE WANDERER. " Mr. Brance drew back with a smile of de- ' rision. "So! the fellow is desperate!" he mur- mured, shrugging his shoulders. A proud spirit he has, too, for such a beggarly-looking customer! Well, I have no ambition to quar- rel with him. Good day, my friend." The traveller made no answer, but, without deigning even to look at the portly gentleman, sought the highway, and walked sullenly in the direction of the school house. What his dark thoughts were we will not divine, but his features were contracted, until he was startled from his meditations by a sudden peal of mingled shouts and laughter, which rang out joyously on the clear, quiet air. Twenty juve- nile voices joined the merry chorus, and at the same time the old school house poured forth a tide of happy life, in the shape of a score of children, whose ardent spirits, no longer un- der restraint; burst forth in joy. The angry scowl on the traveller's features softened into a melancholy smile, as he heard the merry laughter of the children, and saw them run and leap about. This cheerful scene was changed, however, page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] almost instantly. The shouts died into mur- murs, and the faces of the children gradually turned one way, and became motionless. They were all gazing with wondering eyes at the unusual appearance of the traveller, and a sort of awe had made them silent. Presently, however, one of the bolder and more malicious of the boys uttered a derisive laugh, which was followed by murmurs of ap- proval from his companions. Encouraged thus in his audacity, and ambitious of leading in mischief, the boy shouted saucily,- "Halloo, beggar man! what's the price of rags?" The smile passed from the features of the wretched man. His dark eyes scanned the faces of the boyish throng, and his look was sor- rowful, not angry. The laughter ceased. The boy who had distinguished himself by his au- dacity slunk away in silence, as if ashamed. The shadow of the traveller's grief had fallen darkly upon those who would have insulted him with mockery. At that moment, in the ancient doorway of the time-worn school house appeared a new face. A female figure of surprising beauty, * THE WANDERER.. 13 with a countenance radiant. with goodness and love, an expansive brow, shaded by soft brown hair, fine hazel eyes, and a form of perfect symmetry, astonished the traveller's vision. His lips quivered with emotion as he gazed. He clasped his hands together impulsively, and ! an expression of unutterable yearning took pos- it session of his features. "Boys," said the schoolmistress,- for such she appeared to be, -in a clear, sweet tone of voice, "come here. I want to speak to you." She spoke reproachfully, and the boys, with faces cast down with shame, drew near to re- ceive the merited reproof. What she further said the traveller could not hear, and with a slow step he walked silently on. Presently he paused, and, leaning on his staff, looked back wistfully at the old school-house door. The children were once more gambol- ling about, and going off in different directions; but their laughter was subdued, and those who followed the traveller were less frolicsome than the rest. Once more he turned from the dusty road, and, entering a field, sauntered slowly on to- wards a woodland which lay about a quarter of page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] a mile distant.' Gradually, however, he altered his course, and soon he was seen again ap- proaching the school house which he had so lately passed. Once more he faltered, and, pausing, sat down upon a stone. The school-house door was in full view, and. when the traveller saw the beautiful form and face which had so moved him before reappear, he suddenly started from his seat. The young teacher wore a light bonnet, and carried in her hand a small volume, as she left the door. The traveller watched her with an anxious eye, and followed her at a distance. The schoolmistress entered a path which led across the fields in the direction of the wood- land. Without looking back, or observing by whom she was followed, she walked into the cool shadows of the trees. The leaves rustled in the breeze above her head, a few birds were chirping among the branches, slender twigs crackled beneath her light footsteps, and now and then a squirrel started up before her in silly affright, and skipping across the dry ground and mossy logs, scrambled iup the rough bark of the nearest oak, to leap from bough to bough above her, or chatter at her THE WANDERER. 1S saucily from some lofty limb. The presence of the fair girl seemed to add light and cheer- I fulness to the sober aspect of- the woods, as I she passed over the brown hills, and through shadowy hollows, and under arches of over- hanging vines. Still the wanderer followed her at a distance. In the woods he quickened his pace, and neared her slowly. When she disappeared in the hollows, he advanced rapidly; and when she came into full view, ascending some woody acclivity, he fell back, or slowly kept on under cover of large trees. At length she went out of sight in a ravine, and he looked for her reappearance in vain. Arrived at the summit of an eminence, the I man beheld once more the object of his pur- suit. A brook flowed through the little val- ley, winding among hillocks overgrown with bushes, and banks barren of verdure, washing mossy stones, and gurgling over beds of glis- tening pebbles; and in a quiet spot, close to the water's edge, the fair young schoolmistress sat on a rudely-constructed bench. The traveller stole down the declivity, and cautiously approached under cover of a thicket. page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 1 H TIaHE I DUT'.I D J'AM I ,. The girl heard a crackling of twigs, and looked around, but beholding no object, her eye once more sought the page of the volume whichlay open on her lap. Peering then through an opening in the bushes, the traveller fixed his eager gaze upon her serene face. Her bonnet lay upon the bench by her side, and a gush of sunlight, robbed of its glare by an intervening network of green boughs, painted her lovely brow with a faint tinge of gold. O The frame of the watcher trembled with agitation. His lips moved, but uttered no ar- ticulate sound. Suddenly he clasped his heavy palm across his eyes, as if his vision were pained. "O God! O God!" he muttered in a low voice, broken by sobs. "I can't endure it! I must speak to her! Yet - to be pitied by her! I am a wretched wanderer, a miserable vaga- bond, and she will despise me! But I must speak to her, nevertheless!" Sounds of rustling bushes and approaching footsteps startled the young girl from her book dream. She looked up. The bowed frame, the dusty garments, the haggard fea- ; tures of the wanderer were before her. Most X girls would have been frightened by such an THE WANDERER. IT apparition; some would have shrieked; not a few would have thought proper to faint. The schoolmistress betrayed no symptoms-of alarm. Perfectly self-possessed, she turned her serene coudntenance full upon the stranger, and scanned him with a calm, steadfast look. "I beg your pardon," said the man. "I intrude upon your meditation. But don't mind me. I only wish to thank you for saving me from the jeers and scoffs of your thoughtless schoolboys." O Q, I certainly deserve no thanks for admin- istering a reproof for their rudeness," replied the schoolmistress. "But you look weary, sir," she added, in a tone of kindness. "O -I am weary --yes," murmured the strange man. "But it is of no consequence. Don't disturb yourself, I beg." '"Rest yourself on this bench," said the girl, observing how pale and haggard he looked. "Sit down, I pray you." ' You are so kind!" exclaimed the stranger, with emotion, sinking upon the extremity of the bench farthest from the girl. "Now, don't let me disturb you. Read your book, and don't mind me at all." page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] "You look ill, sir," cried she,. with an ex pression of solicitude. "Is there nothing can do for you?" "Yes, child!" murmured the man with f strange smile. "Let me look at you! Let me gaze at you, and do not think me rude. Thern is so much quiet goodness in your face, that i does my heart good only to look at it." The schoolmistress, with ready perception saw that these words were not meant for flat tery. The stranger's face was full of emotion Far from being offended, therefore, she replied with a smile, -- "I really can't refuse so small a request, sir But, I fancy it can be of little satisfaction t( you to look at me." The stranger shook his head. "You are young for a schoolmistress," he said, abruptly. "Perhaps I am not quite so young as you suppose." "You are seventeen." "So I am," said the schoolmistress with a smile. "And I have been teaching nearly a year." "And do you like the occupation?" X X ' -. THE WANDEBERA.-. If "I confess I find some of my duties unpleasw ant. But I love children; I love to teach; I delight to make young hearts happy. Besides, 1 choose to do something to spport myself." "You have parents?" "Only a mother." "Ah!" murmured the man, suddenly pass- ing his hand across his brow. "Your father-- he is dead, then?" "' Yes, sir," wag the reply. "You must consider me very impertinent," said the stranger, after a pause. '"But you have inspired me with interest. Have you brothers or sisters?" "No sister," answered the girl, sadly. "But I suppose I have a brother somewhere." You do not know where?" "Alas, no! He went away four years ago. He was then fifteen--young, but impatient of restraint. It is possible that he is dead." "The absent live long," said the traveller, "Ionger than is sometimes thought. Does your mother believe him to be dead?" "O, no; she knows not what to believe about him. We have not heard from him but once since he left us. He was then in Boston." page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] B, r cl ,j," A,4,1 '-"VjI, ' JF]B'4 jI ^ . . jJ , *' -JL The schoolmistress observed that the stranw ger's face was hidden in his hands, and she saw his bosom heave with a, heavy sigh. "You are very ill, I fear!" she exclaimed with kindly solicitude. "No, no!" muttered the stranger, rising abruptly. , I am not ill. I am weary- only weary! God bless your kind heart, Miss Silo by!" "Ah! you know my name!"cried the fair schoolmistress. "Your name?" repeated the man, vaguely. "O, yes! I had it from your schoolboys. But I must leave you. You must be tired of my presence,. Heaven protect you, IMiss Sil- by!" And with an abrupt movement, the stranger hurried way. Alice Silby saw not the tears which burst from his eyes and coursed down his pallid cheeks, as he pronounced his earnest blessing and bade her farewell. He toiled up the acclivity which we have before described, crossed the fields, and once more plodded on along the great highway. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER II. THE COUSINS. "WELL, there, coz!" cried a thin, high-keyed male voice, the moment the traveller had dis- appeared "I declare I never knew you to be guilty of improper conduct before!" Looking around, Miss Silby saw an odd figure coming out of a cluster of bushes farther down the stream. It was a tall, slender youth, with a stoop in his shoulders, awkward arms, and crooked legs. A long, droll face, a twin- kling gray eye, a foppish hat, worn with a one- sided inclination, and striped pants, very tight, and strapped down with extravagant nicety, made up a rather singular picture. "What about improper conduct?" said Miss Silby, with a smile. "I didn't think it of you, Alice!" exclaimed the young man, in the same squeaking voice. "To talk with a beggar! and sitting on the same bench with him, too! I declare! - and when I think that he is a perfect stranger to you! Alice Silby! you astonish me!" (21) page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] 22 THE' DESERTED FAMLY. "I astonish you frequently, Joseph," said Alice. "You think I am a strange creature, no doubt.. But with regard to that poor man who has just left me, he is not a beggar, I judge; and had he been, I should probably have treated him the same. He was very respectful, and I saw no reason for being un- kind to him." And Alice fixed her eyes once more upon the book she had been reading. "Now, coz," exclaimed the young man, sit- ting down -by her side without ceremony, "this isn't fair." "What is not fair, Joseph?" "Why, just now you treated that beggarly fellow like a gentleman, and now you treat me like a beggar. Don't be reading always, when I want to talk to you." "Any way to please you," replied Alice, closing the volume. "Come, now, what do you want to say to me? "O, nothing in particular," replied Joseph, stroking his upper lip, on which there was a faint shadow of an incipient moustache. "But I want you to say something to me. You haven't seen me, you remember, since yester- day." THE COUSINS. 23 THE COUSINS. 23 "' Dear me:" laughed Alice, "I haven't!" "'Indeed you haven't, coz. And I have been looking for you ever since your school was out. I feel uneasy as a fish out of water if I don't see you three times a day." Joseph Sorrel was excessively fond of his fair cousin, and he was always making decla- rations of extravagant devotion. "It is your fault if you haven't seen me," said AMiss Silby. "You went to a party last night; and this morning, according to the latest intelligence received before I went to my school, you were snoring most vulgarly." ("Now, don't say I snore," exclaimed Mr. Sorrel. "I declare I do not snore, Alice! I never in my life woke up and caught myself snoring. You should have said sleeping m9st soundly, instead of snoring most vulgarly. If you tease me, coz, you will break my heart." "Then you confess you slept late?" "I can't deny that. Don't you think I am getting a little dissipated, coz?" said Mr. Sor- rel, smiling, and stroking his upper lip. "I met seventeen girls last night, and didn't come home until two o'clock! But I wasn't happy, Alice," continued Joseph, in a melancholy tone. page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 4"Seventeen handsome faces couldn't make me forget you, coz." "You honored Miss Fantom with your at- tentions, I believe," said Alice. "Yes," replied Joseph; 4 that is, I didn't. She. honored me. She is a nice girl, is Miss FPantom, cos-a splendid creature. Do you think she'd make me a good wife?" "Certainly, Joseph." "O, cruel creature! how could you say so?" exclaimed Mr. Sorrel, dolefully. "She is a magnificent girl, Alice; but there is another who reigns in this bosom. You know it, coz! and if you would accept my hand -- " "Thank you; I'd rather be excused," replied Alice, with a laugh. Mr. Joseph Sorrel stroked his shadowy mous- tache, and smiled queerly at his fair cousin. This was the ninety-ninth time he had respect- fully offered Alice his hand and been coolly rejected. "Well, I can only express my regrets," ob-. served Joseph, with an air of resignation. '"Then you think Miss Fantom would make me a good wife?" i"Certainly, provided you love each other." 4"It is a doubtful case, then, cousin. I can't say that I'm particularly partial to Miss Fan- tom, although I might be devoted to her, if it were not for my devotion to another, who shall be nameless. But since that other refuses me!" suggested Mr. Sorrel, in a pathetic tone. "Does she love you?" cried Alice, who was not ambitious of another opportunity to refuse her cousin's hand. "My mind is in a cloud of uncertainty on that question. Last night, would you think it, Miss Fantom was engaged every time when I asked her hand to dance,- except twice. There wasn't a handsome gentleman in the room that she didn't dance with, to my indescribable annoyance. Rather ungrateful, I thought, after I had escorted her to the party, and taken upon myself the awful responsibility of protecting her." "Awful responsibility, Joseph?" "Certainly. You would think so, if you knew half the difficulties with which I have had to struggle!" "How so?" "The truth is," said Mr. Sorrel, looking at his boots with a thoughtful expression, "that 3 page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] ti t26 THE DESERTED FAMLY. girl is-always being insulted. I'll give you an instance. The first time I ever took her to a ball, which was last winter, I observed that she frowned upon me severely; and when I spoke to her, she looked over my head as if I had been a dwarf, immeasurably beneath her no- tice. 'My dear Miss Fantom,' says I, what is the matter?' "' A foolish question,' says she, 'for a gen- tleman to ask ' "'I beg of you,' says I,' to explain yourself. Have Hoffended you?' "' Mr. Sorrel,' -these are the very words she used,-' I didn't think you the man to see a lady insulted, without-without knocking the offender down, at least.' "( Only you, coz," pursued Mr. Sorrel, " can imagine my consternation. You understand my remarkably peaceful disposition; you know the bare idea of knocking a man down inspires me with horror. I think I must have turned a little pale when Miss Fantom so very coolly insinuated that it was expected of me to level with the floor some audacious individual, who - I shuddered to think of it- might be a little too much for me. THE COUSINS. 27 "O,' says I, 'nobody has insulted you, I hope.' "Now, think of Miss Fantom's reply! She is a spirited creature, I declare. "If I'm not to be protected in this ball room,' says she, '}'d thank you to take me home.' "'0, my dear Miss Fantom,' says I,' you are to be protected. I am your protector!' And I stood up before her, and looked her in the face in the most courageous manner. Tell me who has insulted you.' "'Will you punish the offender?' says Miss Fantom. "I declare, Miss Alice, I never felt less fero- cious in my life. But I saw that Miss Fantom expected me to say yes; and so I said yes, and looked my fiercest. "'Dear Joseph,' says she,-she actually called me dear,' you are a noble fellow, after all. I wronged you to suspect your courage. I am proud of your protection. Now, all I X ask of you is-- ' "'What?' says I, with my heart where my palate ought to have been. "' Demand an apology,' says she, 'of Major Smith. He is the man who insulted me!' page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] s28 THE DESERTED FAMLY. "Believe me, cousin, I never felt quite so streaked in my life. The major is the most barbarous fellow I ever saw. And such a bloody wicked eye he's got! I presume he would make nothing of pitching a small man like me out of a fourth story window, or down the steepest of stairs. I'd sooner encounter a lion than the terrible major. I felt too nervous to express myself properly; but somehow I managed to say that I didn't think so noble a fellow as the major would insult any body. "'Do you think Hdon't know when I'm insulted?' cried Miss Fantom: a remarkably spirited girl, to be sure! ' Major Smith,' says she, 'trod on my toe in the last cotillon, and he made no apology.) "' O, indeed,' says I; 'but what shall I do?' "Demand one! ' says Miss Fantom. "'But if he refuses to apologize?' "' O, in that case,'-- what an extraordinary cool girl she is!--'in that case,' says Miss Fantom, 'you will knock him down!' "You had better believe, coz, that this was rather- too cool - it was freezing! The ther- mometer of my courage sank fifty degrees below the fighting point in no time. But there was THE COUSINS. 29 no escape for me. So I marched up to the major, and in the humblest manner, and the [ most conciliatory tone I could command, I informed him of the fact that he had trodden on Miss Fantom's toe. "' What's that to you?' says the major, so gruffly that he fairly startled me off my feet. "' O, my dear sir,' says I, ' don't be rash. I don't want to make any fuss; indeed, this is a remarkably unpleasant affair to me; but Miss Fantom, you know, - nobody but Miss Fan- tom, - feels hurt.' "'Go'to grass!' says the major. 'If I t trod on Miss Fantom's toes, it was uninten- tional; but if you come to me with any more such errands, I shall tread on yours with an intention.' "And the major wheeled square about as if he had been on parade, and walked off with the blackest of savage scowls. Of course, I didn't follow him; I am not ambitious of the acquaintance of such men. I hurried back to Miss Fantom, and told her that the major said the insult was unintentional. "' Ah! did he?' says Miss Fantom, with an air of triumph. 'I am glad of it!' 3* page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 1 30 THE DESERTED FAMLY. "t So am I,' says I. 'It would have given me pain to be obliged to knock him down "Now, I thought this was the end of my probation, and congratulated myself on having exhibited great courage and achieved high honors. Half an hour after, however, Miss Fantom came to me breathless with indigna- tion. Another man had insulted her, and I was expected to go and knock him down! The other affair hadn't made me particularly ferocious, and I really felt more peaceably inclined at that moment than ever before. However, I was to go and demand an apology of Mr. Briggs, for running against Miss Fan-, tom when he was leading his partner to a seat. In case he didn't apologize, I was instructed to level him to the floor. To my unbounded satisfaction, Mr. Briggs met me in the most amicable manner, and seerned quite as little inclined to pugilistic exercises as myself. Thus he saved himself from a bruising, by going to Miss Fantom and personally expressing his re- gret at a circumstance of which he was uncon- scious, he said, at the time of its occurrence." "Ha! ha!" laughed Alice. "Miss Fantom suffered no more insults in one night, I hope?' -- ', THE COUSINS. t31 "Bless you!" exclaimed Mr. Sorrel, "she was insulted three times after the affair with Briggs. She made me the most miserable of men. I didn't recover from the nervousness and anxiety of mind she occasioned me in a month. The last case was that awful man, Major Smith, again. Says Miss Fantom,- "' Mr. Sorrel,' says she, ' if I was decently protected, this wouldn't have happened. Every body insults a woman who isn't protected. Now, if you have any regard for me, make an example of Major Smith. He looked at me insultingly. Go and knock him down!' * "As the major had just gone into the refreshment room, I felt safe in declaring that I would show him no mercy. Thereupon I rushed out with savage gestures, and dodged the major and Miss Fantom for half an hour. At length, to my inexpressible satisfaction, I saw the awful major take his departure; whereupon I rushed back to Miss Fantom, foaming with rage, and declaring that Smith had undoubtedly fled for his life, as he was nowhere to be found!" "And was Miss Fantom satisfied?" asked Alice, laughing. page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] "O, perfectly! And she thinks now that I am a bloodthirsty fellow! And all the time I wouldn't have harmed a hair of Smith's wig for -the world!" "You must be passionately fond of her, to encounter such dangers for her sake, Joseph." "As I said before, I should be devoted to her, if it were not for another, whom I need not name," said Mr. Sorrel, significantly. "d And I could readily forgether, if that other --" "Upon my word, Joseph!" cried Alice, in well-feigned surprise, " you have got something on your upper lip!" "Ah! that is my moustache!" said Joseph, stroking the scanty sprouts of beard compla- cently. "Hadn't you observed this ornament to my physiognomy before?" -' Never, I am sure!" "Why, coz, I have been cultivating a mous- tache for two weeks. I am afraid my success hasn't been extraordinary, for I haven't yet received a single compliment on my improved appearance. Even Miss Fantom, whose pas- sionate admiration of moustaches awakened in me an ambition to raise one, has not deigned to notice the beard my razor has spared for ]her sake." J THE COUSINS. 33 "Don't be discouraged," said Alice. "It requires time to accomplish all things." "4 O, I am uncommonly patient, coz," sighed Joseph. "So far, I have watched the gradual development of my moustache with the ut- most solicitude. I shall not abandon the object of so much care and anxiety without a fair trial. Yet, you know for whom I would forsake Miss Fantom; and even now, if you dislike moustaches, and if you will give me the least encouragement, --a word of consolation, - I will not rest till I have shaved my upper lip!" "Pshaw!" cried Alice. "You are always talking nonsense. How do you like Miss Fan- tom's family?" "They are very singular people; they have such queer notions of being genteel. I believe they do not receive half as much company as they would like; but as it is, they make it a point to refuse themselves to half the people who call, because they think it appears aristo- cratic to be 'engaged' or ' not at home.' By the way, did you ever observe what rare speci- mens of servant girls they always employ? Nobody in that house, I believe, was ever guilty page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] 34 THE DESERTED FAMLY. of admitting a visitor within fifteen minutes af- ter the ringing of the door bell. I tell you what it is, coz, every time I call on the Fantoms, I ring the bell, run round the corner into the shoemaker's shop, brush my boots, and get back to the door just as the servant opens it." "An ingenious method of occupying- your time," observed Alice. "But in case you are in a hurry, you must suffer inconvenience." "-To be sure! And if I ever do have occa- sion to call there in a hurry, I shall hire a boy to run on before me and ring the bell, so that the door will be open when I get there. On the whole, however, notwithstanding these little peculiarities of the family, and Miss Lucy's habit of being insulted, I think a con- nection with the Fantoms desirable; and I shall probably marry Miss Lucy-- that is, if another who reigns in my heart does not relent and make me a thousand times happier by ac- cepting the -hand which is at her disposal." And Mr. Joseph Sorrel looked wistfully at his fair cousin, who only laughed and shook her head, as she once more opened her book, and, to Joseph's inexpressible regret, began to read.- THE SCHOOLMSTRESS. 35 While Alice sits thus absorbed in the con- tents of the hateful volume, - as Joseph con. siders it,-and Joseph sits silently gazing at her with unbounded admiration, we will take occasion to make certain necessary explana- tions. CHAPTER III. THE SCHOOLMSTRESS. SINCE the death of Mr. Silby, the father of the young schoolmistress, and the departure from home of Edgar Silby, Jr., Alice and her mother had left their residence in Woodboro', and taken up their abode with their relatives, the Sorrel family, in Verfield. Of the character of Alice Silby, the reader has already formed some opinion. She was a strong-minded, even-tempered, cheerful, inde- pendent girl, possessed of rather more origi- nality of thought and firmness in action than we often see in maidens of seventeen. In her sixteenth year, notwithstanding the kind- ness of her relatives, who would gladly have page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] enabled her to live at her ease, and the tender- ness of her cousin Joseph in particular, who would have rejoiced to make her his wife, Alice resolved to support herself by teaching. In the morning she gave lessons in music, and during the day she devoted her time to her school. Mr. Joseph Sorrel was not the only gentle- man who honored Alice with his admiration and attentions. A score of ardent young men had cast their hearts at her feet. Among the most distinguished of these was one, of whom, and of whose -family, it is necessary to say a few words. Mr. Roger Brance was the most wealthy landholder in Verfield, and his residence was contiguous to that of the Sorrels. Mr Brance was an egotistical, polite man, with whom self-interest was the great principal of action. He was a shrewd manager, and many a poor man had he robbed in a legal manner of house and land; yet nobody could say a word against his honesty. Mr. Brance was a smooth member of society, and many public acts of liberality had gained him a reputation for benevolence; still, in private life, he was a hard, cold, and relentless man. :HE SCHOOLMSTkYRESS. I Twenty years before, Roger Brance had offered his hand to the mother of Alice Silby. In a noble spirit of independence and generos- ity, Mary Carlton preferred a poor man whom she loved to a rich man whom she only esteemed. She became the wife of Ed- gar Silby, and went to live in Woodboro'. Eighteen years elapsed, and Mrs. Silby re- turned to her relatives in Verfield, with her only daughter. She had lost a husband dur- ing this time, and Mr. Brance had lost a wife. Mrs. Silby was still poor; Mr Brance had multiplied his wealth. Mrs. Silby's marriage for love had been. a most unhappy one. Hence, when Mr. Brance saw her again, and once more offered her his hand, she had resolved to accept it, and become the wife of one whom she had once refused, and never loved. The engagement of Mrs. Silby with Mr. Brance I was generally known throughout Verfield, and their marriage was expected soon to take place. The only son and sole heir of Mr. Roger Brance was a wild, pleasure-seeking, hand- some, dashing youth, who had no occupation except to spend his father's superfluous wealth. Appleton Brance had never distinguished him- page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] 38 THE DESERTED 'FAMLY. self for any striking moral qualities; on the other hand, his career was every where marked by an evident want of principle. At times he was magnanimously generous, and'- at others he was ready to adopt any expediency for the advancement of his selfish designs. Mr. Roger Brance was not the man to be well pleased with his son's arduous and expen- sive pursuit of pleasure. ( Appleton," said hej "must marry. Nothing else will tame him. But where is the woman who will prove an attraction for a young man who has been so dissipated?" Appleton answered his father's question in a most unexpected and satisfactory manner. "I am a caught trout, father," said the affec- tionate son one day. "Those bright eyes of ' Miss Silby's have killed me." Roger Brance rubbed his hands with delight. For the first time in ten years he actually em- braced his son. "Bah!"said Appleton, scowling. "'This is: getting tame! I expected you would oppose my wishes in this matter, because Alice is poor. That is the way of all rich fathers I ever read about." - t .....i THE SCHOOLMSTRESS. 39 "No, no!" cried Mr. Brance. "Alice Silby is such a superior, accomplished girl, that I can't say a word against her. Take her, Ap- pleton, and God bless you." "Hang, it! I wish I could!" exclaimed Appleton. "Your advice is easy to give, but rather hard to follow. You see, I am afraid Miss Silby is a little inclined to dislike me." "Nonsense, boy!" said Mr. Brance. "Yo u are rich; she will not reject you." "Twenty years ago, you were rich, father; i her mother rejected you." Confound your impertinence, Appleton! Has not her mother seen the folly of her former refusal of my hand?" "Ah! now you are coming to the point, father. Mrs. Silby has experience, which Alice has not, and which I wish she had. But there is some hope of the girl, nevertheless. Go to my future mother-in-law; speak a good word for your obedient son; she will manage her daughter, and the chances will be in my favor." Since the above conversation between Mr. Brance and his son, Appleton had been very attentive to Alice, and given her to understand page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] in many ways the state of his affections, with- out making her a final offer of his hand; and Mr. Brance, having conversed with Mrs. Silby on the subject, had obtained from her a promise to exert all the maternal influence she could command in Appleton's favor. Another of Miss Silby's suitors, no less than Mr. Joseph Sorrel and Mr. Appleton Brance, demands our attention. A year previous to the commencement of our story, a young physician had audaciously attempted to practise in the town of Verfield, which already boasted of two gentlemen of the same profession. Albert Corrinton was a talented, industrious young man, well qualified to administer potionsband apply the lancet. In the centre of the village, about a mile distant from the residence of Mr. Brance, the young doctor rented a small, one-story, snug-looking building, where he established his office and sleeping- apartments, and where, for many months, he might have been seen sitting day after day, from morning until night, waiting for practice. Except when he went out to eat a beefsteak or drink a cup of coffee at the hotel opposite, Mr. Corrinton seldom left his office. THE SCHOO0MTSTRESS. 41 Nobody required his services. Dr. Dosemore and Dr. Draper were the only person's bene- fited by sickness in Verfield. The old physi- cians enjoyed the confidence of the community; Corrinton was looked upon with distrust. No- body employed him; consequently nobody thought he was worthy to be employed. Corrinton saw how matters stood. He was impatient to be appreciated, and resorted to an innocent artifice. One day, in great haste, he ordered his horse from the hotel stables, and rode off as if fifty lives in Verfield depended upon his speed. People saw him ride past, and shrewdly guessed that somebody was danger- ously ill, and that somebody had seen fit to employ the young physician. On the follow- ing day, Corrinton ordered his horse again in the same way, and rode off with praiseworthy despatch. People saw him ride past once more, and declared that the obscure doctor was beginning to be of some importance. For a week, Albert rode about the town with the air of a man conscious of doing miracles of good; and people looked at him in wonder every day, and talked about him, and thought he must be skilful, and hoped he was doing well. At 4 page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] length somebody was sick, and saw fit to try the new physician; and somebody recov- ered, and trumpeted the circumstances of this wonderful cure throughout the town of Verfield. From that time the young doctor began to ride in earnest. His artifice had brought him practice. Alice Silby was among the first acquaint- ance Dr. Corrinton made in Verfield. He could not but be pleased with her; and he was so different from all other men she had ever known, that she felt much interested in him from the first. If there was any body by whom Corrinton was ambitious of being admired, it was the clear-sighted, the independent Alice; and if there was a man whose approbation the young schoolmistress ardently desired, that man was the learned, accomplished, discrimi- nating Corrinton. Between the doctor and Mr. Appleton Brance there existed a mutual hatred, which might have originated in jealousy, but which had been fostered and increased by the mutual repugnance men of such different characters feel towards each other. Both were impulsive, passionate men; both THE SCHUUIOM rSTKligSS. i were proud and sensitive; and so bitter had their enmity become, that the friends of the hostile parties feared that fatal consequences might ensue. ' Having labored through this dry explanation of the relative positions of Alice Silby's suitors, the reader will be prepared to understand the ex- citing events which were destined soon to throw the town of Verfield into unusual commotion. We left Alice and her affectionate cousin sitting together on the rude bench in the woods. "By the way," exclaimed Joseph, after a long silence, "I forgot!" "What did you forget?" asked Alice, with- out raising her eyes. "Why, that your mother wants to see you. In fact, she sent me to find you and bring you home! And in your delicious presence I forgot myself." "Are you in earnest, Joseph?" "Certainly I am." "Then let us go," said Alice. "You should have told me before." "What a miserable fool I am!" exclaimed Joseph. "Whip me, coz, and I shall feel bet- ;er! Here, take this sprout, and spare not." page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] ft : THlliT DESIERTPED FAMMIJY "Throw down that sprout, you goose!" cried Alice, gayly, "and help me across the brook." Joseph's features were radiant with joy, and he stroked his moustache energetically. Noth- ing pleased him so much as to be called a goose by his charming cousin. Stepping for- ward with alacrity, he prepared to support Alice on the stones which formed the bridge it was necessary to cross. "Accept my hand," said he, good humored- ly. "After having refused it in a matrimonial sense so often, you will not object to taking it in a literal sense." "O, by no means!" said Alice, tripping lightly across the stream. "Look out! you will wet your boots." "Bless you!" exclaimed the enthusiastic youth, "I would forego blacking altogether for your sake!" And in the most rash and daring manner, Joseph plunged his polished boot into the water, like a devoted martyr, in order to con- vince his adorable cousin that there was no sacrifice the performance of which his love for her would not render easy and delightful. Alice laughed gayly as she hurried away, * THE SCHOOLMSTRESS. , 45 following the path which led out of the woods, in the direction of Mr. Sorrel's house. "Really! she isn't as fond of me as I wish she was!" said Joseph, as he ran on after her. ;"How little she cares for my society! I am afraid I shall be driven to console myself by marrying Lucy Fantom, after all." The residence of the Sorrels was not far off, and Alice was soon at home. Leaving Joseph to amuse himself as well as he could without her, she hastened to her mother's room. Mrs. Silby was a pale, sedate, stately wo- man, still handsome, although care had left ;races on her intelligent brow, and sprinkled ler raven tresses with gray. '"Sit down, Alice," said she, with a sad imile, and in a kindly tone. "I have been waiting for you." Alice did as she directed. 4"I have desired to talk with you, on a sub- ect of importance, for a long time," pursued qlrs. Silby. "Can you listen to me now?" "With the greatest pleasure, mother," re- died Alice. "You are well aware, dear child," said Mrs. 3ilby, after a pause, "that there are two page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] gentlemen whose partiality for you is unques- tionable --Mr. Brance and Dr. Corrinton. Alice made no reply. "Ihave nothing to say of the respective merits of these individuals, Alice, for they both possess good traits of character, while neither is faultless. It is my impression that you prefer Corrinton; it may be you love him; but that there are weighty reasons why you should fa- vor Mr. Brance, I will endeavor to show you." "I am happy to listen," said Alice. "In the first place, I desire to convince you, my child, that it is folly to marry for love alone. It is very well to talk of affection and devotion, but the charm of these admirable qualities seldom survives the honeymoon." "Too rarely, H,know,"' said Alice. "It is a fact that- pure love matches are the most unhappy of all," pursued Mrs. Silby. "Where young people marry merely to please the fancy,-and love is but a fancy,--they hang their happiness upon a straw, which the lightest of cares is often heavy enough to break, and which the fires of adversity are sure. I to consume. On the other hand, when friend- ship, esteem, and, more worldly considerations THE SCHOUUM1 iSTRESS. 4l lie at the foundation of marriage, substantial happiness is most frequently the result. Apply these remarks to Dr. Corrinton and- Appleton Brance. The former is poor, and as there is little prospect of his soon becoming rich, if you marry him it must be for love. The latter is wealthy, and by accepting his hand you secure the substance of happiness, to which romantic dreams are not to be compared. But I do not wish to influence you by making mere asser- tions, my dear child. I will relate to you my own experience of married life, and then you can act as you please. You already know something of my unhappy marriage, but as the principal events I shall relate took place before you were born, or during your extreme youth, they will be new to you. I married for love; hear my story." And Mrs. Silby proceeded to relate her ex- perience as follows. page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] CHAPTER IV. MRS. SILBY'S EXPERIENCE. "TWENTY years ago, Alice," said Mrs. Sil- by, " my position in life was in many respects similar to yours at the present time. I was an orphan, dependent upon relatives, or my own exertions, for support. But I possessed a spirit which no ill fortune could subdue, and a disposition of the happiest kind. The future then smiled upon my young heart, and all my hopes and aspirations glowed with the natural warmth of my ardent temperament. "I was much more romantic in my ideas of life than I think you are, my dear child. I had resolved, if ever I married, to marry for love alone; for, knowing nothing of the stern reali- ties of married life, I deemed that a wretched existence in a hovel, with the man of my choice, would be preferable to all the comforts of affluence with a man who possessed only my friendship or esteem - a very pretty idea, Alice, but which cannot safely he applied to real life. (48) MRS. SILBY S EXPERIENCE. 49 ("I had two suitors. One was the father of Mr. Appleton Brance; the other was Mr. Sil- by. Both, I believe, loved me, and both pos- sessed my respect and friendship. But there was a vast difference in their characters, and in their positions in life. Roger Brance was an affable person, possessed of no very striking talents, except those of the most practical kind. He was a shrewd business man, but no dreamer. Mr. Silby was the reverse. All hisd aspirations were of the most visionary descrip- tion. While Mr. Brance was building sub- stantial houses, Mr. Silby was constructing castles in the air. Mr. Silby possessed brilliant talents, of which, however, he was unable to make any practical use. His wit and fine taste could not manufacture bread. "I was iascinated with his pleasing man- lers, and my glowing imagination told me that ie was the man to make me happy. He pos- ;essed no property, but I cared nothing for hat; and when, one beautiful summer's even- ng, as we walked together in a romantic spot, e declared his love and offered me his hand, I romised readily to be his. That day I had Ejected- Mr. Brance. 5 page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] Du s pJa1 JJ jJUIw& V . l. L W- ----- "I was never so happy in my life as on the day of my marriage. Mr. Silby was all tender- ness -and devotion, and I looked forward to married life as one -blissful dream' of love. With a glowing future before us, we took up our residence in Woodboro', where Mr. Silby had already commenced the practice of the law. "Mr. Silby's tastes and talents were as little suited to his difficult profession as can well be imagined. He lacked the ability to apply his mind to it; and had he been more diligent, I do not think he could ever have become a successful lawyer. As it was, his profession- brought in the most meagre income, altogether inadequate to our support. Before- I had ex- perienced half a year of married life, I sav poverty and humiliation staring us in the o face. - Brought down a little from my dreams of romance, I ventured at length to remind your father of the necessity of applying himself more industriously to his profession. He declared that the Fates were against him, and that he hoped, in the course of a few weeks, to be able to improve our circumstances. For a long time we lived on in hope; for it was the MRS. SILBY S EXPERIENCE. 51 great fault of Mr. Silby, that he relied more upon to-morrow than to-morrow promised, and always neglected to-day. "' Thus passed the first year of our marriage. Already your father had become irritable, and I less patient with his faults than I should have been. Often unkind words passed between us, and all the primitive charm of a perfect love match had been dissipated. ("Your brother Edgar was born. For a time our happiness was restored; your father be- came more industrious than I had ever known him to be, and our prospects seemed. brighten- ing. In a few months, however, he fell back into his old habits. He had no hope or care for the present. He neglected his business; he neglected his wife and child. "During the first year of our marriage he had- frequently come home in a state of intoxi- cation; and I had learned the stunning truth, that he was addicted to the use of ardent spirits. It was in vain that 'I remonstrated with him. On the event of Edgar's birth, he solemnly promised reformation; but as his )ld habits returned, the thirst for intoxicating irinks became once more strong and imperative. page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] J X1J .LJ1E d.Ui , A JL' ,JJ .iwI *. Je "Late one night, when your brother was about six months old, I was sitting up, waiting for Mr. Silby to return home. My helpless child lay sleeping in the cradle, while I worked, with weary hands and aching eyes, to drive away starvation. Yes, Alice, it had come to this. We lived in a respectable house, but, while we still kept up appearances, we were suffering bitter want. At midnight I heard unsteady footsteps approach the door. I was not hard hearted; but at that moment the wretchedness of my lot and the helplessness of my child imbittered my mind against its fa- ther. ' While I am at work for bread,' thought I, 'he is reeling intoxicated through the streets. It is monstrous-it is unnatural.' He entered, shamefully overpowered by rum.- I felt a ris- ing of my injured heart within me, and I could not avoid heaping reproaches upon him. He was too much intoxicated to understand me; he only laughed at my agony. Then, for the first time, I felt that the spot in my desolate heart which he had always filled was vacant. I loved him no more. "It is painful for me to dwell upon my un- happy marriage; it must be painful for you to MRS. SILBY'S EXPERIENCE. 53 -4--- hear how much I suffered, and to know the cause. However, I wish you to appreciate fully the consequences of a love match, and I will go on. " Night after night, for many weeks, simi- lar scenes occurred. My husband became a wretched sot. Love had given place in my bosom to wounded pride and bitter resentment. At last, despairing of being able to support my- self, my child, and a drunken husband, I formed a painful resolution. You may think it was unnatural, unwomanly,-monstrous, perhaps, -but consider what drove me to it! Think of my blasted hopes,--the utter misery into which he had plunged me,-the degradation he was bringing not only on himself, but on me, whom he had sworn to cherish, and on our child, whose helplessness and innocence should have awakened better feelings in his bosom. I brooded over these wrongs, and determined to act for myself. "In one of Mr. Silby's sober moments, I made him sit down by my side, and, smother- ing all the rebellious demons that were strug- gling in my hot and aching heart, talked to him seriously and firmly. 5* page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] "'Edgar,' said I, laying my hand on his arm and fixing my eyes upon his face, 'this must go on no longer. I have suffered all I can. For my own sake, and for the future of my child, I must act. Now, listen to me calmly while I speak calmly. Edgar, it is not right that you should involve me and mine in the ruin which you are determined to bring upon yourself. I say it is not right, and I say that, if I can avoid it, it shall not be! By hard work, I believe I can support myself and child; but I 'Will ,not wear out my soul and body for you. Now, mark what I say. You shall never again rest under the same roof with me, if you come home intoxicated. I will shut you out; and if you enter forcibly, I will take my departure.' ( With tears coursing down his cheeks, the remorseful man begged me to forgive the past, and promised solemnly to reform. If he did not love me still, he respected me, and stood in awe of the passions bitter wrong had kindled in my breast. But such was the weak and fickle nature of the man, that, before a week had elapsed, he forgot his vows, and a broke his solemn oath. Midnight] came without j * $4^ MRS. SILBY'S EXPERIENCE. 55 him, and, as usual, I sat up, awaiting his return. Carefully I bolted the door, and, with a wounded but uncrushed spirit, quietly pur- sued my almost incessant labors. "At last I heard unsteady footsteps, which a pang at my heart taught me were those of my intoxicated husband. It was a wintry night, and the storm beat against the window, and with a perpetual dreary moan swept about our dwelling. I then prayed God for strength to keep my purpose, and when I heard him vainly try to open the door, I clasped my hands upon my bursting heart, and cursed my weakness. I heard him struggle with the bolts, and call upon me in a feeble tone to let him in; and all the time I knew the bitter storm was beating upon him, and the tempest was less merciful than I. You cannot conceive of my agony, my child. I hope you may never suffer the hundredth part of what I suffered that night." Mrs. Silbyfs voice was choked with emotion, and she paused to dry her eyes and recover her self-possession. Alice had bowed her head upon her fair hands, and her face was hidden. At length Mrs.; Silby resumed her story. "Presently all was silent without, except the page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] wind and hail. My heart stopped beating to listen. I heard a moan and a scratching at the door. In an instant my awful resolution was forgotten. Something told me that Edgar was perishing in the storm, and that I was a mur- deress. Half frantic with fear, I flew -to the door, and opened it. A human figure, covered with snow and frozen rain, was stretched before the threshold. It was Edgar, benumbed by alcohol, and perishing with the cold. I lifted him to his feet, and supported his unsteady steps as he staggered into the room. Before the fire I patiently rubbed his flesh, and when in the warm room he became deathly sick, I put him to bed, and sat by him all night. "The miserable man seemed greatly affected by the patience with which I attended him during a term of illness which followed. He seemed fully sensible of the grievous wrongs he had done me, and of the wretchedness to which his evil habits doomed us all. Again he was resolute in his purpose to reform. As soon as he recovered he became industrious, and we- enjoyed a little sunshine. It was at this period, dear Alice, that you were born. : "Although I loved your father no longer, I : ,". , j MRS. SILBY'S EXPERIENCE. 57 once more dreamed that we might be happy. In your brother Edgar, who was the brightest and prettiest of boys, I centred my affection, and found a mother's consolation; and when you came into the world, Heaven granted me a new source of joy. But too soon that little spot of bright sky in my married life was over- cast. Your father's passion for drink returned with tenfold force, and he became more degrad- ed than ever. "The poverty I suffered at this time was ex- treme. Too proud to return to my friends, or let them know of my distress, I struggled against famine and death. From the neglect and dissipated habits of Mr. Silby I had suffered all I could. I resolved on a separation, and, hiring humble apartments in the house of a kind man, I one day, during Edgar's absence, removed thither with my children and a few articles of furniture, which my own labor had purchased. There, on the following day, Ed- gar came to see me. He was full of repent- ance and vows of reformation. On his bended knees he pleaded to be forgiven, and with tears besought me to live with him again. But reiterated wrongs and vows repeatedly broken ^ page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] 58 THE DESERTED FAMLY. i had hardened my heart against him, and I an- swered only with reproaches. He then resorted to command. I replied with scorn and de- fiance; but when he swore that he would take my children away from me, ithe wrath of an injured woman and mother dictated the lan- guage with which I answered the monstrous threat. I turned him away as if he had been a beggar, and closed my door in his face, with the declaration that he must, before taking my children, take their mother's life. "Mr. Silby never attempted to carry his threats into execution. He felt himself too weak, and he understood the almost unnatural strength his injuries had given me. Suddenly he disappeared. Nobody in Woodboro' knew what had become of the dissipated lawyer. In the presence of my children I was partly con- soled. For you and your brother I labored cheerfully, and with success. "Five years elapsed. I lived with, my chil- dren, and devoted myself to them. I cared nothing for society, and as long as my husband lived to be my shame, I was resolved not to mingle with the world I I had not heard of B Edgar, since his disappearance, and I was - MRS. SILBY'S EXPERIENCE. 59 eginning to forget that there was such a eing. "At the close of a mild day in autumn, when he leaves of the trees had reached the perfect tate of their maturity and beauty, and gleamed vith various hues of crimson, green, and gold, was walking in the quiet little garden, which ou remember, Alice. The sun had gone down I the hazy west, and the soft and mellow twi- ght followed. The sober, dusky atmosphere Ahich was all around me filled my heart vith sadness. I remembered the past; and all ts blasted hopes, bitterness, and grief weighed ieavy upon my heart. With melancholy re- lections I remembered Edgar, and I saw him n all the fascinating beauty which had won ny girlish heart. For the first time since his Lbsence, I wished he might return. If I did lot love him still, the memory of the love I tore him once was warm and strong within me. "In the midst of my reflections, I heard a ootstep, and a sigh. Darkness had stolen nsensibly around me. Night had folded in olemn silence her dusky wing, and when I coked up, the outline of a dark human figure, vhich stood near me, appeared dim and indis- - inct. I started back. page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] "' Do not fear me!' said a well-known voice-- a voice choked with grief. 'Don't fly from me!' '( Edgar! ' said I, ' is it you?' "' It is your swretched Edgar! your misera- ble, remorseful husband!' was the response. "In a moment he was at my feet,- his head bowed to the dust. On his knees he sobbed like a broken-hearted child, and prayed that I would not spurn him from my feet. He wished only to look at me again, he said; to look at me, and go away and die. I raised him from the ground, and, with a heart overflowing with pity and forgiveness, led him into the house. O how stealthily I conducted him into my room, so that neither you nor your brother might be shocked by the sight of your father. "I left him alone in the darkness, and in nervous haste went to procure a light. I ex'- pected to behold a wretched object, but you cannot conceive of the horror of my surprise when I beheld my husband. O, may God forgive me for the disgust and shame with which I surveyed him! Sickness, dissipation, and want had done their terrible work. He , : was so changed that I should not have known him by the sense of 'sight alone. : "My heart, which had expanded with sor- row, remembered love, and tender regret, half an hour before, contracted itself with painful suddenness. The stern spirit which had sus- tained me through the trials of a period of years rose -up mighty within my breast. For the miserable being whom I had once passion- ately loved I had now no feeling but pity. " The wretched man was prepared for this. He deserved and expected contempt. In the pit of his degradation and shame, he found nothing but despair and darkness not a ray of hope. " I did not utter a reproach. I felt that he was beneath the sphere of resentment. I re- garded him with a calm, collected, pitying eye. "' You do right not to reproach me,' said he. 'I have been the worst enemy to myself. I do not ask you to call me your husband, or own j tme as such again. I will not degrade my chil- dren by declaring myself their father. I only make one request-let me look at them.' I only answered, "' Wait!' " I left the room, and locked the door after me. In a short time I returned. page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] "'You shall see them,' said I. ' They will soon be asleep.' "In half an hour I led the way for the father who wished to see his children. He had prom- ised silence, and I drew aside the curtains of my bed, in which you, dear Alice, lay asleep. O, you looked beautiful --so sweet, so inno- cent, that even I could not look at you with- out emotion. Your father clasped his feeble hands, and gazed in silence. ,I turned away my face, that I might not witness his agony. "'Come,' said he, a moment after, touching my arm; 'let us go.' "Then I looked at him. His palor, the working of emotion in his features, the intensi- ty of the fire which glowed in his hollow eyes, inspired me with awe. Shrinking away from him, I led the way to Edgar's little bed. He too was sleeping soundly, and the lamplight which fell upon his fair face did. not awake! him. Again I turned aside that I might not see the agony of that wretched father's brow, as he beheld the features of his son. "Suddenly he sank back, and staggered to- wards the. door. I held his arm, or he would have fallen, and led him away. MRS. SILBY'S EXPEIIENCE, 63 "' This is enough,' he said, as he pulled his miserable hat over his brow. 'I am now ready and willing to die. You need not dread seeing me again. I shall not trouble you.' "I could not say a word, but showed him to the door in silence. As he departed, I thought to put my purse in his hand, but he cast it angrily upon the ground. "What became of the wretched man then I know not. Nobody knew of his strange visit except myself; and when he was gone, I was unable to say whether he was among the living or the dead. "About three years from this time, you came running into the house one day, declaring that a beggar had caught you, and frightened you by strange questions. You thought no more of it; but I knew your father was he whom you called a beggar. My suspicions were confirmed, when two days after, as I passed near an orchard, I caught a glimpse of a careworn, haggard face, and eyes of agony, which peered through the trees. I shuddered and hurried past. I saw him but once again; it was three years ago. You remember the time when I received a mysterious letter, which page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] wJ AJPN. J AJJPJ4 J iOJA. A X'J A-C-lLJLJX-. A occasioned my departure from home. I has- tened to see him in his last illness. In a coun- try tavern he lay at the point of death, I saw him but a few minutes, and having done every thing in my power to make his last hours com- fortable as might be, and placed in the hand of a respectable person sufficient money to defray all his expenses, I departed, leaving him to his fate. In a few days I received" another letter, con- taining the balance of money which had not been expended, and the news of his death. This is- the story of your father's unhappy career. I have dwelt at length upon it, for two reasons --to satisfy the desire you have fre- quently expressed to know more of your fa- ther, and to give you my experience of mar- ried life. Remember, my dear child, that mine was a love match. Mark the train of evils which have followed my foolish choice of a husband. You know that itf was the want of a father to counsel and control which has ban- ished from our home your poor brother. Alas! he was too much like his unhappy father. He could not brook the restraint of a mother's pru- dence. He has gone we know not whither. Poor boy! he was the unhappy fruit of a most unhappy union. MRS. SILBY'S EXPERIENCE. 65 "After your father's death, you know I resolved once more to mingle with the world. Already you had visited your kind relations here, who have assisted us so much ; and when they pressed us to take up our abode with them, and you warmly seconded their proposals, I consented, and hither we came. Now, a prom- ising future lies before us, which we must not darken by any act of folly. I shall soon be the wife of Mr. Brance, whom formerly I so rashy rejected; and are you not now, my dear child, prepared to choose between a love match and a marriage of reason?" To the cold words of her mother, whose feel- ings had been imbittered and mind perverted by her unusual experience of married life, her daughter made no reply. Alice was weeping over the sad career and wretched end of a father whom she had always been taught to pity and despise. 6, page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] CHAPTER V. MR. BRANCE'S ADVENTURE. IT was about dusk of the same day on which Mr. Roger Brance accosted the vagabond in- troduced in the opening chapter of my story, that he mounted a spirited horse at thedoor of his elegant residence, and rode leisurely down the avenue which communicated with the high- way. As he passed a dark clump of lilacs which grew near the public road, his horse sheered in sudden affright, and dashed through the gate which stood open at the foot of the avenue. Anxious to ascertain the cause of the ani- mal's terror, Mr. Brance wheeled about, and rode back to the spot where he had taken fright. As he approached the lilacs, the horse snorted, pricked up his ears, and finally refused to advance nearer, sheering and starting back in a singular manner. Looking in the direction of the object of the animal's terror, Mr. Brance saw a dark figure squatted under the' shadow of the lilacs. (66) MR. BRANCE'S ADVEINTUnE. 67 "Ho! there!" cried he, impatiently. "What are you doing here? Who are you?" Slowly the dark figure rose, and, without making any reply, came out of its hiding- place, and walked sullenly away. "Who are you, I say?" demanded Mr. Brance in a tone of authority, as he rode on after him. "What business have you crouch- ing about my premises, and frightening my horse?" The mall stopped abruptly, and poising his staff in his right hand, looked up, glaring sav- agely at Roger Brance. "' This is the second time you have driven me off your premises," muttered the vagabond. "It is a hospitable country where a poor man is not permitted to lie down in the open air! But I am on the public road now, Mr Brance, and I warn you not to molest me." "I'll not trouble you, insolent vagabond!" cried Mr. Brance. "( But you must keep out of my way. If I find you on my premises again, I'll have you horsewhipped." No sooner had he spoken than the enraged vagabond raised his, staff, and aimed a revenge- ful blow at his head. Luckily, the horse page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] ,JLJLJ JI,,J*4 AXll MJI. ,I 1 fI J 1X 1 X*. reared at the first movement of the angry man, and, wheeling on his hind legs, received on his shoulder the blow designed for his rider. Foaming with rage, Mr. Brance endeavored to- ride over the strange man, but finding his horse too skittish for the operation, he turned, and riding furiously up the avenue, shouted to some of his laborers to follow the beggar, and beat him without mercy. Fortunately for the skin of the vagabond, Mr. Brance's laborers were very peaceable and cautious men, who, instead of obeying his an- gry orders immediately, stopped to reason with him on the subject. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Brance," said Tom Clark, a peaceable, good-natured fellow; " al- though the beggar man richly deserves whip- ping, I don't think it belongs to us to give it to him. When I hired out to you, I believe I never agreed to thresh any thing but peas, oats, and such like. If you've any human beings to thresh, I don't see but you'll have to hire somebody expressly for the job." With a muttered curse, Mr. Brance wheeled about, and in no extraordinary good humor, rode off towards the road. It was now too 3 MR. BRANCE'S ADVENTURE. 69 dark to distinguish any object at a distance, and as he looked cautiously about him, the vagabond was nowhere to be seen. Putting spurs to his horse, he then rode rapidly away in the direction of the village. Having called at the post office, Mr. Brance dismounted at the favorite resort of the men of pleasure in Verfield --the village tavern. As he ascended the steps, he met Dr. Corrinton coming out. The young man appeared much excited, as he strode past the father of his rival, and crossing the street, entered his office. "'What is the trouble now?" asked Mr. Brance of the' firs:; man he met, who was no other than Mr. Joseph Sorrel. "It is a most exciting affair!" replied the high-keyed voice of that young gentleman. "The doctor, I believe, will kill somebody be- fore morning. I never saw a man so angry!" "At what?" asked Mr. Brance. "At some rather aggravating language, which a certain gentleman used respecting his character for courage," answered -Joseph. "You see, sir, a certain gentleman had occa- sion to call Corrinton a miserable coward, and some friends of the doctor have just told him page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] of it. Really!" continued Mr. Sorrel, shrug. ging his shoulders, "I don't think I could be prevailed upon to stand in a certain gentle- man's shoes for any pecuniary amount you could name. A certain gentleman, in my opinion, had better be cautious how he gets in the doctor's way; he might give him a dose not altogether professional!" "And who is that certain gentleman?" asked Mr. Brance. "Really, I hoped you would not ask me!" exclaimed Joseph, stroking his upper lip. "That certain gentleman is your son-- Mr. Appleton Brance." "As I expected!" muttered Mr. Brance. "He is always getting himself into trouble. Why the deuse couldn't he hold his tongue about the doctor? But where is Appleton?" "Half an hour ago, he rode out to Craw's Corners, in company with some very gentleman- ly fellows who live out that way somewhere." l The attention of the two speakers, who were standing on the steps of the tavern, was at- tracted by the stable boy, who appeared, lead- ing out Dr. Corrinton's horse, which he left at the door of the doctor's office. Presently, Cor- MB. BRANCE'S ADVENTURE. ' rinton leaped upon the animal, and riding off at a rapid rate, disappeared in the darkness. "I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Joseph Sorrel, "the doctor has taken the road to Craw's Cor- ners! If he should happen to meet Mr. Apple- ton Brance!" "( Curse the rashness of these boys!" mut- tered Mr. Brance. '"If they do happen to meet, something besides words will be the result." "There is one circumstance which should not be overlooked," said Joseph. "The young men certainly have something to quarrel about. I am a peaceable person myself; but I declare, I don't know but I might be induced to quarrel in the. same cause. Really, cousin Alice is the most charming girl!" Mr. Brance was very much annoyed by the threatened quarrel between the passionate young men, and he could not help feeling considerable anxiety to hear from his son that evening. After spending half an hour's time at the tavern, without hearing from either Appleton or the doctor, be mounted his horse, and rode to the residence of the Sorrels, where he pro- posed passing an hour or so with Mrs. Silby. page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] It was late in the evening when he took leave of his intended bride and set out for home. The night was calm and clear; there was no moon, but the stars were bright in the firmament. All Verfield appeared to. have gone to rest, as Mr. Branlce pursued his way leisurely homeward. Arrived at the spot near the entrance to his grounds, where his horse had shied before, he was surprised to perceive that the skittish ani- mal again showed symptoms of terror. With an angry exclamation, he spurred him forward; but the horse snorted, and began to tremble violently. Mr. Brance was no coward, but when he thought that the revengeful vagabond might be lying in wait for him, he began to feel uneasy. In vain he tried to urge his horse up the avenue, but nothing could compel the terrified animal to advance. Perplexed, angry, and not a little anxious to ascertain what there was to fear, Mr. Brance dismounted, and leading the horse by the bridle, advanced cautiously to explore the way. The object which evidently occasioned the animal's terror was easily discovered. It was a dark body stretched upon the ground; but MR. BRANCEIS ADVENTURE. 73 whether that of a man, or beast, or some inani- mate matter, Mr. Brance could not distinguish, and the terror of his horse was such that he was unable to approach near enough to ex- amine it. There are few men who have not a coloring of superstition, however slight, in their natures. Mr. Brance was not free from this weakness. Had he met an armed man, who demanded his money, he would not have trembled; still, at the sight of that mysterious object, which lay so perfectly motionless in his way, he could not help shivering. The darkness, the position of the body, the terror of his horse, the solemn stillness of every thing around, all contributed to arouse superstitious fears. Carefully leading his horse aside, he passed the dark object, and hurried up the- avenue. Once beyond the in- fluence of the cause of his uneasiness, Mr. Brance, who possessed a cool brain, had an opportunity to reflect calmly on the nature of the circumstance. Ashamed 'of his fears, he tied the skittish horse to a tree, and returned immediately to examine the mysterious body.; On a near approach, he was satisfied that it was the body of a man. After some hesitation 7 . page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] he advanced his foot, and touching it, said, in an unsteady voice,- "Halloo, here! Who are you?" There was no reply - no motion of the mys- terious body. Tile echoes of Mr. Brance's own voice frightened him. After a pause, he summoned sufficient courage to stoop and lift an arm, but it was so heavy that he dropped it with a start. "The man is dead!" thought Mr. Brance. "It must be that miserable beggar! I'm glad I didn't have him whipped--this might get me into trouble." A moment after, he walked rapidly up the avenue to his house, and knocked loudly at the kitchen door. The inmates appeared to be asleep, but a second alarm aroused them. Tom Clark came down stairs half dressed, and I opened the door. "Wake Brown," said Mr. Brance, hurriedly, "and bring a lantern." "What's in the wind?" asked Tom. "There's a dead man lying on the ground out here," replied Mr. Brance. "You don't, though!" cried the astonished Mr. Clark. "I thought I heard a gun a little while ago; but I'd no ide'-- " MR. BRANCE S ADVENTUE. 75 Mr. Brance made a gesture of impatience, and Tom disappeared. He did not wait long; and in a few minutes the two, together with Brown, were walking down the avenue. Brown carried a lantern, which cast a circle of yellow light on the objects around them. Mr. Brance led the way, and pointed out the spot, where the body was found lying on its face. "The man must have been murdered," said Tom Clark, timidly. "Hadn't we better not meddle with it till we have witnesses?-" "My God!" cried Mr. Brance " it is not the beggar! Brown, turn the body over!" "I- I- I'd rather not," said Brown, shiv- ering. "Are you sure he's dead?" "I vow," muttered Clark, " them clo's look like--but it can't be -- " With a hand which now trembled violently, but not with fear, Mr. Brance hastily moved the body, and held the lantern down so that it cast its yellow rays on the ghastly face of the corpse. That face was covered with blood, and the light of life was gone from its staring, frightful eyes;. Mr. Brance dropped the lantern, and fell upon his knees. page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] "O God! Appleton!"he gasped. ,L My boy murdered! Good Heavens I Go for some one, - a doctor, -- Clark! - Brown!- help me!" Brown was considerably frightened, and dreaded having any thing to do with the corpse; moreover, he had no desire to witness the father's grief, but felt that,it would be a great relief to get away. Accordingly, he ran with all speed to mount Mr. Brance's horse, and immediately rode off to alarm every body, while Clark and Mr. Brance carried the stiffen- ing corpse into the house. CHAPTER VI. THE CATASTROPHE. MR. SOLOMON BROWN rode with headlong speed, and in ten minutes threw himself from his horse at the door of Dr. Corrinton's office. Mr. Solomon Brown, in this matter, acted just as any excitable man would have done, and precisely as no cool-headed person would have acted. He never thought of the enmity THE CATASTROPHE. " that had existed between Dr. Corrinton and Appleton Brance, and the fact that Dr. Dra. per's office was quite as near as Corrinton's never entered his head. However, as I have said, Solomon Brown dismounted at the door of the young physi- cian's office. Furiously he applied the knocker, and shouted the doctor's name. Almost immediately, Corrinton opened the door. Brown entered with great trepida- tion. "Doctor! go quick!" exclaimed Solomon in a breath. "Go where?" quietly asked Corrinton. "To Mr. Brance's. Appleton has been- been hurt!" Mr. Brown was going to say shot, but his eye resting a moment on a pistol which lay beside the doctor's hat on the table, caused an awful suspicion to enter his brain, and pru- dence suggested that hurt was the better word. It was then, for the first time,.that Mr. Brown remembered the bitter enmity that had existed between Appleton and the doctor. "Per perhaps," he stammered, "I have done wrong to come for you. I believe there 7 page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] -78 THE DESERTED FAMLtY. -there was some difficulty between you and young Brance." "Yes, there was," said Corrinton, "but that is settled. I saw Mr. Brance this evening, and arranged our differences. I will go immediate- ly. How was he hurt?" -( I - H can't say," replied the embarrassed Mr. Brown, as his eye glanced furtively at the pistol on the table. "I suppose, though, he-he was--he was thrown from his horse. We found him on the ground, near the road." "Found him! he must be badly hurt, then!" exclaimed Corrinton. Y -ye -yes! We thought he was killed." In an instant the doctor had leaped upon Mr. Brance's horse. He only said,- "Go to the tavern for my horse," and then rode off in the direction of Mr. Brance's house. Reflecting dubiously on the appearance of the doctor and his singular words, Mr. Brown walked across the way to the tavern, and turned his steps towards the stable, where he saw a light. THE CATASTROPHE. 79 "I want Dr. Corrinton's horse," cried he, perceiving the hostler. "Dr. Corrinton's oss!" exclaimed that in- dividual. "Why, the doctor only come up with him half an hour ago. It's a shame to ride one oss so!" In a few words Mr. Brown astonished the hostler with the startling intelligence of which he was the bearer, and therefore the horse was brought out with unusual despatch. "Who d'ye s'pose done it?" asked the hos- tler, holding Mr. Brownr by the leg, as he was on the point of riding off. "How should I know?" gasped Solomon, frightened at the thought that he might be tempted to utter his suspicions. "Do you think it was Corrinton?" whispered the hostler. "They quarrelled, you know----" "I don't know no such thing!" exclaimed the prudent Mr. Brown. "Now let go of my leg, or you'll pull me off." The hostler relaxed his hold, and Solomon dashed away towards the house of Mr. Brance's neighbors, the Sorrels. Having alarmed some- body, and shouted the intelligence of Apple- ton's death loud enough to be heard half a page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] 80 THE DESERTED FAMLY. mile, he wheeled about, and rode furiously off in another direction, to spread the news throughout the neighborhood. Meanwhile Dr. Corrinton had arrived at the scene of the catastrophe. Perceiving that the animal he rode was inclined to be skittish at the smell of blood, he dismounted, and led him up the avenue, Corrinton found the doors of Mr. Brance's house thrown open, and he entered without ceremony. A sound of low voices directed his steps: in a moment he found himself in the presence of the body. It was a small room, dimly lighted by flick- ering lamps. On the floor lay the corpse, with its ghastly face turned upwards. The clothes had been removed from the throat and chest, and the blood washed away; -a dark, sangui- nary spot remaining on the neck, marked the wound at which death had entered the living body. Several human figures were in the room, the most prominent of which was that of Mr. Roger Brance. His motionless features were turned towards the corpse, which he regarded in silent agony. His bloodless, compressed r THE CATASTROPHE. 81 lips, his gathered brow, his ashy cheeks, his fixed and burning gaze, impressed the new comer with awe. "Mr. Brance," said Corrinton, "I come to see if I can render any assistance. What! dead! Good Heavens! how came this?" Slowly Mr. Brance removed his eves from the corpse, and fixed them searchingly on the new comer. When he perceived that it was Cor- rinton who stood before him, a sudden flash illumed his eyes, and his frame bent eagerly forward. "You! Corrinton!" he whispered, "you ask how came this!" "Sir," answered the doctor, in an excited manner, "no man could be more astounded than myself at this catastrophe. I sympaw thize with you deeply, Mr. Brance." Corrinton did not flinch before the searching look of the afflicted father. "Who could have done this horrid deed," he murmured, bending over the corpse. Mr. Brance made no reply. "It's a murder," whispered Tom Clark. "Somebody that hated the poor young man shot him off his horse. If he had been mur- page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 THE DESERTED FAMLY. dered for his money, the villain wouldn't have left a purse, with eighty dollars in it, in this 'ere coat pocket." "He was shot off his horse, you say," ob- served Corrinton. "Yes, sir; his horse was found standing, with his saddle and bridle on, before the, stable door." Corrinton pressed his hand to his brow, and looked thoughtfully at the corpse. 'Has Squire Wilbur been sent for?" he asked, suddenly. "I guess not," answered Mr. Roberts, one of Mr. Brance's tenants. ." Brown wouldn't think to go for him." "I think he is the fittest man to give advice and look into this matter," said Corrinton. "Will you go for him, sir?" "I'll go," said Clark. The man had scarcely left the house, when a new comer rushed in. "Good God!' ejaculated Mr. Joseph Sorrel, -for it was he,--turning ghastly pale, and holding up his hands in horror at sight of the corpse. "Good God! good God!" "I am glad you have come," whispered the THE CATASTROPHE. 83 doctor in Joseph's ear. "This is an awful occurrence. The young man has been mur- dered." (t Good God!" gasped Joseph. "Will your father come in soon?" pursued the doctor. ( Good God!" repeated the- horror-stricken Mr. Sorrel, still gazing fearfully at the corpse. "1 Who is the coroner this year?" suddenly demanded Mr. Roberts. "Coroner?" echoed Joseph, starting at the word. "My father is the coroner. I - I wish -I wish he was here! Good God! what a horrid affair!" "Did you see my son after I saw you at the tavern?" calmly asked Mr. Brance. "Yes, I did!" exclaimed Joseph. '"That is, I didn't. I heard him, and knew it was him. He was on horseback; he was talking with somebody." And Joseph wiped the cold sweat from his brow, and cast a timid glance at Corrinton. "Who was he talking with?" demanded Mr. Brance in the same calm tone. "With-- with Dr. Corrinton!" answered Joseph, explosively. i ely. page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84- THE DESERTED FAMLY. Mr. Brance compressed his lips, and looking fixedly at the young physician, inquired, - "Are you sure of what you say, Joseph?" a( O, perfectly. I couldn't be more sure of any thing,"' answered Joseph, in a hurried mani- ner. "The doctor and Appleton were riding together- both horseback. It was on the road just above our house, and they were coming in this direction." "Mr. Sorrel is right," said Corrinton. "I was riding with your son, sir, late this evening." 'v Where did you leave him?" asked Mr. Brance. "Within a dozen rods of the foot of the avenue," replied Corrinton, firmly. "I had been riding in his company then about half an hour. We were engaged in earnest conversa- tion, and I accompanied him almost to the gate, when I bade himn good night, and rode home." "Did you hear the report of a gun?" asked Mr. Brance. c' I remember hearing a noise of some kind,. which I thought was a pistol or gun," answered the doctor; " but as my horse was on the gal- lop, I did not hear distinctly, and supposing I must be mistaken, thought no more of it." THE CATASTROPHE. 85 "It is so singular that you should be riding with Appleton!" exclaimed Joseph. "( It was an unusual event, I know," said Corrinton. "But there was some misunder- standing between us which I wished to have settled, and- this is what brought us together to-night." Squire Wilbur, a magistrate, and Mr. Sorrel, the coroner, now came in together. "Good evening, my friends," said Mr. Brance, with a stern and calm expression. "You see what has brought us together to- night." And he pointed to the corpse of his murdered son. Mr. Sorrel, a tall, thin, nervous man, with a severe eye, and a dreary-looking face, pressed Mr. Brance's hand, and scrutinized the corpse. Squire Wilbur, a small, but rather corpulent individual, with a good-humored countenance, immediately commenced making inquiries touching the circumstances of the catas- trophe. Dr. Corrinton, without hesitation, repeated, for the satisfaction of the last comers, all he had already related of his late interview with the deceased. Meanwhile there were other 8 page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] arrivals; Drs. Draper and Dosemore, who had been sent for on Squire Wilbur's suggestion, appeared; other neighbors came upon the spot, so that at midnight Mr. Brance's house wras crowded. Men with less keen perceptive faculties than Dr. Corrinton could not have failed to mark the direction in which the suspicions of nearly all present tended. The young physician evidently felt embarrassed. The arrival of Drs. Draper and Dosemore added not a little to his uneasiness; and at about half past twelve, having expressed his willingness and desire to render any assistance in his power, and in- formed Mr. Wilbur and Mr. Sorrel that he could be found at his office, providing his services were required, Corrinton took his leave. Mr. Solomon Brown had brought the doc- tor's horse to the door, and the young man was soon riding slowly homeward. i The moon had risen, and the gentle luminary cast a silvery veil over the dark face of night. The fields slept in the soft moonlight, and the silent trees marked the earth with shadowy, distorted pic- tures of themselves. It was a still, solemn :.ia * An o THE CATASTROPHE. 87 night; and as Corrinton rode leisurely along the highway, the sadness of the scene added weight to the load upon his heart. More than once his bosom heaved with deep-drawn sighs, and often he placed his hand upon his aching forehead. Corrinton had thrown the bridle reins upon his horse's neck, and before he was conscious of what was taking place, the sagacious animal, following his accustomed path, had reached the stable of the village tavern. Here the horse stood still, and Corrinton, brought to his senses, dismounted, spoke to the savage dog that guarded the place, and leading the horse to his stall, took off his bridle, and left him for the night. At a thoughtful pace the doctor then walked to his office, and, entering, threw himself into an arm chair with a heavy sigh. For the space of half an hour, Corrinton sat gazing abstractedly at the walls of his little office; then with a start he arose, and paced nervously to and fro; and finally, taking up the pistol which had attracted Solomon Brown's attention, he gazed at it intently, examined the lock, and hung the weapon, afterwards, on a nail under hiss mirror. page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 ' THE DESERTED FAMTTY. At two o'clock, the young physician went to bed; but the moonlight, which 'then lay cold and still upon the floor of his sleeping room, had given place to the light of the gray dawn before the exciting events of the evening ceased to haunt his brain and banish sleep. CHAPTER VII. THE NIGHT AND THE MORNIN G. ALICE SILBY and her mother had been aroused by the alarm Mr. Solomon Brown spread throughout the neighborhood; and after the departure of the elder and younger Mr. Sorrel for the scene of the catastrophe, they sat up together, anxiously waiting for further iintel- ligence. The hours dragged heavily by. The interest of the mother and daughter in the nature of the calamity became intense- their anxiety painful in the extreme. Still no -further news reached them. Joseph came not; his father was still absent. THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. 89 "Go down into your aunt's room," said Mrs. Silby to Alice for the twentieth time, " and see if any body has arrived." Alice obeyed, and went down stairs. She found Mrs. Sorrel, who was a very easy and comfortable woman, asleep. Stepping lightly, so as not to awaken her aunt, Alice went to the door and looked out. All was gloom- no life or motion. She listened. There was no sound except the moaning of the breeze. Shuddering, Alice ran up stairs to her mother. "There is no news yet," said she. '-Aunt Emily is sound asleep. I can neither see nor hear any thing." Mrs.- Silby heaved a sigh of impatience. "I'd rather know the worst at once," she said, " than be kept in such suspense. I wish I knew whether Appleton is dead or not. Did Solomon say shot, Alice?" "First he said shot, then murdered," replied Alice. ( But I can't believe it. He must have been thrown from his horse. Who could shoot him?" ', Who but an enemy?" cried Mrs. Silby. "I know what you mean," said the young girl, sadly. , Dr. Corrinton was, unfortunately, 8* page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] 9U0 THE DESERTED FAMLY. Appleton's enemy. But this is not sufficient ground for serious suspicion. No, no! Cor- rinton never injured Appleton Brance." "Have I not told you what Mr. Brance said , this evening," demanded Mrs. Silby, "about the threatened quarrel,'and his fear for the con- sequences?" "Yes - yes," murmured Alice. "' But even that I count as nothing. I know Corrinton too well to suspect him of so horrid a deed. He is proud, rash, passionate, I know; but he would shrink from crime." '"You know not what gentlemen may do when their passions are roused," said Mrs. Sil- by. "But hark! what sound is that? "Footsteps!" replied Alice. "' "And a voice! It is Joseph!" cried Mrs. Silby. In a moment Alice met her cousin at the door, and led him up stairs in haste. "Good God! panted Joseph, "you've no idea! Atful occurrence!" "Tell us about it - quick!" exclaimed Mrs. Silby. "Appleton Brance is murdered!" cried he, emphatically. "Shot! bullet right through THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. 91 the neck! Give me a glass of wine-I'm fainting!" Mrs. Silby glanced at her daughter, who stood pale and silent, regarding Joseph. The mother proposed the question Alice durst not utter. "( Well, Joseph, has any thing come to light?" ' O, bless you! yes, a good many things. It's clear as day who murdered Appleton. No- body has a doubt about it. I beg your pardon, coz. I'm afraid I wound your feelings. It appears that Dr. Corrinton is mixed up mys- teriously in the matter." Alice started. "( Go on!" exclaimed Mrs. Silby. "What about Dr. Corrinton?" "It is proved that he was the last person who was seen with Appleton this evening. They had a quarrel, and the doctor says he rode home with Appleton. Here comes the mystery. Corrinton says hesettled his difficul- ties with Appleton this evening. Settled them with a vengeance, I say! But as I was tell- ing: the doctor in his confusion confessed that he rode up to Mr. Brance's gate with the page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] -f UXTHE UJESERjKl'iU F'AMLYX. young man. Now, it was just inside the gate that Appleton was found dead - shot -bullet in the neck. I won't say who must have done the deed; but I will say, that, if Corrinton left Appleton just at the spot where he was killed, Corrinton ought to know better than any body else how and by whom the murder was com- mitted." "'Where is the doctor now?" asked Alice. "How should I know?" cried the excited, Mr. Sorrel. "Brown went for him first- found him, he says, in a state of excitement most extraordinary - pistol on Corrinton's ta- ble, which he tried to hide behind his hat- and Brown's a remarkable shrewd man - sees every thing. Well, Corrinton- this is what looks very singular to me - Corrinton eagerly declared that there was no longer any enmity existing between him and Appleton,- was sorry he was hurt, and immediately rode to Mr. Brance's house. Every body who saw him there remarked his extraordinary appearance. Another thing looks suspicious: the doctor was the first one to leave; he went home an hour ago. Now, if he knew no more than he ought to about the murder, why did he Jleave so THEL NuIGHT AJND y 1)i TIM MVALx- va soon? I'd like to know if any body can an- swer that question." "So," said Alice, "'you think Corrinton is the murderer?" "O, I didn't say that. I don't wish to be understood-- " "Listen to me a moment, dear Joseph." Joseph balanced himself on one foot, cocked his eye, and looked fondly at his cousin. "You have said enough to convince a child that you believe Corrinton guilty of 'this deed, although you have avoided expressing your- self in plain words," said Alice, in a calm, severe tone. "Allow me to suggest that it would be wise to wait for more evidence, be- fore -forming or expressing an opinion." Joseph looked blank. "Thank you for your good advice," he said, in a humble tone. "But every body suspects Corrinton." "Then every body does Corrinton injustice," replied Alice. Mrs. Silby interrupted the conversation to inquire how Mr. Brance seemed affected by the catastrophe; and Dr. Corrinton wai not again alluded to: j page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] " THE DESERTED FATMLY. Half an hour after, Joseph having been sent away by his cousin, and Mrs. Silby having. retired to catch a few moments' sleep before the break of day, Alice sat alone by the open window of her room, gazing thoughtfully out upon the solemn moonlight scene. Regrets, anxiety, doubts, filled the mind of the young schoolmistress. She felt herself placed in a most painful position; and dark forebodings' of the sequel of what had occurred agitated her usually calm, serene soul. Know- ing that Dr. Corrinton must be suspected,-- trembling with fear, -lest' in a moment of pas- sion he had committed the revolting deed,-- feeling herself to be the original though inno- cent cause of the -quarrel between the rivals, she passed the remainder of the night in intense suffering. These tumultuous feelings, how- ever, did not shut out from her heart deep sor- row for the fate of the unhappy Appleton, whose faults were all forgotten, and whose bet- ter qualities were alone remembered. The shadows of night were lightening with streaks of day when Alice finally sought her pillow, and slept. The sun was advancing up the cloudless THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. 95 eastern sky, when Mr. Sorrel the elder returned home, and soon after the inmates of the house were all assembled to hear his account of the previous night's catastrophe. But Mr. Sorrel was a cautious, taciturn man, and he had but little to relate. In a short time he again de- parted for the scene of the murder, where his duties as coroner called him, and Joseph alone remained with the ladies. "Such dreams as I had last night, or rather this morning!" exclaimed the younger Mr. Sorrel, breaking in upon Alice's medita- tions. "Horrid, I assure you! All about the murder; couldn't dream of any thing else, Miss Fantom was nowhere; and I generally make it a point to dream of her nightly. But I didn't neglect to dream of you, coz. I dreamed -don't be angry, coz, it was only a dream, and folks can't help what they dream, you know - I dreamed that you and I were to be married. You had relented, and con- sented, and my happiness was to be crowned. But there was a singular and most unpleasant circumstance connected with my dream. The place where the matrimonial ceremony was to be performed was rather peculiar. We stood page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] 96 THE DESERTED FAMLY. in a cart, with a graveyard on one side, and a gallows, constructed after improved models, on the other. It was such a queer dream! The devil performed the ceremony, while Apple ton Brance, with his bloody neck all bare, grinned at us over a gravestone, and Dr. Corrinton swung under the gallows like a scarecrow." "What a horrid fellow you are!" cried Alice. ( O0, but remember it is all a dream!' ex- claimed Joseph, eagerly. "I am glad it's nothing else; though if there was a possibility of one portion of the dream coming to pass- if I had the most distant hope that a certain cruel heart would relent -- O, I ask your par- don! I- I forgot myself." And deeply impressed with the impropriety of proposing to his cousin on such a solemn occasions Joseph, to better the matter, com- menced whistling a popular air, of a rather lively movement. He was brought to his senses by the entrance of Dr. Corrinton. Joseph looked confounded, and slunk away into a retired corner of the room, while Alice advanced eagerly to greet the doctor. "Miss Silby--I hope you are well this THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. 97 morning," said Corrinton, in a somewhat hur- ried manner. "But I have hardly time to speak civilly to you. I wish to see Mr. Sorrel. ,( Ah! my father?" cried Joseph. "Yes; I have a fact to communicate to him, and I wish to consult him," replied Cor- rinton. "You will probably find him at Mr. Brance's," said Alice. "I will go there immediately then," an- swered the doctor. "This is a most melan- choly affair, Miss Silby." "It is," said Alice. "Do you know any thing more of it than was learned last: night?" "Nothing of importance. It still remains a mystery. Dear Miss Silby," added Corrinton, in a low tone, '" if I have ever merited your confidence or esteem, do not-do not allow your opinion of me to be moved by any thing that may take place. You know what I would say! You must have divined the embarrassing circumstances in which this unfortunate event has placed me." Alice felt grateful for the frankness with which Corrinton addressed her, and the confi- dence he appeared to repose in her faith and 9 page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] discretion. The earnest, tender, appealing look with which he regarded her, also moved her; and she returned the warm pressure of his hand, as he hastily bade her farewell. ( I believe-- I dont know --it strikes me," said Joseph, as his eye followed the doctor, "that he is a terrible sort of fellow. I shall always be afraid of him after this, I am sure. O, I beg your pardon, coz; I don't say I think - you know what but then, I wouldn't like to quarrel with Dr. Corrinton." At this moment, a small boy came running -up to the door, and in an excited manner called for Joseph. "Come in, George," said Alice, who recog- nized one of her pupils. "Here's Joseph," said the younger Mr. Sor- rel. The boy held his cap in his hand, and after bowing respectfully to Alice, addressed the young gentleman. "They want you," said he. "Go quick! They're going to have an inquest!" And turning upon his heel, the boy ran off again in great trepidation,. :"Farewell, coz,"- said Joseph, with a sickly "THlE NI UT AND THE MORNING. MY smile. "Duty calls me away. Unpleasant duty compels me from your side. I am going into the presence of death, as an important witness--to swear to the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Bless me, I feel sick already." "Go, and be firm, faithful, prudent," said Alice. "Be a marn." She pressed his hand, and gave him an encouraging look. "I will!" cried Joseph, with sudden enthu- siasm. "You shall not be ashamed of your cousin-your adorer! O, if I could win your approbation - and you could think more favor- ably of me--and-- and if you 'would only throw out the most fragile cobweb of hope for me to grasp----" ?"Look, Joseph," cried Alice, who was not ambitious of another offer from her affectionate cousin, "to-day is Saturday. I shall remain at home. You can imagine that I shall be anxious to hear all that is taking place; and if you can manage to send me any mes- sage-- " "I'll do it!" cried Joseph. "I'll send you all the news which I can't bring myself. Where's page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] my patent inkstand? I'll write to you every half hour! I'll lavish monev on errand boys, to run my expresses! What a day! Excitement is my element, dear coz! Good by- I go where duty leads me!" Joseph kissed his hand to his cousin, drew himself proudly up, smote his breast lilke some desperate theatrical character, and in the ardor of his zeal jumped over the fence, instead of going through the open gate, and rushed wildly away. TWhat the younger Mr. Sorrel did, saw, heard, felt, and experienced, at the scene of the Ver- field tragedy, may be gathered from his ad- mirable despatches to Alice, which we are happy to be--able to lay before the reader. CHAPTER VIII. THE DESPATCHES. MR. JOSEPH SORREL had been absent but half an hour, when Alice, who waited with considerable anxiety for his promised messages, looked down the road, and saw a lad approach- ing at a rapid rate, which bespoke business of importance. It was the same boy who had before come in such haste for Joseph. With cap in hand, hair flying in the wind, collar unbuttoned, and face flushed with exercise, he rushed into the pres- ence of Alice, and with a show of fidelity, promptitude, and zeal, worthy of chivalric ages, yielded up his trust. "Here's a letter!" he cried, " from Joseph. I'm going for another. He's hired me to carry 'em all day." And off ran the trusty messenger, while Alice opened the letter. It was a carefully folded, carefully sealed, and most carefully written note, which we transcribe verbatim. 9* (101) page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] "DEAREST COUSIN-: The . terrible excite- ment of this awful day, the confusion around me, the smell of murder which invades my nostrils, the weighty cares on my mind, my unsteady nerves, and the bruised state of the tin pan on the bottom of which T write this letter, must be my apology for the wretched scrawl I send you. "Words fail me when I undertake to de- scribe to you the awful scene to which I am an unhappy eye witness. 'Quorum pars 7nagna fui,' as AEneas said to Dido. All Verfield is astir. Legions of men, women, and children, prompted by curiosity, besiege the house of Mr. Brance. The awful intelligence has gone forth to the four quarters of the world, and three quarters of the world are here already. But the cry is, Still they conme. Curious faces peer into the windows while I write. Men stand on tiptoe, and balance themselves on fences and trees, to get a sight of the corpse; and an awful array of grim faces surrounds me on all sides. Can you conceive how it is the populace relishes crime and horror in this way? They scent a murder as: far off as vultures scent their prey. O tempora! O mores! when at the THE DESPATCHES. JLU sight of blood, or a mangled corpse, people experience such awful pleasure! I can't help thinking what egregious bumps of destructive- ness must lie at the foundation of this savage joy. "You cannot conceive of the excitement which surrounds me. Down from the moun- tain, up from the valley, out of the forest, and over the fields, armies are still pouring. A dense crowd is gathered on the spot where the corpse was found, and eager eyes look curious- ly for marlrs of blood. Meanwhile, my father, Squire- Wilbur, Dr. Draper, Dr. Dosemore, and a number of other respectable influential men, are pursuing their investigations. "I have not yet been made a confidant of the wise heads of Verfield, and the result of their deliberations I am unable to disclose. "In haste I close this bloody record. I am happy to inform you that I have made arrange- ments by which I can send to you every half hour. You shall know every thing as fast as the dark mystery unfolds itself, and the plot of the tragedy is developed; and believe me, I shall ever remain your obedient servant, sincere admirer, and devoted cousin, JOSEPH SORREL." page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] 104 -THE DESERTED FAMTT Y. Such was Joseph's first despatch. Faithful to his promise, in half an hour he sent another, as follows: "ADORED ALICE: HowN I shall write this note I know not. The tin pan which served me as a desk before has been wrested from me by a barbarous multitude. I am driven to use a rough board, which I hold upon my knee. The truth is, I am looked upon as a maniac by some; others consider me a reporter for the Gazette and Recorder. My friends shake their heads doubtfully at my enterprise. But nothing can daunt me. Write I must, and will! "I have just seen Mr. Brance. Grief was on his brow, sorrow in his eye, and pale was his cheek. He looked like a miserable, desper- ate man. I didn't suppose he had so much feeling before. Appleton's death must go hard with him. "About the time I closed my last epistle, a great sensation was produced by an announce- ment that Mr. Brance had offered a reward of a thousand dollars for the murderer of his ill- fated son. This is a fact; already they are " THE DESPATCHES. 105 printing the bills at the office of the Gazette and Recorder. Wlho can have done the deed? "I have just been sent for in great haste by my father. I must close, and despatch this hurried letter. JOE." 9"Poor Joseph! ' sighed Alice ; " how careful he is not to mention Corrinton's name! Sure- ly he will say something of him in his next." Anxiously Alice waited for another despatch. George, the messenger, came sooner than he was expected; but he brought no letter. "Joseph told me to tell you," said he, " that he's been giving in his testimony, and hasn't had time to write. He'll send again as soon as he -can." After a season of anxiety and impatience, which appeared interminable, Alice received the following:- "STAR OF MY EXISTENCE, DEAREST COUSIN: In the midst of my imperative duties, I snatch a few minutes from my much-occupied time to keep you posted up. I have testified--told the truth -the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I; feel relieved. I have done my duty. I have acted--a man! kat, page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] 106 THE DESERTED FAMirLY. "But I have sad news to tell you. My heart bleeds when the truth knocks at it and will come forth. But why hesitate? I will to my task with the spirit of a man. "Early this morning, Solomon Brown found a pistol in the road, where it had evidently been thrown or dropped by some terrified hand. "He gathered up the murderous weapon, and it was produced at the inquest. I will here add, that those lights of science and adorners of their profession, Drs. Dosemore and Draper, have taken from the hideous wound of death a leaden globe --a bullet, which, although a lit- tle bruised, fits the dark muzzle to a T. Here is the conclusion arrived at by all sensible minds: 1. The bullet killed the man. 2. The murder- ous pistol gave to the globe of lead its deadly impulse. The question now arises, Who was the motive power--that is, who pulled the trigger? Would that the weapon could have fired itself! Would that man were guiltless of this bloody act! But no! pistols don't go off without hands. "Now, with a bursting heart I come to the dark end of this tale. "Mr. Solomon Brown remembered seeing a THE DESPATCHES. 107 pistol on Dr. Corrinton's table; thought said pis- tol was similar to the one found in the road; and proper persons were immediately despatched to Corrinton's office. The doctor had just left, but the pistol observed by Brown was found, and brought; also, a pouch containing bullets. The two pistols were compared; found to be precise- ly alike--made by same man, workmanship peculiar. Major Smith-- that barbarous man! -called upon, recognized said weapons as prop- erty of Corrinton. Corrinton and Major Smith had been in the habit of shooting together in an orchard beyond the doctor's office. Had seen the pistols thousands of times -knew them to be Corrinton's. After Smith, several respecta- ble individuals, intimate with Corrinton, testi- fied to the pistols being his property; had seen the pair hanging in his office time and again. ("The bullets were examined by competent judges. Found to be all alike--all cast in the same moulds as bullet taken from wound. "You will probably ask, Where was Dr. Cor- rinton all this time? You remember he called for father this morning. Well, he arrived at the scene of the tragedy just as the matter of the pistols had been brought to light. I am page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 108 THE DESERTED FAMLY. told he appeared much excited. CWhen ques- tioned, he acknowledged his property, and hur- riedly declared that it was on this subject he wished to consult father. Didn't know how the weapon found by Brown ever got out of his office. Must have been stolen. Never carried his pistols, except when he went out to prac- tise shooting. Discovered that pistol was missing last night; didn't think much of it; supposed some one of his friends had come to borrow it during his absence. This morning thought differently; missing pistol troubled him; went in haste to consult father. This is the doctor's story. "My letter draws to its terrible conclusion. The coroner's verdict has been rendered - De- ceased came to his death by being shot in the neck with a lead bullet, fired from a pistol belong- ing to Albert Corrinton; and it is the belief of the jury that said pistol was fired by said Core rinton.' This is the substance of the verdict. It filled the multitude with consternation. The excitement was tremendous. O, my dearest cousin, you can have no idea what a wicked community this is! I can write no more at present. I am of great importance in this THE DESPATCHES. 109 matter, and am willing to make myself useful. Though I should feel much better if I hadn't seen deceased and the doctor together last night, or rather heard them, and had not been obliged to testify to that effect. Your faithful, ever-devoted JOSEPH." It is impossible to describe the anguish with which Alice read this letter. She gave it to her mother with a deep sigh, saying,- "I cannot believe it -I cannot realize it! I feel dizzy trying to comprehend it. Corrin- ton accused!" "Arrested!" exclaimed Joseph, bursting into the room. t"Dr. Corrinton has been arrested! i' 10 page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] CHAPTER IX. WANDERIN-GS. THE day was bright and warm. Birds sang in the green woods, and cattle roamed lazily about the sunny fields, or lay down under the thick branches of trees. A drowsy hum of life filled the air; yet in meadows and about farm yards men and boys were briskly at work. It was in haying time, and the day was the last of the six days of labor: farmers were busily pre- paring for the seventh day -the Sabbath day of rest. Across green pastures, where the grass was closely cropped by the hungry kine and flocks of thrifty sheep; over meadows which the farmer's scythe had smoothly shorn; up barren mountain sides, rock-ribbed, and clothed only by scanty shrubs, hardy saplings, and vines of wintergreen and ivy; through pleasant wood- lands, shady and cool, and solitary forests, dreary, dense, and dark; down the rough faces of frowning hills, bearded with briers and crowned by tapering pines; always avoiding (110) . I WANDUERINGS. A- 1l1 dusty roads, and seeking unfrequented places, a lonely traveller pursued his way. It was the vagabond of my first chapter, the wretched man whom Roger Brance had. driven from his grounds. Through the greater portion of the night the vagabond had journeyed on. At first the stars shone upon his path dimly, but with cheerful rays; and then uprose in the luminous east the moon,--waning, yet large and fiery,--and lighted his lonely way. In the silence of the night he at length lay down to repose. He made his bed on the hard ground, on the confines of a forest, where the awful voices of gloomy owls awoke, at inter- vals, hideous echoes in the dismal woods. Through opening branches, the moon, no longer large and red, but pale and shrunken, and soaring high in the heavens, looked down coldly upon his face; and there the wanderer slept. The owls had gone back into their solitary holes; the blind bats no longer darted about in the gloom; the waning moon; had declined westward; the stars had disappeared, flooded by the tide of day; and far and near, innumer- page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] AAA Jl- A 1 jH A - f J *--** * A . BBt able arm yards had resounded with the clear crowing of cocks that awoke to salute the ear- liest gleam of morning. The wanderer crept from his rudethed, and bathed his temples in a streamlet that trickled down the hillside. A sudden sound caused him to start and trem- ble. It was only a rabbit, that had been frightened from its bed of leaves. Leaning upon his staff, he plodded down tne declivity, and recommenced his wanderings. It was noon. The vagabond had eaten nothing that morning but a crust, with which j! his pockets had been provided. Hunger be- came pressing, and he approached a farm ,j house. Gathered about the curb, near the i door, a band of lusty laborers were washing their strong hands, brown arms, and sweaty faces, in water freshy drawn from the- cool depths of the well. At the approach of the }vagabond, the men paused to scrutinize mim. Shrinking from their gaze, he bowed his head, and drew back, as if in fear. "What's wanting?" cried a rough voice. The vagabond took courage, and replied, -- '"I' am a poor man, and I have a great Ways to travel. I am obliged to depend /1 ai upon charity. I would be thankful for a crust." . ,4 Well, well, my good fellow," said the same rough voice, '" you needn't ask twice for some- thing to eat, in these parts. Sit down under the shed there, and if you go away hungry, it will be your own fault." The vagabond reclined upon a bench, and presently a little girl brought him a cup of milk. "Thank you! thank you!" murmured the 'traveller, after he had quenched his thirst. "You can come in to dinner soon," replied the girl. "The men are eating now." The vagabond was left alone. The shed under which he reposed joined the house, and the doors stood open. He could hear the ring of glasses, and clicking of knives and forks, and the cheerful conversation of the farmer and his workmen. American laborers dine with despatch: the vagabond had not long to wait. As soon as the men had asrisen, the little girl came again, and invited the poor man to enter. He sat down at the table, on which there was an abundance of wholesome food yet left, and 10* page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] there he ate his fill, while nimble hands were clearing the cloth around him. The workmen were reclining at their ease under shady apple trees that grew near the house when he took his departure. It was the nooning time -a happy season among many farmers, when they enjoy the delicious luxury of repose, a half hour after dinner. The traveller pursued his journey. At the next farm he passed the laborers had just gone into the fields; farther on they were briskly working. It was a busy afternoon. The hay was to be secured, for the Sabbath might bring rain. Scythes were hung in the branches of the trees, or left lying in the swath; and rakes and pitchforks gathered up the hay. Strong men rolled up heavy winrows, which were either left in neatly-trimmed cocks, or pitched upon capa- cious racks; and wagons, groaning with their bulky loads, rolled off to stack and barn. Men heaved up the masses of hay, lads shaped the loads, and boys followed the teams with rakes to gather up scattering locks, Play was not thought of even by the youngest; the boys were too busy for fun: snakes glided through the grass with whole tails, and mice escaped unharmed. WANDERINGS. 115 These scenes of busy life and happy indus- try awoke strange sensations in the vagabond's bosom; and at evening, when he saw the weary farmers leave the fields, and with cheer- ful faces go home to enjoy the night and the Sabbath of rest, the wretched man shed tears of remorse and anguish. The sun went down; the cows returned from moist pastures with their treasures of milk; the shades of evening gathered, and thickened into night; and silence and repose followed the hum and business of the day. The vagabond slept in a barn, amid the sweet odors of the freshly-gathered hay. The dawn of the Sabbath day! How differ- ent from the dawn of the other six the days of toil and worldly strife! A holy quiet fills the world; the air is heavy with repose; the singing of birds, the crowing of cocks, alone break the silence of the Sabbath morning. The only labor performed is the milking of cows, the regulating of the farm yard, the pre- parations for church. The inhabitants of the country rise late, and luxuriate in the leisure which they enjoy but once a week. Youths and maidens saunter about the orchards and page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] "6 THE DESERTED FAMLY. fields, or read pleasant volumes, sitting upon the soft grass under cool shadows; boys seek out retired places, where they can pursue silent sports, unseen by pious parents; old men read ponderous Bibles in doorways or under porches, and the maids, with fewer jests than usual, pro. vide the breakfast, clear away the table, and prepare the children for church. -The vagabond arose betimes, and in the midst of such scenes as these pursued his lonely pilgrimage. With eyes dim with tears, he saw the happy people of a happy land en- joying the fruits of noble industry, and the repose which only useful labor brings. In the midst of so much rest and peace, he alone of all the world seemed oppressed with trouble and toil. On the evening previous, the wanderer had supped at a farm house, and now hospitality provided his morning meal. He sat down at a table from .which a peaceful family had just arisen, and with a grateful heart appeased his hunger with the fragments of the bountiful breakfast; while in the adjoining-room, the door of which was open, an old man read aloud a chapter in the Bible to his wife and children gathered around him. WANDERINGS. 117 When the old man had finished reading, he talked long and feelingly to his family on pious subjects, and concluded with an earnest prayer. The vagabond listened. The peaceful, pious scene brought back upon his weary heart the memory of his youth, of the holy lessons learned in childhood and forgotten in age, of a happy home, and of friends dearly beloved; and when, at the close of the old man's prayer, the solemn Sabbath bells pealed forth, his bosom heaved, his breath came thick and hot, and down his pallid, care-worn cheeks coursed sorrowful, bit- ter tears. The wretched man hurried from the house. Even on that Solemn, quiet day, he toiled on his journey. While the Sabbath-school bells, which he himself had once cheerfully obeyed, were ringifig clear and loud, and youthful bands walked soberly to church, the vagabond plodded onward, onward still. An hour passed, 'and a scene of peaceful life, such as the world never witnesses save on the Sabbath, greeted him. Clouids of dust began to rise over the hills in the direction of the road, and then vehicles of nearly every fashion, ap- pearing one- by one, rolled leisurely past, and- page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] disappeared. Stately carriages, drawn by sleek and spirited spans; buggies,' carrying two grown persons and perhaps a child; family wagons, packed with boys and girls of all ages and sizes, were driven in one direction- -to. wards the distant pealing of the bell. Foot passengers, too, were going the same way; and occasionally a man, or a man and woman, rode by on horseback. Apart from the sober, church-going people, lonely and sad, the vagabond journeyed on; and in the midst of so much peaceful life, he alone of all the world seemed oppressed with trouble and toil. The loud and- clamorous ringing of the bell had ceased when he came in sight of the old- fashioned, weather-beaten church, and saw the- latest worshippers enter the broad, quaint door- way. Deep, monotonous, solemn peals swelled from the roaring belfry, vibrating on the air, and falling heavily upon the heart, and then all was hushed; and around the sacred por- tal gathered a more solemn atmosphere of awe. The vagabond hurried from this impressive scene, which loaded his heart with so many painful memories, and peopled his soul with the ghosts of the buried past. He now seemed in the midst of an uninhab- ited country. The churches had gathered within their sacred-walls the population of the land. Farm houses basked in the quiet sun- shine, cattle roamed the fields, the implements of labor lay about barns and sheds, and not a human face was to be seen. Occasionally, it is true, the profane report of a gun, fired by some ungodly hunter, awoke strange echoes in the solemn woods; but the unnatural sound served but to give to the succeeding stillness more awful impressiveness. Leaving such scenes behind, the vagabond entered a village. The shops were closed, the streets deserted; and the only sounds which greeted his ears were the deep tones of the organ and the chanted hymn, which swelled along the aisles of the village church. Near the house of God was the tavern, where the evil-inclined seek the communion of the wicked on the Sabbath; and the vagabond found the bar room peopled with sinners, who spent the day in unseemly merriment, and jested even while the concluding hymn of the page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] morning service could be heard from the neigh- boring church. The conversation of the assembled Sabbath breakers awoke a singular interest in the bosom of the wanderer. They were talking about a horrid murder which had taken place in Verfield; and he listened with strained ears. "It'll go hard with Corrinton," said one. "He was a cussed fool to throw away the pistol he shot him with," observed a dissipated youth, who sat near the door, smoking a dingy clay pipe. "D'ye s'pose he throwed it away?" demand- ed a fat sinner, who sat in a chair tipped against the doorpost. "No sich thing. He dropped it; men are narvous when they do sich jobs." "Col. Jones is right," said a fourth. "Cor- rinton had spunk enough to shoot him; but his stomach turned, prob'ly, the minute young Brance tumbled off his horse." "' Corrinton 'll have to swing, and he de- sarves it," remarked Mr. Jones. "If young Brance did call him a coward, it was carrying things a little too fur to plump a bullet into his WANDERINGS. 121 neck. If he'd only gouged out one of his eyes, or bit his nose off, I wouldn't say a cussed word; sarve him right; but murder's murder." The blood rushed to the brain of the wretch- ed wanderer, and his senses reeled. Stagger- ing forward, he sunk upon a chair, and his head fell upon his breast. "How are ye, stranger?" said the young man with the dingy pipe. "Did you come from Verfield?" "From that direction," replied the agitated man. "Considerable excitement 'bout the murder, ain't there?" 'What murder?" asked the vagabond. "What murder! why, the murder of Brance, night afore last." "In Verfield? ' "Yes." "I heard nothing about it until this moment," said the traveller. ," But I left Verfield Friday. Do - do you say the name was - Brance?" "Yes-- Appleton Brande. The Verfield paper is out with an extra, giving all the par- ticulars. Jones here has been to Verfield hun- dreds o' times; says young Brance was the " page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 THE DESERKTED FAMJTLY. only son of a rich old cuss, who deserved shoot- ing fifty times, if Appleton did once." Again the vagabond's head sank upon his breast, and his face was deadly pale. "Let me see the paper!" he said--or rather gasped-- a moment after. "Who - who did the - the murder?" "A doctor Corrinton. This tells all about it." The vagabond grasped the paper eagerly, and glanced his eye at the black column head- ed "HORRID MURDER!" "Here! you confounded lump of stupidity," exclaimed the owner of the extra, "you're tearing the paper! Don't you know how to use another man's property?" The vagabond dropped the paper, which his trembling hands had rumpled convulsively, staggered to his feet, -and hurriedly left the tavern. The morning service was concluded, and the church was pouring forth a motley multitude, which swept slowly along the streets in every direction. Old and young were side by side; the sober deacon preceded the gay youngster; solemn matrons followed smiling girls; flashy WANDERINGS. 123 vests and foppish hats contrasted with the plainest suits --- all mixed together; and while thoughtful age looked grave in the contempla- tion of the impressive morning sermon, warm- hearted youth made love by looks and signs. The vagabond was lost in the throng which surrounded him; yet he saw nothing, heard nothing; but as if a wall of burning, intense thought, such as makes men mad, shut up his reeling senses from the outer world, he stared vacantly at the crowd he saw not, and stag- gered on alone. Overwhelmed by suffocating clouds of dust which marked the track of vehicles returning from church, he turned from the road, and lay down, gasping for breath, among bushes which grew thick in corners of the fence. Two hours after, the weary man crept forth, and resumed his journey. On.- on - on he went, at a more rapid pace than before, and paused not, until hunger brought him to his senses. At the door of a quiet, shady cottage, he asked for bread, Two children who were in the house ran away in affright at sight of the beggar's haggard face and unshaven beard. He sat down on the doorstep, and waited page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] 124 THE DESERTED FAMTTILY. patiently for their return. Presently the elder of the children, a boy of some ten years, came timidly back, followed by his younger sister at a distance. "What do you want?" asked the boy. "Any thing- a crust of bread- a cup of milk," replied the vagabond. "Our folks have gone to meeting," said the boy; "and they told us, if any beggars came along, to send 'em away." The vagabond 'raised his sorrowful eyes to the frank, innocent face of the boy, and heaved a sigh. "I will go," he muttered. 4"You are a good boy. Do as your parents direct." And he wandered away, while the children watched him in wonder and pity, standing side by side in the doorway of the cottage. The vagabond stopped at-the next house by the road, and found the doors locked; at the next, and was told by a sour-faced matron that he should not travel on the Sabbath; but at length he was hospitably received by a poor laborer, who gave him the best his house could afford. Thus the Sabbath passed, and the vagabond, WANDERINGS. 125 accustomed to the toil of the road, travelled far; and at night he slept on a bed of straw, for which he was indebted to a wealthy farmer, who allowed him the hospitality of his barn. The farmer was not unkind, but he was cau- tious, and to prevent the vagabond from walk- ing away with a pitchfork, a bag of grain, or a fanning mill, he made the poor man's shelter his prison, by locking the barn door. Early on the following morning, after the farmer had searched the vagabond's pockets for hammers, wedges, wagon wheels, or any thing he might have stolen, regaled him with an excellent breakfast of new milk, substantial meat and bread, sweet butter, and fresh eggs, and given him a shilling, and a warning never to stop at his house again, the poor man re- commenced his wanderings. It was a busy day. Stout mowers went early -into the fields, whetted their ringing scythes, and having deposited their jackets on the nearest haycock, commenced shaving the face of the meadows. Boys followed after, shaking the dew out of the heavy green swath, and spreading the fresh-cut grass over the ground, to wilt and dry in the hot sun. At , l1* page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 126 THE DESERTED FAMLY. the same time, the women were not idle, With their white arms bare, and their hands foaming with snowy suds, fair girls were seen. laboring over washtubs of clothes, sometimes under a porch, but most frequently under the cool shadows of branching fruit trees growing near the kitchen doors. All was life and stir throughout the country; for the Sabbath was over, and the six days of labor begun. Still the vagabond pursued his journey: stage coaches overtook him, and left him toil- ing behind; steam carriages on their iron tracks flew past him with the speed of the wind; and carriages, with their clouds of dust, rolled by him; and still he journeyed on. Every where people were talking about a murder; and whenever the event was mentioned within the hearing of the vagabond, he shud- dered and grew pale. Day after day, the wretched man kept on. Sometimes he was- harshy repulsed when he asked for food; sometimes he was driven from the doors of the rich by dogs; sometimes his bed was the hard earth, and his only shelter the wet boughs of trees; sometimes the rain beat upon him, and cold dews chilled him; and THE PRISONER. 127 sometimes the burning sun fevered his blood; always stared at rudely by the curious, scorned by the proud, mocked by the profane; the vagabond, in the face of sufferings which few could bear and live, pursued his long and weary journey, with enduring patience and an unwavering purpose. CHAPTER X. THE PRISONER. MEANWHLE, Albert Corrinton, accused of the wilful killing of Appleton Brance, had un- dergone a legal examination, and an indict- ment for murder had been found against him. The young physician was committed to jail to await his trial. At the commencement of a promising career, in the flower of his manhood, he was called to answer to a charge which might blacken his character and fame forever, Corrinton was generally believed guilty. The evidence was strong against him--stronger than circurmstantial evidence is in many cases, page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] - -- -&4460? A 4 A A I X - when the accused is convicted; and, even his warmest friends were afflicted with painful doubts. Corrinton was known to be impetu- ous and passionate; and that, in a moment of excitement, he might have taken the life of an -enemy who had grossly insulted him and pro- volked him to anger, was considered not im- possible. In a pleasant part of the village of Verfield was situated the court house and county jail, one massive stone building, which answered a double purpose. Fronting a street was the portion of the structure devoted to public of- fices and the residence of the jailer's family, and containing the large court room, where crimi- nals were tried and civil difficulties legally adjusted; in the rear, a high and gloomy wall, above which grated windows were distinguish. able, indicated the apartments where prisoners were accommodated at the public expense. The sheriff of the county, who was also the keeper of the jail, was a man as little fitted for that office, perhaps, as any who could have been found. Mr. Marks was certainly a very respectable citizen, an upright man, and a kind- hearted jailer; buta more nervous and timid ?- . THE PRISONER. 129 individual never arrested an evil doer, nor turned the heavy keys upon a prisoner. The day after Corrinton's examination, Sheriff Marks sat in his office, poring over cer- tain business papers, and pondering on the exciting events in which his oath of office had made him a principal actor, when a visitor in- terrupted his solitary meditations. "Sir, your sarvent," said a small, high-keyed voice. "I am sorry if I intrude." "Ah! Mr. Sorrel,' how do you do?" said Sheriff Marks -- who, by the way, was a very polite and obliging individual. "Sit down, Joseph. How is your father this morning?" "I am well, thank you; father is quiet, I am obliged to you. How is your last comer-- your new prisoner, Mr. Marks? I allude to Dr. Corrinton." "What a singular man that is!" exclaimed Mr. Marks, sticking a pen over his right ear, folding his arms, and looking at Joseph with a confidential expression. "He appears in per- fect health-- makes no disturbance - is calm and cool in his deportment. I --I assure you, Joseph, I can't help feeling ra-rather interest- ed in the doctor." page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 130 THE -DESERTED FAMLY. '"He's one of the finest men who ever breathed, if he is a doctor," exclaimed Jo- seph. "If he is guilty of young Brance's death, or not, I can't say,- and I am going to wait for more evidence before I express any opinion on the subject, - but I will say, that, as a man, Dr. Corrinton commands the highest esteem." And in the warmth of his enthusiasm Jo- :seph smote the table with his clinched hand, as if he meant it. "For one thing," added Sheriff Marks, "I shall always feel grateful to my prisoner. 1 was alone when I arrested him; and although he is a match for three such men as myself, he never offered to make any resistance. "' Dr.- Corrinton,' says I, 'it is my painful duty to place you under arrest.' "-He was very pale, and a little excited, I thought; but he bowed quite respectfully, and says he, -- "( 'Do your duty, Sheriff Marks,' says he; 'I expected this.' "And he walked off with me without another word. Now, when :I think how easy 'twould have been for him to knock me on the head, jump into my buggy, throw out Mr. Simpson, THE PRISONER. 131 whom I left in charge of my horse, and drive off in spite of law and justice, I shudder, and feel thankful." ," Well you may!" cried Joseph, who fully appreciated the jailer's feelings. "The truth is," pursued Mr. Marks, "I never had any thing to do with a person accused of- of so high a crime before; and I thought 'twould be nat'ral for such a high-spirited, courageous man as the doctor to be a little disprit." "I hope you give him the best accommoda- tions," said Joseph. "' O, sartin." 4"You don't keep him chained down too close, I am sure!" "Bless your stars! we don't chain him at all - not a handcuff does he wear!" "O, don't he? Well, I suppose there's no necessity for that, if you keep him in a close cell, all tight and strong." "My dear sir!!"cried the warm-hearted jail- er, "you've no idea of the humanity which enters into the management of our prisoners. Dr. Corrinton ain't even confined to a cell-; but he has the largest liberty and all possible privileges." : page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] "Pshaw!" exclaimed Joseph, his counte. nance changing color slightly. "Won't he get --out?" "O, there's no danger of that." "But aint you-- a- a little, grain timid, when you go into the jail?" "Well - no!" replied Sheriff Marks, de- liberately. "I am not a timid man, thank For- tune." "Now, my dear Mr. Marks," said Joseph, in. clining towards the sheriff, and speaking in'a slightly tremulous tone, "I came here on pur- pose to see the doctor; but if my visit is going to be accompanied with the smallest danger, why, I should not certainly persist in seeing him." - -"O, there'lln be no danger-- not the least," said Mr. Marks. "I believe you never visited the jail?" "Never!" exclaimed Joseph. "I have no taste for criminal matters - no curiosity touch. ing jails and jail birds--no ambition for a knowledge of prison walls. I always keep as clear of such things as I can. 'In this case, a personal acquaintance with the doctor is alone the cause of my visit; it is no morbid appe- tite for horrors, I assure you." D lHtEi FRISiwNER# . 13 "Well, you shall see the doctor," said Mr. -Marks, unlocking a safe, from which he took a bunch of ponderous keys. "Come with me." Joseph felt his heart coming up into his throat, as he followed the sheriff through a dismal, damp passage, which led into an ob- long stone chamber. As Mr. Marks, having selected a huge key from the bunch, inserted it in the lock of a large, gloomy iron door, Jo- seph felt his courage fail him. The grating of prison locks inspired him with indescribable dread, and he hastily grasped the sheriff's arm. "I guess H wont go in, after all!"said he. "It's of no consequence -I am putting you to too much trouble!" "My dear sir!" exclaimed the jailer, " it's no trouble at all. Come in." And'the huge iron door very heavily moved on its creaking hinges. Joseph saw that it was too late to retreat, and went in courageously. The heavy door was closed after him with a clang, and locked. The young man found himself in a sort of cell, rather obscure and dismal, com- municating with the principal apartments of the jail by a grating of strong iron bars, which 12 page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] our hero afterwards learned was a door, hung on the stoutest of hinges, and fastened by locks and chains. Having secured the door by which they had entered this gloomy anteroom, the sheriff was about opening the next, when once more Jo. seph stopped him. "Mr. Marks! I declare," said the considerate young man, " this is putting you to too much trouble. I wouldn't open that door --" "Very well," replied the obliging sheriff "If you don't wish to see the different parts of the jail, and the prisoners, you needn't go any farther. You can speak with your friend here, through the bars of this door." "Just as you say," murmured Joseph. Mr. Marks knocked on the clanking chains, and there came forward, in the interior apart- ment, which was--quite light and spacious, a surly-looking man, whom Joseph recognized as a barbarous fellow that had been arrested a few days before for beating his wife. ("Tell Dr. Corrinton a person wishes to see him," said the sheriff. o The barbarian disappeared. a"The doctor will come up here to the door and talk with you," pursued the sheriff. THE PRISONER. 135 "Are all the prisopers loose in this way?" asked Joseph. "O, no," replied Mr. Marks. "Only the peaceable ones, who have not yet had their trial, are allowed this liberty. We have only three of these - this man, your friend, and the fellow who was taken up for stealing Mr. Grimes's horse. We have twelve others sen- tenced to hard labor, whom we keep at work; besides which, we have a maniac we are obliged to keep in close confinement, in a cell. But here comes the doctor. I may as well leave you. I'll be back in a quarter of an hour," So saying, the sheriff unlocked the big door by which they had entered, went out, and locked it after him, leaving Joseph alone in the anteroom. The younger Mr. Sorrel felt exceedingly un- comfortable; but he had no time to reflect on his peculiar situation. Dr. Corrinton was al- ready standing on the other side of the rated door. The young physician was attired in his ordi- nary plain but tasteful dress, and he astonished Joseph by looking as little like a prisoner as page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] !136 THE DESERTED FAMLY. that young man could have imagined, Corrin- ton stood erect, bowed down by no heavy chains; his brow was 'smooth and calm, and his smile cordial and unaffected. Joseph was much embarrassed, fearing to address the prisoner, lest he should give offence by some careless expression; and he could not drive the impression from his mind, that Cor- rinton must consider him an intruder, impelled by the same curiosity which brings people to visit robbers in chains and wild beasts in cages. A word, however, from the doctor, relieved his mind prodigiously. "It is very kind in you to come here, Mr. Sorrel," said Corrinton, putting his fingers through the bars for Joseph to shake. "You are the first of my friends who has visited me to-day." "Yes," replied Joseph, scarcely knowing what he was talking about. "I have no doubt of it, sir. It is a very fine day. I hope you don't suffer much inconvenience here." "Very little," said Corrinton. "I have every thing a prisoner could expect." "I have come," said Joseph, gradually re- gaining his self-possession, uto see if I can THE PRISONER. 137 do any thing to make you more comfortable. You have no relations in town, and I didn't know but there might be some desirable things you couldn't well obtain without friendly as- sistance." "I am infinitely obliged to you for thinking of such a thing," answered Corrinton. "O, as for that matter," cried Joseph, eager- ly, " you mustn't give me all the credit. I am ashamed to confess that I should never have thought of the thing, if it hadn't been suggested by another." "By whom?" asked Corrinton, interested. "By one dear to every body, whom every body respects - my cousin," said Joseph. t"She thinks kindly of me, then!" exclaimed the prisoner, who felt a thrill of joy. "Bless you, doctor, yes! And all her mother, Mr. Brance, or any body else can say, can't change her mind." "Mrs. Silby and Mr. Brance do not think kindly of me, then, Joseph?" " H I don't know what they think," said Mr, Sorrel. c; You know--it is natural they should be opposed to a man who was-- op- posed to Appleton." 12' page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] 1i8 THE DOfSEStTED FAMTY. "True," said Corrinton. "I cannot blame them. And when the truth has come to light, and my innocence proved, I shall not remember it against them that they ever doubted me. How is your cousin?" "Alice is nicely. I never saw her so serious before; but she is cheerful, and calm, and perfectly collected." "Remember me to her kindly," said the doc- tor, with emotion. The conversation turned upon other subjects, and Joseph regaled the doctor with the current gossip of the village. Then, having taken it upon himself to perform several commissions Corrinton confided to his care, and wishing the prisoner much happiness, he departed in com- pany with the sheriff, who came in due season to unlock the big door. ' I hope you didn't think it strange that I locked you in there." mildly observed the jailer. "O -- no! That is, I did. With that other door fastened," said Joseph, "I must say, I could niot very clearly see the necessity of lock- ing this one." , A very just remark," replied the sheriff, rr. r r/r g J uusheri "ETTErrbS. 139 complacently. "But you miust know that men in office have to observe certain formali- ties, which in private life can be dis ensed with." "The conclusion I had come to," said the younger Mr. Sorrel. "I felt sure you were doing nothing but your duty. However, had any but a humane man like yourself, in whom I put confidence, confined me in such a pecu- liar situation, I am sure I should have felt uneasy." And Joseph, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, emerged with a lightened heart niinto the open air. CHAPTER XI. LETTERS. THUS Albert Corrinton, charged with a cap. ital offence, lay in jail awaiting his trial. Months of imprisonment were before him, from which there was no escape; and a dark shadow in the future threatened him with a greater page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] "O. THE DESERTED FAMLY. calamity. What his thoughts and sensations were in this situation, may be best gathered from the following fragments of letters, written by him to Alice SilNy:-- ( The books you ent me by Joseph, who is a frequent and welcome visitor, afford me sin- gular gratification. Some of them I read over and over, -- through and through, - gathering fresh food for contemplation at each perusal. ' Young's Night Thoughts ' I never appreciated before. How striking are the poet's reflec- tions! how concise, how expressive his lan- guage! I find many passages marked--I flatter myself, by your hand. I shall not neglect to profit by the hint contained in the following:- ' Wisdom smiles when humble mortals weep. When sorrow wounds the breast, as ploughs the glebe, And hearts obdurate feel the softening shower, Her seed celestial, then, glad Wisdom sows; Her golden harvest triumphs in the soil. rui raise a tax on my calamity, And reap rich compensation for my pain."' "I sometimes think I ought to feel thankful for the calamity of which I am the victim. I think that already I have learned to take a more "ETTERS. 1,1 correct- view of life than I ever conceived before. I reflect; I study the past; I look at the world with a passionless eye; I understand things which before were mysterious; and I see beau- ties in poets whom I have hitherto considered obscure and dull. Men who sail upon the seas look back upon the world they have left with a clearer vision than when they lived in the midst of its confusion and strife; and thus do prisoners, left to their own medita- tions, obtain a wider and bolder range of thought." ... "Mr. Marks is a very kind man, and I cer- tainly ought to be thankful for the kind treat- ment I receive. Few prisoners, I imagine, were ever treated with greater deference and respect. I have all the liberty which can be allowed any one, and my accommodations are quite respectable. I read, write, meditate, or converse with those who visit me; and thus I fill up the day. Sometimes I can hardly real- ize that I am a prisoner; never yet have I been able fully to comprehend the awfulness of the charge against me." . . . "(I have now been confined four weeks, and during all this time I have but once felt a page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] depression of spirits. Then I was plunged deep into the pit of despair. I saw no hope left me. In the silence of the night, when my candle cast a ghastly light on the walls around me, I felt forebodings that this was henceforth my world. I sickened at the thought, that error might prevail and my lamp of life be ex- tinguished, as others have been, by a thick, irm- penetrable veil of falsehood. Then -only then, dear Alice--I felt a spirit of complaint against the will- of Providence. Bitterly I murmured at my lot. What had I done to merit this calamity? Why should I, innocent, suffer for the. guilty? I saw myself cut off from a prosperous career; thrown into jail; accused of a horrid crime; my good name blasted forever; the-hearts of those I loved filled with doubt; even you, dear Alice, believing me guilty; and loudly I complained. But now the struggle is past. I have arisen out of the pit. A light has penetrated the gloom and dispersed the darkness. I wait with patience and resignation the decrees of fate." . . "I wish I could see you. It is much to know that you remember me; that you think of me kindly; to hear your praises from the "ETTERS. 1 lips of Joseph, who loves you without a thought of selfishness; to receive the books you send me, and, what is still more precious, the verbal messages you confide to Joseph: but this is not like speaking with you face to face- hearing the calm, sweet wisdom of your soul expressed by your own lips." . . . "I am growing impatient; the darkness gathers around me. I see less clearly than I did when I wrote before, dearest Alice. I ex- pected you would write to me. You did not so much as send me a verbal message. Can it be that you too are beginning to doubt me? I could bear any thing but this. O, let me not remain in suspense!" . . . "Thanks! thanks! a thousand thanks for your most welcome letter"! It has cleared away the mists --it has brightened my day. I care little for the world's scorn and pity now. Let what will come to pass, I shall find conso- lation. When oppressed by doubts, I shall ponder on the gentle admonitions your noble letter contains. "I appreciate your delicacy in this matter. I understand your mother's prejudice. I know in what light the world regards you. No- page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] do not visit me-- not yet. I would not have you do any thing you might have reason to regret. But think of me as you have done: write to me, and I shall be content. "Mr. Brance visited me to-day. Poor man! I sympathize with him; but I am afraid that the sorrow for the death of his son is swallowed up in a spirit of revenge. That he believes me guilty, and hates me with a bitter hatred, I cannot doubt. O God, hasten the day when truth shall, dawn, and disperse the -night of error which surrounds me! Ah! Alice, it is a terrible thing to be suspected of such a crime! But-a firm confidence in the light which time must bring consoles me, and makes me patient." . . as O, write to me again, noble Alice! I look to you for hope, consolation, and joy. Do not refuse to lighten the sorrows of a persecuted, fickle, wretched man. To-day I am cast down. Nothing but a word of encourage ment, traced by your own dear hand, can lift me up. "Incessant gloom pervades the jail. Since morning it has rained continually, and while I write the storm beats against the grated win, "ET'TEr-S. 145 dow, through which a dismal light steals in upon me. My fellow-prisoners- that is, my two privileged jail companions--amuse them- selves by playing cards, hour after hour; while I am left to the dangerous companionship of my own dark thoughts. "( Do you remember, dear girl, the afternoon when we were walking together in that pleas- ant spot which you named ' Shadowland? In that cool retreat, sheltered by woody heights on either side, the sunshine never falls; but on that afternoon, the banks and trees around us were tinged with golden light, which they reflected softly, and, the brook which works its winding way through the ravine- gleamed with the beauties of the sky. Down the rocky side of a steep ledge, which forms the southern boundary of Shadowland, was drawn a line of moisture, which, issuing from a scanty spring above, gathered in drops at the bottom of the rock, and fell into a broad stone basin at our feet. That basin was filled with water, in which you could see 'your shadowy face, dear Alice, except when the large drops, falling from the ledge, shattered the picture, and sent glittering eddies circling to the rim. 13 page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] "That basin I thoughtlessly called the wood- nymph's mirror. "'No,' said you, 'it is a mirror of life. Look, Albert--see yourself in 'that pearly drop swelling on the point of the stone. It is an emblem of your boyhood--you are pre- paring to enter life. See! it has gained its full size -- it is impatient to leave the maternal stone - it quivers - it expands - there! it has dropped. You have made your advent in the world, Albert. What a stir you create! W'ith what glittering ripples you make your presence known! How you cause all your predecessors -the drops which fill the basin-to circle around you, and run away from you! But look! the eddies subside. This little world chf0mes calm; and, strange to say, the basin is no fuller than before! You are forgotten with your predecessors; the world is as if you had never been; and see! another little globe comes dashing down, making just such a stir as greeted your advent. Tell me, now - is not this a mirror of life?' "You spoke playfully, Alice, but I remem- bered your words. I think of them now; I wonder how long before it will be said of me, "ETTERS. 147 ' He came, and he is gone! ' You remember, Alice, that sometimes the wind, sweeping around the ledge, effaced the eddies as soon as made. I sometimes feel a foreboding that thus my life is destined to be cut short by the storm which threatens me. Other men have suffered, though innocent. Error has doomed the right- eous to ignominy and death. O, can it be pos- sible that falsehood will seal my fate? Am I to be crushed thus early by a calamity which I cannot avoid? No, no; Heaven will inter- pose an arm of safety. But what am I that I should proudly talk of Heaven's protection? A worm, an unnoticeable grain of dust, in the great highway of life --a drop of water in an eternal stream! "I am ashamed of my doubts and my repin- ings. But, Alice, you know not on what bil- lows the mind of man is tossed, when left to the mercy of tempests within his own breast. "Write to me! Friends who visit me bring but little consolation. The kindness of my jailer somehow reminds me of the bounty lambs enjoy when farmers prepare them for the slaughter. My excellent counsel, Mr. Marshal, who is diligently employed in my behalf, page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] searching for some clew by which the truth may be traced out, can give me but little hope. Some advise me to confess the crime! Abom- inable thought! -to declare myself guilty of a horror at which my soul shudders, in the hope of obtaining mercy! O, Alice, write to me! write to me!" CHAPTER XII. THE SEARCH. ON the seventh day of his wanderings, the vagabond approached a large city. From afar he beheld the serried roofs, the glittering domes, the tall spires, the ascending smoke, by which the populous town is distinguished at a dis- tance. The country was becming more thickly in- habited, and the turnpikes and macadamized roads were more travelled than any highways he had passed on his journey. There were no longer any dense forests in view; but rising houses and well-cultivated fields marked the THE SEARCH. 149 advance of civilization. The city seemed creep- ing into the country at something more than a snail's pace: already factories, shops, and stores were scattered about, and a marked difference in the manners and appearance of the people indicated the proximity of the town. The roar of the "great Babel," faint at first, grew louder and louder as the travel- ler advanced; and at length he was in the midst of hammers, the rattling and clattering of vehicles, the sound of hoofs on the stony pavements, the confusion and strife of the city. The vagabond mingled with the throng, and went his way, unnoticed among the thousands, who were all seeking their individual aims. With a weary step he traversed many streets, scarcely raising his downcast eyes, for he seemed quite familiar with the ways of the city into which he had journeyed; and at last he entered aln obscure court, in one of the gloomiest quarters of' the town. Passing through the door of a low, wooden house he found himself in a dilapidated, scantily-furnished room, where a large, strong woman Was ironing linen. 13* page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] "Well; Mrs. Coggs," said the vagabond, "I've got back. Here I am again!" "You, Mrr Stripe!" exclaimed the woman, looking around astonished. "Where did you come from?" The vagabond dropped his staff upon the floor, and sank wearily on a chair. "I've been looking for something to do," he sighed; "but I am no better off than before. I've come to trouble you again. Give me a drop of brandy." Observing how haggard the vagabond looked, Mrs. Coggs hastened to empty a portion of the contents of a dark bottle, which she took from a cupboard, into a tumbler, and presented the liquor, mixed with a small allowance of water, to her old acquaintance. The vagabond drained off the potation with unseemly eagerness, and smacked his lips with great satisfaction. "God bless you, Mrs. Coggs!" he exclaimed warmly. "This does my heart good! Ah! if you could spare another drop -- " "You ungrateful wretch!" muttered Mrs. Coggs, carefully putting the bottle out of sight. i Do you think I am going to furnish brandy THE SEARCH. 151 for you to get drunk on? I haven't forgot your failings; and I wouldn't have given you a drop if you hadn't looked so sick." "You are right," replied Mr. Stripe, resting his head upon his hands. "I know what a weak, miserable fool I am! Don't give me any more liquor-- no, not if I pray for it on my knees. I know what has been my ruin, and I wish I might never see another glass of spirits." "Why don't you reform, then?" demanded Mrs. Coggs. "Reform! I can't. I wish I could. I have not the strength to deny myself. Once I drank to warm my heart-to drown trouble; and now the appetite has become too strong for me. Reform? Impossible!" "Well," said Mrs. Coggs, "what are you going to do now? You know we can't keep you for nothing. It's as much as Mr. Coggs and I want to do to take care of ourselves and children." "I'll work," said the vagabond, "or I'll do something to pay you. I'always have paid you, and you've no reason to distrust me now. To-morrow I'll begin." And the- weary man unceremoniously as- page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] 152 THE DESERTED FAMLY. cended a creaking staircase, and entering a miserable garret, lay down upon a hard, un- 'comfortable bed. A few days after his return to what he called his home, the vagabond might have been seen going about the city with a bundle of cheap publications, which he offered for sale in hotels and billiard rooms, at railway stations, and on steamboats. But Mr. Stripe's mind seldom appeared en- grossed in his money-making operations. He seemed to have other objects in view besides the sale of his books. Sometimes he straggled among crowds of young men who frequented places of dissipation, wandered about as if looking for some one, and withdrew without offering his wares for sale. Evenings, too, with the old bundle of books under his arm, he watched at the doors of theatres, and examined the faces of the youth who entered and came forth. Day after day he penetrated the haunts -of dissipation, lingered about bowling alleys, billiard saloons, and pistol galleries, and visited new places in every part of the city, selling a few books during his wanderings, but frequent- ly forgetting that his bread, of which he enjoyed THE SEARCH. 153 but a pittance, depended upon his industry and shrewdness. Late one night, as Mr. Stripe was returning home after a weary day of fruitless labor, he met a figure in the street that attracted his at- tention. He was a young man of medium stat- ure, well made, and rather foppishy dressed; and as he passed a street lamp, the light re- vealed a handsome, intelligent face. The youth walked on rapidly. The vaga- bond turned and followed him, and saw him enter a fashionable house, the door of which was opened by some person within. For half an hour Mr. Stripe walked to and fro before this house, or watched it from a position on the opposite side of the street. At length, when the streets were nearly deserted, and he observed that a watchman regarded him with a suspicious eye, he slowly withdrew from the spot, and sauntered home. On the following night he passed along the same street at the same hour, met the same youth, and followed him as before. The youth entered the same house, and again Mr. Stripe established a private watch at the door. On this occasion he had no books with him, page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] and he was better dressed and more cleanly shaved than he had appeared for many weeks. Nobody seemed to look upon him with sus. picion; the watchman moved lazily by, with- out noticing him; and he prepared himself for a long watch. The night wore on. The streets were silent and almost deserted. Mr. Stripe walked to and fro, frequently seeing no pedestrian, and hearing no sound of life on either side. Once there was a cry of fire not far off, and the bells began to ring clamorously all over the city; then the pavements echoed to the heavy foot- steps of firemen, who had sprung from their beds in haste, and engines clattered along the streets. Crowds swept past him in the direc- tion of the smoke and lurid glow, visible in a distant quarter of the city. The noise subsid- ed, the bells ceased ringing, and silence fol- lowed; and the vagabond was still a watcher before that mysterious house. The gray light of dawn was beginning to steal over the city, when he saw a young man come out of the house which was the object of his vigil, followed by two or three more at intervals. Neither of these was the youth he THEi SEARCH. 1b5 had first seen go in. Others came forth and went their way, some in sullen silence, and with darkly-gathered brows; others with mut- tered curses, and footsteps unsteady from the effects of wine; a few with proud strides, and faces radiant with satisfaction. Among the last who came out was the youth who appeared to be the object of so much interest. He wore a cap, which was drawn over his brow; but Mr. Stripe, whose keen- eyes were upon him, recognized him. He watched him 'for a moment, half concealed under a doorway; then, when the youth had turned down the street, hastened forth andctfollowed him at a distance. The young man passed through many streets, in which the vagabond never lost sight of him, and at last entered a third-class hotel. In the afternoon of the same day, Mr. Stripe, still greatly improved in personal appearance, sauntered into the reading room of the public house where he had last seen the youth in whom he took so strange' an interest. He glanced his eye around the room, and not see- ing the person he sought, commenced turning over, the leaves of a file of newspapers. But page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] ,156 THE DESERTED FAMLY. he had not long to wait. He saw the youth enter, watched him narrowly as he threw him- self into a chair, and regarded him afterwards with undisguised interest. Perceiving that his strange manner was ob- served, Mr. Stripe pretended to give his atten- tion to the newspapers for a few minutes, and then silently withdrew. In front of the hotel, however, he walked up and down the street, until the young man, about half an hour after, made his appearance. The youth was gayly dressed, sported a quantity of jewelry, and carried a cane. His elegant appearance contrasted singularly with the bent form and threadbare suit of the being who watched him, followed him, and addressed him. "I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Stripe, dropping his eyes, as the youth cast upon him a haughty glance; ( I have wanted to speak with you on a subject which concerns you, and I could think of no better way of introducing myself." The young man regarded him with a patron- izing air. "I saw you in the hotel, I believe?"said he, coldly. THE SEARCH. 157 "Yes, I was going to speak with you there, but I did not know your name; and what I have to say, I presume you would not like to have heard by those who know you." ( I can't conceive what you can have to say to me; but if any thing, let's hear it." "It concern's last night--" "Last night!" "Yes -- where you were," said Mr. Stripe, significantly. The youth changed color, and regarded the vagabond more closely. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I mean that you are in danger," replied Mr. Stripe. "Too many know where and how you spend your nights." "Ha!" exclaimed the youth, biting his lips in perplexity. "You are not cheating me? Come! we must not talk of this matter in the street. Follow me." Mr. Stripe obeyed, and the youth led the way to a coffee -house, where they entered a private room: the youtfi called for wine, and inquired of Mr. Stripe what he would be pleased to drink . :' 14 coldly. page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 158 THE DESERTED FAMLY. "Nothing!" exclaimed the vagabond, reso- lutely--" nothing I "- "Not even a glass of sherry?" said the other. "Not a drop of spirits, thank you," replied Mr. Stripe, with a firmness of manner which would have astonished Mrs. Coggs. "Well, I won't urge you," said the young man. ("You have your reasons, I suppose." "Good ones," muttered his companion. "Wine has been my worst enemy. It has brought me down from a high estate of health, respectability, and happiness." ("My dear fellow, I beg your pardon; I didn't intend to hurt your feelings," replied the youth. "( Waiter, take away this bottle; bring a couple of glasses of lemonade. Now, sir, I will hear what you have to say to me." , z CHAPTER XIII. THE GAMESTER. "I MERELY wish to warn you of your dan- ger," said the vagabond. ' Too many know where you spend your evenings." "Well," said the young man. "Go on." "Have I not said enough?" "' Enough to interest me, but not enough to convince me of your good faith." "Then I will speak more plainly. You spend your nights in gaming. The police have an eye upon your place of resort. Last night you were seen to go in, and this morning you were seen to come out. Some night you will be surprised, and held up to the public eye." "Thank you," said the youth. "You have done me good service. It is important for me to know that even you have the secret of my mode of life. Name your reward." "I ask nothing," said the vagabond. "Nothing! What then induced you to trouble yourself on my account?" "You interest me. I saw you young --just (159) page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] "W V 1TLD J JJ D JL JL'A / li j1J * commencing a dangerous career. I could not rest until I had warned you of immediate dan- ger, and spoken to you of the guilt and folly of your profession." "Ha! that is another thing!" cried the youth, frowning. "I know enough of that already." "You know- of its excitements - of the fascinations of play; but you have not yet ex. perienced the wretchedness which is sure to follow in the train of such vices. You have, been flattered by fortune; you have been. enchanted with success; but you, have not tasted the bitter dregs of the cup you are draining." "Upon my soul!" cried the young man, "you speak like one having experience." "I speak of what I know and understand," replied the vagabond. "I was once like you -enchanted with dissipation and vices. I was successful for a time, but wine and play made me what you now behold me." "My good fellow, give me your fist!" criedo the youth, warmly. "I feel interested in you already. Let me hear your history. rd like to know how a man who has been suce- i " THE GAMESTER. 161 cessful in play feels when he ib going down hill." "I commenced my descent before I knew any thing of gaming," said the vagabond, keeping his earnest eyes on the handsome face of his companion. "I took to play to retrieve my fortunes. By some strange freak of fortune, I won large sums -before I knew any thing of the tricks of the profession. But my reverses were sudden. One day I was the possessor of considerable wealth; the next morning I found myself penniless. I never was fortunate afterwards, and poverty cured my passion for play." "If I should find myself penniless to-mor- row," added the youth, with a melancholy smile, " our fortunes would be similar. T, too, resorted to play from a sort of necessity." "You- so young!" exclaimed the vaga- bond, "Have you no parents?" "None to speak of," replied the other, bitterly. "My father deserted me in the helplessness of my childhood. He was an unnatural father. I sometimes curse his memory; for, a slave to his own passions, he had no care of his family. If I am- a gambler, I have to thank my father "* page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] 162 THE DESERTED FAMTLY. for it; if I hate the world, - as I do most cor- dially,- it is because -- Dear sir! you look ill! you are fainting!" "No, no; I a m subject to such turns. It is nothing," said the vagabond, passing his hand across his ghastly face. "There is is over. -Go on, sir, with what you were saying." "( I say, my father is the cause of all my fol- lies and crimes! But I forgive him. 'He is dead, and ;peace be with his ashes. I inherited his passions--his failings. I always hated work, and loved leisure. My mother, who was once a good-hearted woman, I suppose, had become an awfully severe one, through her experience with my father. I believe she got to hate him, and every thing like him, so that she could not look at me, as I grew up, with any sort of comfort. As my father was but little inclined to labor, she came to the con- clusion that I must kill myself with work and forego all indulgences, even those of the most innocent and necessary character. She was going to make a different man of me from my father. Poor woman! she meant well, I sup- pose; but I couldn't endure such discipline. I THE GAMESTER. 163 would not work and study, and study and work, day after day, nor would I bear punish- ment. In short, I ran away; followed--I suppose she thinks--in the footsteps of my- illustrious father." "Your mother was notfar out of the way in her discipline," said Mr. Stripe. "You should have obeyed her." ( Undoubtedly. She would have made a drudge -a hard-working, melancholy man of me. As it is, I am a miserable, merry fellow, leading a joyous, abominable life; hating the world; hated by the world in a perfect Chris- tian manner." , The vagabond heaved a deep sigh, and re- garded his companion earnestly. "( You never thought of repairing the evils wrought by your father, I suppose?" said he. "You never conceived the ambition to undo the wrong he has done, instead of following his example?" "Ha! ha! you talk more like a professor of moral philosophy than a broken-down gam- bler!" cried the youth. "t But you see, these evils are not so easily repaired--that wrong cannot: be easily undone. I confess I some- page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 THE DESERTED FAMLY. times felt such an ambition, but every thing was against me. I was a mere boy, and gave up the struggle like a boy. Had I been encouraged by my mother, instead of driven by her,-had there been, the least effort made to render labor attractive,-you would not now behold me such a worthy son of my father.. Now it is too late; reform is out of the question. I have placed myself within the influence of the whirlpool - I have been drawn - into it-there is no escape. Many thanks for your kind suggestions; but I can't say I care to hear any more -f them. So luck to you, old fellow! But I must be permitted to give you a token of regard, as a younger member of the mad profession to which you once belonged." And the youth threw a heavy purse upon the table. "Not a word - I can well spare it, and I am sure you need it. If my success continues, I intend establishing a . gambler's fund, to be Called 'A Society for the Amelioration of the Condition of Decayed Gamesters,' or something of the sort. Mean- while, I shall always be happy to assist worthy members like yourself." "Hold!" cried the vagabond ; a I can't take your money!'-' THE GAMESTER. 16 And with a trembling hand he lifted the well-filled purse, extending it towards the young gamester. ,' Pshaw!" exclaimed the youth, turning his back, and walking towards the door; " don't begin to be scrupulous in your old age. This isn't the first time you have received money- of those, too, who gave not so willingly as I." "True, I have; and I have committed worse crimes; but something tells me that I, must not accept this. I may beg of the next man; but from you I can take nothing. No, not from you." "By Jove! you are an odd customer!" cried the youth, ill concealing the sympathy the rstrange, earnest manner of the vagabond awakened in his bosom. "'But -I swear you shall take something from me; for you are a fine fellow at heart, I know.. Nay, nay; keep the purse. I'll see you again. Luck to you, old boy!" The door opened and closed. The vagabond started to his feet- his wild companion was gone. Striking his brow, the wretched man sank upon a chair, and the purse, slipping from page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] his fingers, fell upon the table with a dull, chinking sound. "Good "God!" he muttered through his teeth, "that he should offer me money! O fool! fool! There is nothing left me now!" His features writhed in the agony of remorse and self-hatred. His head fell heavily upon his breast, and his arms hung motionless by his side. For a long time he stirred not, except when, at intervals, a bursting sob heaved his bosom. A terrible struggle was torturing his remorseful brain. At length it was over. He arose, and stood, firmly erect. His ashy lips were compressed with the expression of some fearful resolution, his brow was -calm, and his eyes were lighted with a new fire. With a quick movement he gathered up the purse with his fingers, and concealed it on his person; then, with firm and rapid strides, he left the scene of his interview with the gambler. CHAPTER XIV. THE TRIAL. THE days of Albert Corrinton's imprison- ment dragged heavily, notwithstanding his determination to be patient and resigned, and to make a wise use of the time which he was destined to spend within the walls of the jail. Corrinton was not a stoic. He did not possess those powers of endurance which ena- ble a man to wait and wait, and still wait, for expected relief without a murmur. Sometimes he felt capable of suffering years of confinement, ages of suspense, with patience: it was when the noble philosophy of some great book, or the mild, sweet words of encouragement -which came to him from Alice Silby, roused the ener- gies of his soul, and led him into the paths of wisdom. But when, day after,day, and week after week, he saw the dawn brighten on the walls of his prison, and the noon advance, and the dusky evening approach, and darkness gather, and the long night come, his philosophy wore (167) page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] 168 THE DESERTED FAMLY. itself away, and the bright hues of his hopeful wisdom faded. Corrinton was one of those men who require action and change. Never, when a student, had he been able to confine himself closely; but powerful physical exercise was his recrea- tion after intense studies. Only those who possess a similar temperament, and who have been shut up with their own thoughts,- cast into a den of lions, so to speak, -can appre- ciate the fluctuating feelings, the impatience, the alternating triumph and despair of which the sanguine, energetic mind of Corrinton was a victim. Several times Alice Silby visited the prison- er, accompanied on each occasion by her de- voted cousin Joseph. Never before had Cor- rinton understood the beautiful, the sublime character of that superior young girl. She was always cheerful, always serene and self- possessed, yet full of hope, and glowing with sympathy. - The severe discipline exercised by her mother, which might have injured the dis- positions of many, had served to strengthen her mind and form her character. Corrinton regarded her with almost worshipful tenderness THE TRIAL. 1 9- and admiration, piously believing her the per- fection of her sex; and her presence within the gloomy precincts of his prison was the greatest happiness he enjoyed. But the wheel of time moves continually. The weariest hours pass --the longest days are soon over. The term of Corrinton's im- prisonment previous to trial drew to a close; and now, with the hope of a speedy deliver- ance before him, he looked back calmly upon the days he had passed in jail; saw how profita- ble, after all, the time had proved to him, how rich in wisdom; and he almost regretted that he was to leave the sober walls so soon. Corrinton had lain in jail four months. It was a cold, stormy day in the autumn of the year that he was at length brought before the proper court to defend himself against the charge of murder. He was well aware of the danger of his posi- tion; but putting firm confidence in the ability of his counsel, he cheerfully faced the court that was to decide his fate. A- sharp and biting wind made the day un- comfortable, and a cold rain fell continually; but notwithstanding the inclemency of the 15 page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] 10 THE DESERTED FAMLY. weather, a mixed -multitude, curious to see the. prisoner, and eager to gather all the details of the trial, crowded into the -court room, and filled all the seats 'allotted to spectators at an early hour. But little difficulty was encountered in im- panelling. ajury; all the preliminary steps were taken with due deliberation; and the prosecuting attorney arose to tell the court how very clearly he was prepared to show that the prisoner, and none but the prisoner, was guilty of the crime of which he was accused. During all this time, Albert Corrinton was the principal object of attention. He had :come into the court room to find himself a great curiosity. People remarked his manner, his attire, his looks, even the style in which his hair was dressed, and shrewdly predicted the result of the trial. The prisoner's appearance was not strikingly singular. He was plainly dressed, and his -manner was easy, his eye serene, his expression cheerful. - Those who knew him, however, ob- served that he was much paler and thinner than before his imprisonment. Nobody thought that he looked like a very wicked man; and THE TRIAL. 171 some who had come from afar to see him, ex- pecting to behold a villain of ferocious aspect, were destined to suffer grievous disappoint- ment. Corrinton, I have said, was hopeful of a speedy deliverance--of an honorable acquit- tal; but when the skilful and ingenious govern- ment attorney produced the powerful evidence in favor of the prosecution, he felt a cold, heavy cloud gathering about his heart. A sickness came over him when, casting his eye upon the gaping, eager crowd which filled the court room, he perceived the horrid relish with which the presumptive evidence of his guilt was devoured. ,' Good Heavens!" exclaimed Albert to Mr. Marshal, one of his counsel, after the court had adjourned that day; " even though I am acquitted, every body will believe me guilty! Would to God the real criminal could be brought to light! I would rather be judged guilty by, the jury than by the world." - Courage! courage'!" said Mr. Marshal. "It takes time for all things." The trial lasted three days. No new facts were brought to light by the prosecution, but page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] 172 THE DESERTED -PAMTtLY. the talented district attorney and his assistant had the credit of arranging and pgroducing the testimony against the prisoner in the most striking and forcible manner. The principal points proved were, - 1. The enmity existing between the prisoner and the deceased. On this point, several wit- nesses of respectability and veracity gave in positive evidence. Corrinton had been heard to declare his hatred of the deceased on fre- quent occasions. 2. On the evening of the murder, the pris- oner, when informed of the abusive, language deceased had made use of touching him, had declared that "Appleton Brance should suffer for it," and that ( he would endure no more insult from the scoundrel." It was clearly shown that the prisoner then went to his office, and, a few minutes afterward, rode off in the direction of Craw's Corners, whither Appleton had gone. 3. Several witnesses testified to having seen the prisoner and deceased together, both at the Corners and on the road, late in the evening. Joseph Sorrel's evidence and Corrinton's own admission proved conclusively that he had PT THE TRIAL. 173 accompanied Appleton nearly to the spot where the murder took place. 4. The identity of the pistol found near the scene of the tragedy, as Corrinton's property, was clearly proved. This was considered one of the strongest points in the evidence. Other details of smaller importance were elicited by the prosecution, all leading to the conclusion the government counsel desired to establish in the minds of the jury. To this dark and imposing array of circum- stantial evidence, the counsel for the prisoner had but a meagre body of testimony to oppose. It was shown that, as Corrinton had always been accustomed to leave the, door of his office open and his pistols hanging in his office, one of these weapons might have been stolen by the villain who perpetrated the deed. No one of the witnesses who had testified to seeing Corrinton and Appleton together on the even- ing of the murder, remembered any violent language used by either; on the contrary, it was shown that the* prisoner accosted the other in a gentlemanly manner, and appeared afterwards to be conversing with him soberly ,and cordially. Men of the first respectability 15* page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] ... Jd6 6 d1S VI df ifJt, A A-i I ]rL testified to the good character which the pris- oner had sustained since his residence in Ver- field, and witnesses produced in towns where he had formerly resided gave in evidence to the same effect. In summing up, the counsel for the prosecu- tion had argued what was termed the i" utter absurdity of supposing that any other man than the prisoner could have committed the murder; " in reply to which, Mr. Marshal, in his eloquent concluding argument, cited nu- merous authentic cases, illustrative of the fal- lacy of presumptive evidence. "Nobody," said Mr. Marshal,owith impres- sive earnestness, " can conscientiously assert that it is impossible that another man com- mitted this crime of which the prisoner is ac- cused. In the case I have just quoted, in which an innocent man was convicted, sen- tenced, and executed, on the charge of a crime of which another man afterwards confessed himself guilty, the evidence against the unhap- py victim was much stronger than in this in- stance. Now, consider the straightforward, manly, frank account of his last interview with the deceased, made by the prisoner immediately a THE TRIAL. '-. 1 O after the murder was known, and reproduced without contradiction or variation, both at the inquest and on the occasion of his legal ex- amination. He accosted the deceased, whom he met at Craw's Corners, and in a firm, but quiet, sober manner, addressed him on the subject of their differences. The former in- vited him to ride along the road with him, as he did hot wish that others should hear their conversation; and when asked if he had made use of the insulting language which had been reported to the prisoner, he replied, 'I can't say I used those precise terms, but I believe 1 said something to that effect;' and added, that it was in consequence of remarks Dr. Corrin- ton had made touching himn,.that he had taken the liberty of expressing his feelings in such a public manner. This was followed by mutual admissions of impulsiveness and passionate haste on both sides, and something like a reconciliation. "' The prisoner states that he rode home with the deceased, bidding him good night only a few rods from the avenue leading to Mr. Brance's house, and galloping off immediately in the direction of the village; that he heard a page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] sound like a report of a gun, and that, as he was riding fast, he" concluded he might have been deceived, and thought nothing of it; and that he then proceeded directly to the tavern, and thence to his office, where he was found by Solomon Brown. The pistol he missed that evening; it was taken from his office during his absence, and without his knowledge. He declares that he never meditated using any vio- lence, and that his threat that 'Appleton should suffer' was hasty, meaning only that he would confront him, and perhaps retaliate. Nothing can be more revolting than to suppose that he deliberately, and in cold blood, armed himself, and followed the deceased with the intention of taking his life. You must allow, then, that the prisoner's account of his proceedings that night is even more probable than the hypothesis of the murder. But granting that it is only barely possible that the account is correct, humanity, the notorious fallacy of presumptive evidence, every thing, calls upon you to give the prisoner the benefit of that possibility. To pronounce a man guilty of a crime which must devote him to everlasting infamy and an igno- minious death, something more is required than THE TRIAL. 1 i the possibility or probability of his guilt. Yon must be convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt of the utter impossibility that the crime can have been committed by any other person. Are you, gentlemen of the jury, thoroughly convinced in this instance? Are you sure that the deceased was not slain by some villain, who for revenge, or for money, lay in wait for him, having first entered the prisoner's office i and taken possession of a weapon suited to his murderous purpose? Can you conscientiously say that such a thing is not possible? I appeal to you as men, each of whom is liable at any time to be placed in the position of my client, to acknowledge that there is a possibility of his innocence, and to give him the benefit of that ,possibility. But something tells me that I need not urge this point with-a humane, benevolent, truth-seeking jury. The fate of an innocent man, prosecuted for a crime at which he shud- ders, is in your hands. I cannot for an instant believe that you will bring him in guilty: the evidence is altogether insufficient to give repose to your consciences, if in future years you have to reflect upon the doom of a man unjustly convicted; and, in your public capacity, you page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] 178 THE DESERTED FAMLY. will manifest that regard for justice and hu. manity for which, as private citizens, you have always been distinguished. But what I ask is this: Let your verdict be prompt, that the world may see that you do not for an instant doubt the innocence of my client. You under. stand what a dark stain this accusation, and the ingenuity of the opposing counsel, must leave upon the character of a worthy, upright citizen. Do not let this misfortune prove his utter ruin. I e has suffered much already; you will not allow the imputation of guilt to rest upon him forever, and load him with last- ing misery. It rests with you, gentlemen of the jury, to make the only atonement in the power of the court for the agony he has suf- fered. Then let your verdict of acquittal be given with such promptitude and decision that no stain shall rest on the character of a man who values honor more than life, and dreads infamy more than death." This speech of the prisoner's counsel, of which we have given but an imperfect, discon- nected sketch, was listened to with intense in- terest and breathless attention. Butthe friends of the prisoner, the prisoner himself, were THE TRIAL. 179 evidently not wholly satisfied with the defence. It was doubtless expected that Mr. Marshal would surmount all difficulties, annihilate the strength of circumstantial evidence against the prisoner, and make his innocence appear clear as day. When the speaker took his seat not a mur- mur was heard, and the silence was broken only by a restless movement of the spectators. Corrinton, pale and anxious, cast a, glance around him. He saw the eyes of a speechless multitude fixed upon him, and he could detect more curiosity than sympathy in the general aspect of the crowd. He saw his friends turn pale, and looks of doubt and suspicion met his gaze on every side. With a pang, he turned to read again the countenances of the jury. From them he could glean no sympathy or hope; and in vain he looked for favor in the calm, serious aspect of the judge. When Mr. Marshal approached him he smiled sadly, and giving his hand a grateful pressure, thanked him for having done for him all any mortal could have done, in the face of such opposition. At this moment, a veil was withdrawn from the face of: one of the female spectators. With a page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] IOU THE IMUss'TED F'AMLX s. rapturous thrill, Albert beheld the lovely fea. tures of Alice, Silby, whom he had not recog. hized before. Her serene, hopeful eyes were upon him; her beautiful face, beaming with sympathy, smiled encouragement, and confi- dence, and love; and Corrinton was happy. The judge's charge was an able effort, clear, concise, and free from prejudice. Having ex- amined the grounds on which the prosecution was based, reviewed the arguments of the opposing counsel, and explained some points of law, he concluded with the impressive in- junction, that if the evidence had failed to convince the jury, beyond any doubt, of the guilt of the prisoner, they would not bring him in guilty. The jury went out, and the anxiety of the spectators to hear the verdict chained every in- dividual to his seat; but as they did not-agree immediately, the court adjourned. Corrinton exchanged a parting glance with Alice, as the spectators passed out of the court room; and the prisoner was taken back to his cell. CHAPTER XV. THE -VERDICT. THAT night Corrinton slept more soundly than he had done for weeks before. He felt a sort of indifference with regard to the trial, in which he had taken such an anxious interest until that day, and upon the result of which he kinew that his life depended. That indifference was like the apathy which is the reaction of a lofty mind worn out- by disappointments, or like the strange calmness of despair. At the opening of the court on the following morning, it was announced that the jury had agreed on their verdict, and Corrinton was once more placed at the bar. Again the court room was filled with specta- tors. To all, except the prisoner, the entire in- terest of the trial seemed to be concentrated into that hour. An awful stillness pervaded the court and the spectators, when the jury, attended by constables, entered, one after an- other, in solemn procession, and took their a 16 (181) page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] accustomed places. The usual formalities were duly observed; and the foreman who had been chosen stood up to reply to the solemn ques. tion of the court:- "Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty, or not guilty?" A breathless silence followed; the spectators bent forward with eager interest, fixing their eyes upon the foreman ; and the prisoner started, as if suddenly aroused from his apathy to a consciousness of the awful importance of the reply. With a firm, clear voice, which thrilled to every heart, the foreman answered,- "NOT GUILTY!" The effect was electric. The gloom of in- tense, painful interest, which had darkened the countenances of those who felt an interest in the prisoner, gave place to a gleam of satisfac- tion. It was like pouring a flood of sunshine into a dungeon. Corrinton smiled faintly, and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. By order of the court, the prisoner was im- mediately discharged from custody, and his friends flocked around him, to congratulate him lTHEn VERDUICT. A on the result of the trial. But his eye was vacant; he looked about him, as if seeking some absent face. He thanked all kindly for their congratulations, but there was a settled sadness on his brow for which none could ac- count. A well-known voice aroused him. Mr. Joseph Sorrel held him by the hand. ("I give you joy!" cried Joseph. "I knew 'twould be so! Come this way, if you please, doctor; -the folks are out here." Corrinton knew too well who was meant by the indefinite term "folks" to need a second invitation from the simple-hearted Joseph. Following his guide, the young physician soon found himself under. the canopy of the sky, to which he had been so long unaccus- tomed. It was a beautiful autumnal day, and the bright sun and life-dispensing air filled his sad heart with gladness. Moreover, he now saw the point to which Joseph was leading him, and his blood flowed more swiftly through his veins. He distinguished a particular car- riage among several,. and a particular indi- vidual in that carriage among others, and he scarcely heard the words of Joseph,-- page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] i' They were going by, and stopped to hear the news -- father, aunt, and cousin. Ah! there is Mr. Brance with them!" Regardless of the multitude which followed at his heels, Corrinton hastened to the carriage, and extended his hand to Alice. The eyes of the lovers met, and their souls spake. Recol- lecting that he was observed, the young man turned to shake the hand of the elder Mr. Sor- rel, who was not remarkably cordial in his greeting, and to pay his regards to Mrs. Silby, who received them in silence, with a freezing look. Shocked, confounded, the young man found himself face to face with Mr. Brance, before he was fully conscious of that gentle- man's presence. He bowed with becoming civility and respect, while Mr. Brance merely nodded coldly, and turned upon his heel. At that moment, Mr. Sorrel, admonished by Mrs. Silby, drew taut the reins, and measured out his whip. The young man had time only to exchange glances with Alice, when the carriage rolled away. Corrinton's heart burned with bitterness. With a haughty, desperate gesture, he turned THE VERDICT. 185 upon the gaping crowd that had followed at his heels. The wrath of his contracted features and his angry strides caused the multitude to fall back and open a way for him, and he re- turned to the court house. Joseph followed him timidly, and at a short distance; but Corrinton observed him the moment he had reached the court-house steps, and motioned for him to approach. "Find a carriage for me," muttered he. "Let me get away from this wretched place." "My buggy is at your service, doctor," said a gruff voice. "Ha! Major Smith! thank you. I accept- your offer," replied Corrinton. And bidding good morning to Joseph, who shrank away from the major as if he had been a dangerous wild beast, Corrinton stepped into the buggy, and took his seat by the- major's side. "All the world are fools!" muttered the doc- tor, casting a look of scorn and wrath back at the crowd. "Drive me to the tavern, major! I'll see no more of this!" "You forget that witty epigram of an old : 16* page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] French poet, my, dear doctor," replied the ma- jor, laughing. , This is it:- Le monde est plein de fous, Et qui n'en veut pas voir, Doit demeurer tout seul, Et mrme sans miroir.' * So, if you hate the sight of fools so badly, lock yourself up in your office and break your look- ing glass. But, jesting aside, Corrinton, I must say, I never saiw a man, who had so much apparent reason to rejoice, look so grave and desperate." "Reason to rejoice!" echoed the doctor with a sneer., "Reason to rejoice, indeed! I would thank you to explain yourself, and then I will - perhaps swing my hat in the air, and shout victory!" "' Why, you confounded simpleton!" said Major Smith, good humoredly: "where were you last week? and where are you to-day? You see no difference, I suppose, between the grim, dark walls of a jail, and the bright firmament * Fools so abound in every place, That he who would see none at all Should hide himself from all his race, And turn his mirror to the wall. THE VERDICT. 187 of heaven, sunshine, and mountain breezes? no difference between the narrow precincts of your late apartments, and the world-wide liber- ty you now enjoy? no difference-- O, none at all, I am sure-- between the companionship of sheep stealers, and that of excellent, fine fel- lows, like your old friend and humble servant? Ha! ha! But if you distinguish no preference here, bethink you a moment of the journey you might now be travelling, with the last good wishes of Judge Cone, and under the faithful guidance of an excellent sheriff! By Jove, doctor, there is a trifling difference between a verdict of 'guilty' and a verdict of' not guilty.' It makes a slight difference in the end, I assure you. Thus far," pursued the facetious major, touching his fast nag under the shoulder with his whip, "I say, you have reason to rejoice." "Then the man who falls off a four-story building and breaks both legs, but preserves his neck bone entire, has reason to rejoice ." answered Corrinton, bitterly. "The wretch who loses all his property through .the perfidy of supposed friends, but by some extravagant good fortune saves from the wreck a change of linen and two pairs of boots, has reason to page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] 188 THE DESERTED FAMLY. rejoice - The man who passes forty of the best years of his life in prison on a false accusation, and is magnanimously pardoned out a week before his death, has reason to rejoice! Ac- cording to your principles, I have reason to rejoice -- I, who have been accused of a crime of which I am innocent as a new-born babe - I, who have been cursed by fools who, believed me guilty - I, who have been for the space of four bright summer months shut up like a cul- prit in pririson with culprits, where the only rays of God's glorious daylight which came to me struggled through cold iron bars, fixed in walls of stone- I, who have suffered languor, anxiety, contumely, wretchedness, all unde- served -I, who have been abhorred like the bloodiest villain, gazed at like a barbarian, tried like a criminal- I, who have gone through all this to find myself at last set free, delivered from the -gallows, let loose upon a society still be- lieving in my guilt, and shuddering at my ap- proach, as if I had forfeited the head which I wear on my shoulders, and had defrauded so- ciety of the exquisite pleasure of hanging up an example to evil doers iI, who am ruined for life by the wrongs I have suffered--yes, I Jw THE VERDICT. 189 suppose I have reason to rejoice over the mag- nanimity of society, over my great good for- tune, over the hated existence which is spared to me!" "I perceive you have become a confirmed grumbler!" said Major Smith. "Well, I can't say I blame you. Misfortunes are hard to bear." "Misfortunes!" cried Corrinton. "Wrongs!" "Ah! my dear fellow, you mistake," replied the major. "Who has wronged you? No one. Whom can you blame, because there was evidence which led to suspicions of yourself? That there was sufficient evidence to warrant your arrest, you must yourself allow. Why then should you not be tried like any man? What wrong is there, that you have been subjected to the scrutiny of the law?" ("None!" exclaimed Albert. "I could have borne every thing without complaint, had my acquittal been a signal for the death of all sus- picion. But although the law has cleared me, society still holds me guilty. I meet suspicious glances on every side. I am reckoned a mur- derer, and shunned!" Major Smith was a very lively and good- page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] 190 THE DESERTED FAMLY. natured companion, and, notwithstanding his gruff voice and ferocious beard, was not devoid of sympathy; but he had not words of con- solation to suit the bitter feelings of the young physician. His rude jests and blunt manner of speech availed nothing; and when he set Corrinton down at the tavern door, the latter appeared as dispirited and as much out of con- ceit with the world as ever. Several individuals whom the doctor knew were in the public room of the tavern, and his appearance created quite a sensation.- Some stepped aside, as if they feared to offend him, and considered his society dangerous; others greeted him warmly, but in a manner which to Corrinton seemed to say, "We know you killed Brance in a quarrel; but what of it?" and one or two offered him congratulations with delicacy and respect. -"Give me the key to my office," said the doctor, addressing the landlord. "You have it, I believe." "Yes; at your request, I took possession of the key, and have kept the office locked," said the landlord. He bowed obsequiously, but with marked THE VERDICT. 191 coldness, and fumbled in his desk with nervous haste. Nothing could have irritated Corrinton more than such deference paid to his notoriety; and with a scornful smile, taking the key from the landlord's hands, he strode out of the room without another word. The young man unlocked the door of his little office, and entered. The dreariness of the interior sent a chill to his heart. The air was close; dust covered the furniture, and spiders had spun their webs in every corner. He seemed entering a prison more desolate than the one he had left. The window panes, coated with dust within and bespattered with mud without, admitted the sunlight of that bright day in cold and cheerless rays. The worn covers of, the volumes on the shelves had lost their familiar aspect; every thing looked changed. With a sigh of deep misery, Cor. rinton threw himself in the old, leather-cushioned arm chair in whose embrace he had passed so many solitary but pleasant hours, and which revived a thousand sad remembrances, loading his heart with sorrow. page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] CHAPTER XVI. "OVERS' TRIALS. FOR the space of an hour Albert Corrinton remained in his office, disconsolate, sullen, an- gry with the world. Nobody called to renew old associations, to give him joy on his re- entrance into the world. Thus he remained an hour alone, unspeak- ably wretched. At the end of that time he said to himself,-- "Why am I thus cast down? What weak- ness is this I am guilty of, that the coldness of Mrs. Silby, the scorn and hatred of Mr. Brance, and the suspicions of a hundred others, crush me thus easily? Conscious of my innocence, I can frown down a world of fools. I can repay suspicion with scorn, scorn with hatred, cold- ness with contempt." The young man went forth. He left his threshold to confront the world. In the tav- ern he met Mr. Brance, whom he would doubts less have overwhelmed with disdain, had not that gentleman turned his back, as if he had (192) "OVERS' TRIALS. 193 not observed him. Several respectable and in- fluential men, whose favor Corrinton had gener- ally enjoyed, were conversing with Mr. Brance; and all of them regarded him coldly, bowing stiffly, and treating him with marked reserve. The young man looked full an inch taller as he turned haughtily and walked away. He called for his horse. The hostler led the animal out, and the doctor patted his glossy neck. The horse smelt of him, looked at him strangely, and ended in making manifest his pleasure by a fond drooping of his head on his master's shoulder. "Here is one true friend! thought Albert. "Would I had a trusty dog, that I might say I had two!" He mounted and rode off, while the eyes of all Verfield followed him in wonder. The "Indian summer" was over. The trees had cast off their gorgeous garments, and the soft, dreamy atmosphere of October had given place to the clearer, more bracing No- vember air. The fields appeared in. sober coats of faded green; the wind swept through the desolate woods with dreary meanings; and dry and withered Jeaves filled the woodland 17 page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] 194 THE DESERTED FAMLY. hollows, and rotted on the ground. But the weather was not cold, and the sun shone with brilliancy; and but for the wintry aspect of the woods, all nature would have looked smiling. Riding amid familiar scenes, on such a day, Albert's eye could distinguish no beauty in what he saw; his heart could gather no cheerfulness from any thing around him. He felt himself unjustly condemned, - an outcast without cause,- and his bosom was filled with bitterness. The walls of the jail had appeared less dreary to his eye than those very scenes which he had once so much admired and loved. He was still strong in his determination to frown down suspicion, and to crush and outlive scorn. He returned to his office; engaged the lad-&who formerly had the care of it to sweep it, dust it, and put it in perfect order; dined at the tavern, amid a crowd of people who regard- ed him with undisguised feelings of curiosity, horror, and suspicion; and walked away at last with an air of true dignity, as if he en- joyed his notoriety, and felt himself honored. Once more the young doctor sat in his of- fice, waiting for practice. Thus the day wore , "OVERS' TRIALS. 195 away, and nothing took place to assure him that his friends had not all deserted him. No- body called to see him, except two or three young gentlemen of his acquaintance for whom he cared but little; the man who had engaged to remove to his office such articles as had been conveyed thence to the jail during his confinement; and one or two others who came to see him on business. The evening was chilly; and Corrinton, wrapped in his cloak, which he drew over his face, went forth into the village. His hat shaded his brow, and he walked among his fel- low-citizens unknown. Groups were gathered about the tavern, stores, shops, and in public places, and every where the conversation was about the murder and the trial. Corrinton heard his name coupled with villanous epi- thets, and comments of the freest nature were made on his character by men whose esteem he once enjoyed. Shuddering with horror, his heart bursting with indignation, pain, and an- guish, he walked from group to group, and list- ened to the calumny heaped upon his name. Some declared that it was nothing but the anti-hanging principles of the jury which pre- page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] 196 THE DESERTED FAMTLYo vented his conviction; others argued that, ale though there could be no doubt of his guilt, the evidence was insufficient to convict him; a few--an inglorious few---contended that the verdict was true and just, and that the prisoner was innocent of crime. The general voice was against him; slanderous rumors of villanies he was supposed to have perpetrated years before were whispered round; and he heard more than one malicious tongue predict that his guilt would yet be proved, and that he " would have to swing!" The feelings of a sensitive, impulsive man like Corrinton, listening to such calumny, can- not be described. He gnawed his nether lip until the blood crimsoned his beard, to restrain his fiery tongue from hurling defiance and scorn at the fools whose idle tongues stirred up his soul with rage. He did restrain himself. He took his way along a dark and deserted road, and across a desolate field, and ape proached Mr. Sorrel's house. He wished to see Alice. He felt that she alone could calm his troubled bosom. A domestic answered his summons, and he inquired for Miss Silby. "What name shall I give?" asked the "OVERS' TRIALS. 197 girl, looking curiously at the dark figure before her. "Corrinton," answered the young man in a deep voice, casting back the folds of his cloak, and stepping forward into the light. The girl disappeared with wonderful alacrity. In a few moments she returned to Albert, whom she had left standing in the hall. "She is engaged,' said she, in an unsteady voice. Albert took a sudden step forward. The girl took two very sudden steps backward. "I wish to see Miss Silby!" he repeated, in a tone of authority. "She - is - en - engaged " stammered the domestic. "Then I will see Mrs. Silby," replied Cor- rinton. The girl disappeared again, as if she felt an inexpressible relief at getting away from the young physician. A minute later, and Albert" saw before him the tall, stately figure, the severe brow, the cold, searching eyes of Mrs. Silby. Albert removed his hat respectfully. "I am anxious to know if your daughter 17* page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] IL %IF W A LJVk A FJ UQI o L vlJ J:J A A U A refuses to see me," said he, in a voice of deep and subdued passion. "We, her friends, by whom she is influenced and governed, think it best that she should not see you," answered -Mrs. Silby, with great firmness and severity. "Well and good!" said Albert, with a pro- found bow-and a bitter curling of his lip. "I only wished to know if it was her desire or your will which was opposed to my seeing her. I wish you a very good night." And the young man, having saluted Mrs. Silbhy with praiseworthy politeness, gracefully and deliberately withdrew. Half an hour after, Corrinton was sitting alone in his solitary office, the most desolate, the most angry, the most wretched of men. He was surprised in the midst of his bitter re- flections -by the entrance of a visitor. Mr. Joseph Sorrel, bowing with unaffected defer- ence, stood before him. "( Well,.my good friend," said Albert, "I am glad to see you. Sit down. What news have you, Joseph?" "None," answered Mr. Sorrel; "that is, I have-- this!" "OVERS' TRIALS. 199 And Joseph produced from the depths of his coat pocket a letter, which he placed in Cor- rinton's hands. "From Alice- my charming cousin," said the young man. "' I have the honor to be her bearer of despatches." Corrinton broke open the note, and read as follows: "Meet me to-morrow morning, at ten, in the spot we have called Shadowland. YOUR ALICE." This was all, but it was enough for Albert's understanding. He seemed, in -opening the brief epistle, to have opened a casket of jewels, which shed flashes of sunshine on his face and all around him. "It was very kind in you, Joseph, to bring me this," said the doctor. "I don't know how I shall repay the many obliging acts for which I am indebted to your generosity." "O, don't speak of it,"cried Joseph, twirling his hat in his hands. "I'd be glad to do any thing for Alice, if I never -got a ' thank you' for it. I am as devoted to her as the knights of old to their fair ladies; though I don't ". page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] 200 THE DESERTED FAMLY. expect any return for my devotion," he added, in a tone verging on melancholy. "You must be very fond of her, I am sure," said Corrinton, sympathetically. "You've no idea!" exclaimed the warm- hearted Joseph. "Perhaps not," said the doctor, smiling. ( I should love her to distraction," added the younger Mr. Sorrel, plunging his eyes into the. bottom of his hat, " if she had ever given me the least encouragement. Cousinly affection she gives me, but nothing more; and I suppose I must be resigned." "' What has become of Miss Fantom?" asked the doctor. "I understood you were at one time quite attentive---" "I was," said Joseph. ("She is a fine girl- a very spirited woman. But, unfortunately, she( has a passion for ferocious beards-- a strange fancy for outlandish mustaches." "It strikes me, you indulged in a little dis- play of hair on your upper lip, at one time, Joseph?" Mr. Sorrel stroked that part of his physiog- nomy, which was,:very clean and smooth, and smiling faintly, replied, - "OVERS' TRIALS. 201 "Your impression is correct, doctor. I did raise a mustache. That is--I didn't. I only made an attempt. I understood Miss Fan- torn's passion for bearded faces. My mus- tache, therefore, and my love for her, sprouted simultaneously. They grew together, doctor." "1 Neither ever amounted to much, I suspect," said Corrinton. "Well - no. I am not a monster by nature, and I have not by nature a monstrous beard. My mustache progressed slowly; so did my suit with Miss Fantom. She gave a little en- couragement to both; but as her regard for men was measured by their beards, I am afraid I never rose very high in her affections. She could not appreciate a civilized aspect--a clean-shaved face. But I am naturally ambi- tious. I had hope. I fostered my love and my mustache with remarkable patience and zeal. One night, however, she laughed at me; disdained my suit; made fun of my mus- tache. It was too much. My love died like a lucifer match in a pail of water, and next morning I made my appearance with a smooth- shaved upper lip. Miss Fantom's rage for monstrosities was too much for me." 'I . t * page: 202-203[View Page 202-203] 202 THE DESERTED FAMLY. "So yon have broken off with her?" , Yes. That is-no. The truth is, she broke off with me. And I don't regret it. Be- sides the strange fancy for beards, she was too spirited for me. She was always getting me into difficulties. Do you remember the black eye I carried for two weeks last summer? It was the consequence of my chivalric devotion to Miss F." "No!" "Fact; Miss Fantom was always being insulted when I had the honor of being her protector. There is no end to the apologies she has made me demand of the most terrible fellows, who had no more regard for me than I for a mosquito. I was walking out with her one- Sunday afternoon, when we melt a barba- rian, who nodded to Miss F. in -- I thought- a very respectful manner. "' O Heavens! i says she, faintly. "What, dear? ' says I. "That man insulted me! ' says Miss F. "I knew what was coming, and shuddered at the thought of being compelled to ask an apology of such a Hercules of a man. But, bless you, doctor, I couldn't get off. She had "OVERS' TRIALS. 203 never been introduced to the individual; he had saluted her; therefore it was an insult. She threatened to proclaim me a coward, and cast me off forever, if I didn't protect her better. SO I went to the slaughter like a lamb. Miss F. sat down on a stone, and watched me with a little the coolest eyes I ever saw. I believe she would have smiled to see me step off a precipice into the ocean. "' Beg pardon, sir,' says I to the stout fel- low; and I assure you, doctor, I was very civil. "Hercules smiled savagely. "t Well,' says he, ' what is it?' "I stated the case in the most gentlemanly manner, and I am sure my tone and language were the most conciliatory I could command. Now, how do you suppose my overtures were received? Without the least provocation, the Titan pulled my nose. What happened next I don't know, for I was suddenly dazzled by the illumination of the whole inside of my head! And the next moment I was crawling out of a ditch half full of water. It was my impression that I had been struck,' and, on reflection, I became fully convinced of the fact. page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] I feit very dizzy and sick, and actually believe I should have fainted, if it hadn't been for my cold bath and the water my clothes had soaked up in the ditch. As soon as I had collected my scattered senses, I looked around for my antagonist. Now, doctor, what do you think I saw?" "Another illumination," suggested Albert. "No!" answered Joseph, cocking his hat firmly over his eyes. -"The pain of being knocked down again couldn't have been com- pared to the pain I suffered. It was the un- kindest cut of all. I never can forgive Miss F. for her treachery, more than I can forgive her Goliah for blacking my eye and throwing me into the ditch." "What did you see?" asked Albert. "This: while I stood there, dripping ditch water, uncertain whether my skull was broken or-not, suffering indescribable torments of mind and body, - all for her sake, -' she was bowing and smiling, and smiling and bowing, to the barbarian who had insulted her and' killed me!" "Impossible!" "It is a true bill, doctor!" "OVERS' TRIALS. 205 "What next?" "I was a little confused; but as near as I can remember, Ajax offered her his arm, which she smilingly accepted, and they walked away together."- "Incredible!" exclaimed Corrinton. i"It is nevertheless a lamentable fact," mut- tered Joseph. "The hyena actually walked home with Miss F. If I hadn't been hit quite so hard, I believe I should have been desperate enough to give fight to the audacious scamp, and die like a hero at Aiss Fantom's cruel feet." "I presume one blow was enough," sug- gested the doctor. "From such a monster, yes, quite; so I didn't dispute the victory, and he marched off with the spoils." "And you?" "As for myself," replied Joseph, with a good- humored smile, "I fished my hat out of the ditch, went into the'woods, squeezed the water out of my linen, emptied my boots,.and spread my coat on the ground to dry. All this time I felt a puffing up of my right eye; and when I examined it, I found a bunch about the size 18 page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] and consistency of an ordinary, healthy puff. ball. When I went home, I was the most hideous-looking object that ever wore the hu-, man form.?' "You must have attracted attention?" "I might have attracted much attention, doctor, if I hadn't avoided it by staying in the woods until nightfall. Then I took an un- travelled path, and went home unseen. I was a miserable fellow until I had told my story to Alice and got her sympathy. Then I felt bet- ter; but my Sunday suit was spoiled, and I carried a black eye for a fortnight. As for Miss F., I never could forgive her, although she ex- plained her singular conduct by saying that her Titan was an old acquaintance, whom she did not recognize until after he had knocked me down. I shall always believe that she did recognize him at first, and, dissatisfied with the formal nod he gave her, resolved to make an excuse for speaking with him, sacrificing me to her treacherous designs." "Quite likely," said Albert. The brief but significant letter of which Joseph was the bearer had inspired Corrinton with an excellent humor for listening to the . m "OVERS' TRIALS. 2U07 young man's melancholy story, and for sympa- thizing with his misfortunes; but now his mind reverted to Alice, and he questioned his simple-hearted companion about the object of their mutual admiration. Joseph knew but little of those matters of which Albert would have had him know so much; but the doctor gathered from what he said that Mrs. Silby and her daughter differed on some subject which was easy to be divined. "O, she's such a remarkably severe woman -is aunt Silby!" exclaimed Joseph. 1"I am sometimes actually afraid of her. How Alice -the dear girl-- gets along with her, I don't know; but then Alice is such a strong-minded, even-tempered girl herself, that she can bear with her mother, and reason with her, when nobody else could." When Joseph was gone, the young doctor was glad to indulge in uninterrupted reflections on the subjects which occupied his mind. He was less miserable than before Joseph's com- ing; for Alice, her letter, and the anticipated interview with her on the morrow, formed all his thoughts and all his dreams that night. page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] CHAPTER XVII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. WHLE Dr. Corrinton, wrapped in his cloak, with his features concealed, was moving about that evening among the groups of idlers who were discussing the result of the trial, he twice met a stranger, whose singular appearance at- tracted attention. This was a plainly-dressed individual, whose threadbare coat was buttoned close about him, and whose hair, in locks of mingled black and gray, straggled from beneath a cap drawn over his eyes. Once, when Corrinton met him, the lamplight from a neighboring store fell upon his facej-which was pale and thin, and marked with deep lines of suffering. This strange man was no other than Mr. Stripe, the vagabond. His appearance had been somewhat improved, as respected his dress, since his former visit to Verfield; but his careworn face showed new wrinkles, and he seemed bent by an additional weight of misery. (208) aN OJLD ACQUAINTANCE. 209 Mr. Stripe passed from group to group, lis- tening to the conversation of the idlers with strange interest. More than once he questioned them with regard to the late murder, the trial, and the prisoner who had been acquitted; and all remarked his unsteady voice, his anxious, careworn face, and his eagerness to hear the details of the tragedy. Late in the evening the group of gossips began to disperse; the steps of favorite shops and stores became depopulated; and only those who found shelter from the chill night air in the tavern or in private dwellings continued to discuss the prevailing subject of conversation. Mr. Stripe went to the tavern, paid for his lodg- ing, and at a late hour retired to the rude bed in the rude garret, which the landlord kept for the accommodation of the least respectable of his customers. All night the vagabond groaned, and turned about, as if in great agony; and sometimes he would start up suddenly, as if from sleep, and cry aloud. In the morning he breakfasted late, sitting at the same table with Corrinton, from whose face he could not take his eyes. The doctor, 18* page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] thinking him some-straggler, who had been told the, story of the murder, and who was therefore curious to stare at the man who had been tried for it, frowned upon him once, with- out deigning to notice him further. Of more than one the vagabond ventured to inquire about the schoolmistress who taught in the school house by the forest, over the hill, during the summer, and learned from various sources something of her supposed partiality for Corrinton. Her school was closed for the season, he was told; and, anxious to behold her fair face again, he turned his footsteps towards her uncle's house, where she resided. For a long time the poor man wandered about, taking broad circuits around Mr. Sor- rel's house, as if he, feared to approach too near, and yet could not go away without seeing her he sought. Once he sat down upon a low fence, in a spot where the sun shone warmly, and which commanded a tolerably fair view of -Mr. Sor- rel's -house. In this position he was aroused by the harsh voice of a man who approached him from behind. Turning, he started ner- vously, and his brow contracted suddenly, when AJ UOJu ACQUAINTANCE. 2" he beheld the well-remembered features of Mr. Roger Brance. ' What are you skulking about here for, sir?" demanded that gentleman. "Is this your land, too?" said the vagabond, in a deep voice. "Ha!" cried Mr. Brance; " it strikes me I have seen you before!" "I believe we have met twice," answered Mr. Stripe. "Twice you drove me off your prem- ises. If your land extends as far as here, you can order me away again." "This is not my land - I have no desire to drive you away. But I perceived you skulking about," said Mr. Brance, pompously, "and I took the liberty to ask your business. You appeared to be watching that house." "I comprehend you!" muttered the vaga- bond, his eyes flashing fire. "I am told that yonder lives a lady you intend making your wife. And you are jealous that even the house should be looked at and admired!" "Insolence!" Mr. Brance's brow was flushed with indigna- tion : the vagabond approached him, and, shak- ing his bony fingers in his face, provoked him still more. page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] r Call it insolence, or what you will," said the excited man, his haggard features working with wrath, "I can speak my. mind here, and- tell you truths. I hate your pride of wealth-- I detest your pompous manners. And as for the woman who lives yonder, she shal not marry you." "Curses on your tongue, beggarly fool!" growled Mr. Brance, who was much ima pressed, and a little frightened, at the wild manner and the threatening language of the stranger. "You can curse my tongue, for it curses you!?" answered the vagabond firmly. "But remember my words! While I live, you shall not marry Mrs. Silby!" -With a look of intense hatred, the vagabond dropped his hand, which had shaken defiance at Mr. Brance, turned slowly, and strode away. Angry, yet perplexed and awed, Mr. Brance could not speak or move to stop him, but stood gazing at him in silence until he was out of sight. The vagabond wandered about for half an hour longer, apparently without an object. At length he entered a woodland, where the sun A UJLJVU AUYUAlJNTArNl! ;. Y10 looked coldly through the dark, dreary trees, and faded leaves strewed the ground. Sitting down upon the trunk of a fallen oak, he rested his chin upon his palms, while his pallid fea- tures writhed with the agony of his soul. From his mournful revery he was roused by a sight which awakened in him a lively, painful interest. Not far off, a well-remem- bered female face and figure moved along a path leading into the heart of the forest. It was Alice. She did not discover the vagabond, but tripped along among the trees, unconscious of observation. Mr. Stripe started to his feet, and followed in the direction she - had taken. The young girl approached a ravine; and there the vagabond, watching her fair form as it glided down a path beaten out beneath the bluff which bounded the hollow, saw her no more. Alice had reached the. spot which the lovers called "Shadowland," and which Cor- rinton, writing to Alice from prison, described as "that cool retreat, sheltered by woodland heights on either side, where sunshine never falls." The vagabond approached the verge of the bluffs, and looked down into the ravine. He page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] saw not whom. he sought; but voices, coming from beneath the bank on which he stood, reached his ear with distinctness. "I cannot tell you how much I thank you for this interview, dearest Alice," said a manly voice. "It teaches me that the prejudice of others cannot influence your mind--that you have indeed some regard for me." "Some regard for you, Dr. Corrinton!" re- peated the silvery tones of a girl. "You may well say that! What else could induce me to trangress the etiquette of the world, the cold - rules' of modesty, to ask and appoint this meeting? What else but regard for you could make me rebel against my mother's will, whom I never disobeyed before?" "O Alice! can it be -- " "That I have disobeyed her? Yes, Albert, I have. Heaven forgive me for it!" "-Heaven must, Alice; for when you - so noble, so generous, so wise and good - when you disobey a parent's commands, it must be from some cause which justifies the step." "My conscience tells me I have not, done wrong," said Alice, quickly, as if her heart was swelling with the pride and high resolve which ,.J AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 21 such noble hearts feel when conscious of hav- ing acted rightly. "Albert, I thought of all you have suffered -unjustly suspected of a crime of which my heart knows you to be in- nocent; I knew you suffered still, for there are stubborn souls that will yet believe you guilty; I imagined that the sympathy, and confidence, and approbation of even one heart as poor as mine might take a portion of the weight of misery from yours--" ( O, God bless you, Alice! God bless you!" cried the manly voice, choked by manly emo- tion. "Your sympathy, your confidence, your approbation outweighs a world's hatred, a world's suspicion, a world's disdain." "I considered all things," pursued Alice, in low, tremulous tones, which were yet loud enough to thrill every fibre of the vagabond's frame; "I felt that I owed you something; I knew that the coldness of a suspicious world would be hard to bear alone; and when even my mother repulsed you harshy--when she would not permit you to come to me, I re- solved to come to you." "O, you love me, then-dearest Alice, you love me!" page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] "I do --I do! I never told you so before. I should not tell you so now, were it not that, while you. imagine thay the world hates you, you should know that there is one who loves you. Yes, Albert, you have my warmest friend- ship, my highest esteem, my purest love." -"What happiness is this!" murmured Cor- rinton, in tones vibrating with the deepest joy. "t My Alice! You whom I have learned to re. gard as the best, the most perfect of woman- kind - you love a weak man like me ---and in my misfortunes, too! I do not dream --tell me that my senses have not deceived me! But what am I saying? O Alice, I am the most wretched of men." ' Then I flattered myself with a vain hope, when I dreamed I could make you happy," replied Alice, sadly. No - no! I am happy, too happy, to know that you love me! But a moment's reflection fills my heart with forebodings and regrets. I would wish to make you my wife, dearest; I can never be happy without you; but it would be the worst of selfishness for me to expect or ask you to be mine. I am an outcast from the world-I shall be suspected and despised- AN uuJV AUQaUAmN.'TAUC. ul{ perhaps forever! And can I ask you to share, my wretchedness? My heart sickens. O A'ce!" "You need not ask me to share your lot if it is wretched, Albert. I will not wait for you to ask me. In prosperity, you should have come to me to plead; in your adversity, I come to you to offer and ask to share those sorrows which you are not willing to divide with me. I love you better than the world, Albert; I will therefore come out from the world and be on your side. I will be your wife, Albert, if you will accept me!" "How noble - glorious girl! , murmured the vagabond, shedding tears like rain. "O, how gladly do I!" cried Albert,= under the bluff. "'But can H- ought I? Should a poor outcast accept a jewel which the touch of his garment will soil?" "We will love each other and be happy," re- plied the rich, clear tones of Alice. "We will outlive suspicion." "But think of what must be endured! I shall have to struggle against poverty. Five months ago, my prospects were bright enough; my practice was successful, and I was in the path of fortune. Now, who will employ me? 19 : page: 218-219[View Page 218-219] 218 RtHE DESERTED FAMLY. Were I to sit in my office a year, the world would scorn me, and I would starve alone." , We will go where we are not known, then, Albert-twhere the unjust suspicions which drive you hence will not reach you. We will both labor, and the world shall let us live." "My own noble Alice!" cried Corrinton; " it shall be so, if you will. You shall go with me, and be my wife, and share my fortunes; and I will study to make you happy, in return for the sacrifice you so generously make for me." The vagabond turned away. He heard no more; his heart was already full of emotions, that struggled with each other, like the oppose ing elements of fire and water. His lips quiv- ered, his eyes were wet; but on his furrowed brow there was a gleam of light, as if the wretched wanderer had still one purpose and one hope. CHAPTER XVIII. MOTHER AND DAUG HTER. DURING the absence of Alice from her uncle's house, Mrs. Silby and Mr. Roger Brance were conversing together in that lady's sitting room. Alice was the subject of their conversation; and as soon as Mrs. Silby was informed of her return to the house, she requested Mr. Brance to step into an adjoining room, there to remain while she had an interview with her daughter. Alice entered her mother's room without delay. "Sit down, my child," said Mrs. Silby in an agitated voice, which she vainly endeavored to control. "I have a few words to say to you." Alice bowed respectful obedience. "Have you seen Mr. Corrinton this morn- ing?" pursued Mrs. Silby. "I have, mother," answered Alice in a firm voice. "I have disobeyed you, but I have no wish to deceive you." Mrs. Silby, pale with excitement, fixed her angry eyes upon her daughter's face. Her (219) page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] fingers clasped each other nervously, and it was a minute before she spoke. "I believe I am accursed of, Heaven!" she exclaimed at length, with bitterness. "Dear mother! I beg of you not to speak so," said Alice, much pained. "Why should I not?" answered the stern mother, shivering with passion. "After suffer- ing the misery to which the most dissipated of husbands devoted me, -after bearing all the agony- a proud, restless, undutiful son could occasion, -- you, my child,-- a daughter after my own heart,-- you in whom I have concen- trated all the wounded affections of a deserted wife,-all a mother's love and hope,--you must prove unkind!" "O my mother!" murmured Alice, weep- ing, "' forgive me! I have not wished to prove unkind, believe me! Only a strong sense of right and duty led me to disobey you, and see him whom you unjustly suspect and hate without cause.". "O fool!" cried Mrs, Silby, passionately. , Your love blinds your reason. Corrinton is as much a murderer as I am your mother. NWeak girl! I could not have believed this folly VIM LAA MAUjsL- e-..-. in you, did not your own shameless lips pro- claim it!" . "My mother," returned Alice, rising proud- ly, "I have not deserved this! I am not weak. Well might you call my lips shameless lips, did they not open to reply to such words, even though you, my mother, spoke them. Call me not weak, nor fool, nor shameless, for I am strong, and rational; and even now I blush for shame, that you should utter such reproaches!" "Stop, Alice!" cried Mrs. Silby, raising her hand with a gesture of authority. "I will not hear such language from you. You have been an obedient, dutiful child, and I have loved you fondly; but -now your reason is perverted, and you rebel! Have you not learned to know me yet, Alice?" added the passionate mothern "Are you prepared to oppose my will? and do you not know what that will is?" "Mother, I know all; I have considered all," replied Alice, in a calm, collected manner, which contrasted strangely with her parent's vehemence and passion. "I know that your will is stronger than your heart; I know that nothing can change it - not even natural af. fection. And yet I have disobeyed you; but 19 page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] 222 THE DESERTED FAMLY. as I have said, nothing but a strong sense of right and duty led me to take .that step. I have taken it; I am prepared for the conse- quences. Your reproaches pain me, mother- for you know how much I love you; but I have one source of consolation. My con- science tells me I have done right. Were it otherwise, your displeasure would kill me; as it is, I bear it with patience, trusting that you will some day know the truth, and think better of your child." "Begone from my sight!" exclaimed Mrs. Silby, hoarsely. "Tempt me no further; you make me forget that you are Alice, and I your mother!" Alice, who knew the strength of her mother's severe nature, and feared lest it might impel her to utter something which she could not bear, waited for no second command, but respectfully withdrew. Mrs. Silby remained, pacing to and fro in a state of great excitement. It was the first time Alice ever opposed that proud, impetuous will, which had proved more powerful than a wife's affections and a mother's love. Well :was it for both that Mrs. Silby sent her ,! MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 223 daughter from her; she knew it, for experience had taught her to fear her own passions; she felt that, had Alice staid, words would have passed between them which might have divid- ed them forever. But how hard was it for that haughty mother to govern those impulses which had always swayed her heart! Remembering that Mr. Brance was in an ad- joining room, and that she must see him soon, Mrs. Silby strove to calm herself. She had so far succeeded, that she was on the point of going to meet Mr. Brance, when a domestic came to inform her that a visitor desired to see her with- out delay. "Who is it?" demanded Mrs. Silby. 4"He did not give his name," replied the domestic; "that, he says, is of no conse- quence." "Show him in," said Mrs. Silby. She threw herself upon, a chair, her back turned towards the door. A moment after, a pale, haggard, heart-crushed man stood upon the threshold. It was the vagabond. Mrs. Silby heard his footsteps, and arose to receive her visitor, whoever it might be. The man -took a step forward, and paused, with his page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] 224 THE DESERTED FATrLY. anguished eyes fixed upon the severe features of the mother of Alice. Her eyes met his, and suddenly, a deathly palor overspreading her face," she sank back,. with a suppressed groan, upon the seat from which she had arisen. An hour after, when the vagabond had taken his departure, Mrs. Silby, calm, pale, seemingly oppressed by some awful weight upon her heart, once more called her daughter to her room. With an air of firmness, tempered by patience and meekness, Alice entered, prepared to meet her mother. "t My child," said Mrs. Silby, in a low, quiet * tone, such as Alice little expected to hear, "I have reflected on what I said to you, and I am convinced that I was in the wrong. I ask your pardon." "O my mother- my dearest mother " said Alice, throwing herself upon her neck, and bursting; into tears;, "it is for me to ask your pardon," she sobbed. "Forgive me, and love me,. mother!" "I have been too severe towards you," added Mrs. Silby, in a suppressed voice. "' I have been a stern, rather than an affectionate mother. ;But yet I have loved you, Alice, dearly; -and -MOTHER AND DAUGfl'tk. 25 dearly, dearly I love you still. Forgive my harshness; overlook my pride; remember what my life has been; consider what trials I have had to sour my disposition and render my heart obdurate and relentless." "My dear mother, I consider all things," said Alice, much affected. "I think of nothing now, except how much you have suffered, how much I owe to you, how much I love you!" '"You are a good girl, my child," answered Mrs. Silby. ("You have a great heart, a great soul, Alice. You are stronger than your mother-- wiser, better." "No, no!" said Alice, " that cannot be; for you have made me what I am, dearest mother. It is you who taught me--you who formed my mind and disciplined my heart." "True," replied the mother, with a faint, sad smile. ' But the discipline under which you have thriven nobly would have soured, and ruined, perhaps, any nature inferior to yours. It was too severe for your poor brother; and may Heaven forgive me for the wrong I have done to his generous and impetuous nature. Even with your father, Alice, I feel now that I was too severe. I confess this to you, because page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] I need your sympathy, my child. Yes, I was too severe with him. I should have borne with patience what I punished with unwomanly harshness. O, had I encouraged him to do right, instead of striving to drive him from the wrong, he might at length have forsaken his habits of dissipation, and become a useful man, and a kind husband and father. With regard to yourself, my child, you possess all my strength of character, and all your father's natural generosity. You have a discreet mind and a true heart, and I can henceforth trust you when I could not trust myself. Your judgment is more correct than mine. You are right in your opinion of Corrinton. He is a noble, in- nocent Inan. He is as worthy of you as any man can be. You are suited for each other - for your even temper can well bear with and control his fluctuating impulses, his undis- ciplined passions. Dearest Alice! may you be happier than your mother has been!" Alice made no reply. She was sobbing on her mothers bosom. CHAPTER XIX. THE INTERVIEW. As the reader may be curious to know the cause of the sudden change in Mrs. Silby's feelings and conduct, we will relate what passed during her interview with Mr. Stripe. "I see this is not an agreeable surprise to you, madam," said the vagabond, bitterly. "But I am here - I am alive; and you may as well make the best of your misfortune." "Do you come here to taunt me or defy me?" cried Mrs. Silby, rising angrily. "O wretched fool!" The vagabond made no reply, but stood gaz- ing in silence at the proud woman, while she gave way to the storm which raged in her bosom. "You have proved my curse!" she con- tinued, shutting him out from her sight with her hands clasped over her brow and eyes. "How you have deceived me! You left me to believe you dead, that you might torment me the more effectually." (227) page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] 228 THE DEJSERTED FAMTLtY. "Madam," answered the vagabond in a hus- ky voice, "I have no desire to give you pain. When I caused a report of my death to be announced to you, it was to set your mind at rest about me, for I knew how much you hated me and desired to be rid of me. I was then resolved to trouble you no more. But my mind has been changed." (' Well," cried Mrs. Silby, sharply, recover- ing from her consternation, "what is your business?" "I have not come to taunt you or defy you," replied the man. "I am here to talk to you calmly, about ourselves, about our children." "Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Silby, indignantly, "what have you to say about them? What right have you to speak of them?" "A father's right!" answered the vagabond. 4' A father's right!" echoed the, other, with contempt and anger. "A father's right, indeed -you, who proved such a father to them!" "Madam, I know what you would say," murmured the wanderer; " but it is useless to reproach me now. My course is ended. This is the last interview I shall ever seek; and let us be calm, dispassionate in this. I acknowl- THE INTERVIEW. 229. edge all my faults; I grant the justice of all the reproaches you have heart to utter, I have wronged you, and you have returned evil for evil. What there was of evil- in me when we married, you made worse by your uncharitable treatment; what there was of good, you your. self extinguished. Madam, what I once was, I owed to my natural indolence and the errors of my education; but what I now am, I partly owe to you." Mrs. Silby regarded the wretched man with astonishment, but she did not reply. ("You might have reclaimed me; but when you saw me in the pit of degradation, you plunged me deeper," pursued the vagabond, earnestly. "I left you--desperate, ready to commit any act of folly or crime, for I fancied that I could fall no lower. More than once I repented, and returned to you; but you sent me forth again, more wretched, farther removed from salvation than ever. Well, I became a hardened sinner; my faults led to crimes; 1 scrupled at nothing. I felt that I was lost, and had neither hope nor fear. After your last cold act of humanity towards me, 1 resolved to plunge deeper than evrer into crime, circulating a 20 page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] 230 THE DESERTED FAMLY. report of my death, and changing my name, in order not to shame or degrade my children. But remorse, and the natural feelings which nothing could banish from my heart, led me once more to go back to Woodboro', where none knew me any longer. Imagine my consternation-- conceive, if you can, of my feelings - when I learned that our son had left you, and entered the world, so full of dangers; when I heard from those who know you well that you were on the point of marrying again. I know not what brought me here; but I came. I speak not of this visit, but of one I made to this place some months ago." The vagabond paused. Mrs. Silby, gazing at him in a sort of stupor, made no reply; and he resumed. "I was jealous, for I had loved you once; I was angry, for you had wronged me, and wronged my son; I felt a desire for revenge! And when, meeting your intended husband, Mr. Roger Brance, I found him insolent, my rage knew no bounds. In the evening, I concealed myself by the road near his house. I had not the power to go openly to meet him. I de- sired to come upon him suddenly; to tell him THE INTEYVIEW. 231 that I was the husband of the woman he de- signed to marry." Mrs. Silby started from her stupor; for she remembered hearing Mr. Brance speak of the wretch whom he encountered early on the even- ing of the murder. "Well," she breathed; "go on." "Our meeting was somewhat different from what I had anticipated," continued the vaga- bond. ("He drove me away with curses. I immediately formed a more terrible purpose of revenge. While in my blind fury I was wan- dering about, I entered the village. Feeling too faint to execute my project of revenge, and having no money to buy liquor, I resolved to enter a physician's office, and beg some stimu- lant which would keep me up." Mrs. Silby listened with intense interest. "My God!" she gasped; "I see - but go on!" "This was Dr. Corrinton's office. The door was not locked, and I entered," pursued the vagabond, " although there was nobody with- in. A lamp was burning on the table, and by its light I discovered a pair of pistols. A horrible idea seized me. Here was stimulant enough! I reflected not a moment; I thought not of consequences, only of revenge!" page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] THE DESERTED FATMY. "Proceed! proceed! 'cried Mrs. Silby in a voice hoarse with agitation. " I returned to the spot where I had concealed myself before, for I knew Mr. Brance was ab- sent, and thought he would return that night. I examined the ground, calculated distances, made up my mind how to fire with effect in the darkness, and stationed myself close by where -Mr. Brance would pass." I see it all! I see it all!" groaned Mrs. Silby. "G on!" " I waited patiently for my victim," pursued the wretched man, with downcast eyes, and in mournful accents. "My heart was panting for revenge. I could have, waited there an age! At last I heard two men approach on horse- back; but as they came near, one turned back, and cried, 'Good night, Mr. Brance.' Thus I was deceived; instead of the man I hated, it was his son who died. I fired with deadly in- tent, and, alas! with deadly effect! He tumbled from his horse; and casting away the weapon I had used, I fled. I felt no remorse, for my heart had been hardened by a career of crime. I rather gloried in my revenge, until I was brought to my senses by learning the fatal error I had committed. Still I felt but little THE INTERVIEW. remorse. I went to the city, resolved to find my son, and forgot every thing in this great design." Mrs. Silby had sunk upon a sofa, and now shelay there with her face hidden, and her bosom heaving with the tempest in her breast. At length she raised, her head slowly; she had conquered her emotions, and her brow was calm. Fixing her glassy eyes upon the hag- gard wretch before her, she said in a hoarse whisper, - "So, to your other crimes you have added that of murder! Well, sir, if it was only for the satisfaction of confessing your guilt to me that you have come, you are at liberty to leave me now." " Woman!" answered the vagabond, trem- bling with earnestness, " it is for no such satis- faction that I am here. I am compelled to this step by the chidings of a conscience not alto- gether seared, and by the promptings of a heart, which, bad as it is, is not wholly evil. 0," exclaimed the vagabond, smiting his breast, while his features writhed in agony, "here, here is a burning coal, a gnawing worm! 0 woman, woman! do you feel no stings? But 20* page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] THE DS1EtfD PAMFTLY l what am I saying? There is something with- in me which warns me that I have not long to live. But I have felt that I could not die with- out making a sacrifice, to atone in some meas- ure for my crimes. My last act shall be* one that will quiet my conscience. I am resolved to save an innocent man from suspicion, by confessing the crime of which he has been accused." " Heavens!" gasped Mrs. Silby, "you will not confess to the world! you will not. 0, the infamy !" "You would not like to be called the wife of a murderer!" replied the wretch, sinking ex- hausted upon a chair. "Well, well; you shall not be so called. If I have no regard for you, I have for my children. They shall not blush for this crime. The world shall not know that their father was a murderer." "0, thank you! thank you!" cried the agi- tated woman. " I spoke of our son," said the vagabond after a pause.. "I have seen him." "'You! Where? " cried Mrs. Silby. " In his exile." " Sir! "- THE INTERVIW. 235 "In the place to which your unwomanly, unnatural severity banished him. I have heard his story from his own mouth, and it condemns you. Of his ruin you are not guiltless." At that moment the door of the room into which Mr. Brance had retired was opened, and that gentleman, weary of solitude, made his ap- pearance. At the vagabond he gazed con- founded, and beheld Mrs. Silby's agitation with amazement. " What does this mean?" he demanded, eagerly.' "What business has this beggar here?" The vagabond arose with a wrathful brow, and striding between Mr. Brance and the lady, turned his back upon the former in supreme contempt. "Woman," he whispered fiercely, "if you would keep our secret from him, turn him instant- ly away; drive him from the room! Insolent fool!" he added, turning. angrily upon Mr. Brance, "you are intruding here! Begone!" Startled by the fierce gesture and the angry tone, Mr. Brance stepped backward, raising his arm; but before he could speak, Mrs. Silby exclaimed, - page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] 236 THE DESERTED F AMLTY. c; I must request you to withdraw again for a moment, Mr. Brance." "Very well," replied that gentleman, his face purple with rage, and his eyes darting light. nings at the vagabond. And he. left the house forthwith. "I have but a word more to say," resumed the vagabond, "and I will begone. It is with regard to Alice. O, remember how much evil you have done "already, and do not suffer your pride and hardness of heart to make her for- ever unhappy. I know more of her than you think; I love her as devotedly as ever a father loved his child. Treat her more kindly than you treated her father and her brother. And if ever Edgar returns again, do not drive him forth as you drove me, but keep him by you- govern him with;kindness, and reclaim him." Mrs. Silby did not seem to hear these words; her face was averted, and her eyes fixed on va- cancy. When she looked around, a minute after, the vagabond was gone. Groaning heav- ily, she fell back upon the sofa, and lay there some minutes, wringing her hands, and turning her eyes upward with an expression of the deepest misery. CHAPTER XX. THE CONFESSION. LATE in the afternoon, as Dr. Corrinton was sitting alone in his office, Joseph Sorrel rushed in, out of breath with excitement. "Dear doctor," he cried, " have you -have you heard the news?" "( I presume not," answered the doctor coldly. "What is it? Have you been giving battle to your foe, Miss Fantom's barbarian lover? or is that lady married?" "( Bless you, doctor, no! it's glorious good news! You'll jump for joy!" ("Let me know it, then," replied Albert, dis. engaging his feet from beneath the table, as if preparing to leap at Joseph's word. "What is the news?" "The real murderer has confessed!" said Mr. Sorrel. The cool Dr. Corrinton was on his feet in an instant, wringing Joseph's hand in the greatest excitement. "You are sure the man has confessed?" cried he. "There is no mistake?" (237) page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] " None, thank Heaven! Come with me!" exclaimed Joseph. "I've seen him; he's a most villanous-looking fellow!- confessed; been sent to jail at his own request. Come along!" The doctor moved with astonishing activity, and a minute after, accompanied by Joseph, he was on his way to the jail. Sheriff Marks con- firmed Mr. Sorrel's statement; but owing to the crowd which had already collected, the doctor did not see the new prisoner. " No time to lose!" cried Joseph, who had really no desire to penetrate the precincts of the prison. "Come, doctor! Alice will be so glad to hear this news! Go home with me! Our carriage is right here- we can ride down in a jiffy!" - Intoxicated with joy, Albert suffered Joseph to carry him off; as the young man did, in spite of the crowd of new-found friends, who flocked around to congratulate him on the certain evidence of his innocence which had come to light. Joseph drove furiously, and, in a little more than three minutes, set the doctor down at the door of his father's house. THE CONFESSION. 239 i" Give us joy!" cried the enthusiastic young man, leading Corrinton into the room where sat his mother with Mrs. Silby and Alice. "Here's Dr. Corrinton --an innocent man. The real murderer has confessed!" Alice sprang forward and clasped the doc- tor's hand. Mrs. Silby rose hastily, but turning deadly pale, sank back upon her seat almost fainting. Nobody perceived her. Albert and Alice were too much absorbed in each other to notice any thing else. Mrs. Sorrel was regard- ing her son, and Joseph was so much excited that the most extraordinary occurrences would have appeared to him as mere matters of course. In detached sentences, full of exclamations and repetitions, the young man related all he knew of the affair. Mrs. Silby listened eager- ly, gradually recovering from her alarm; and at last, calmly, and perfectly at her ease, she took Corrinton's hand, to congratulate him and beg his pardon for her unjust suspicions and her past ill treatment. The elder Mr. Sorrel came in presently, and brought further intelligence, having been one page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] 10S. - -THE. DESERTED FAMLY. of the witnesses to; the murderers deposition before Squire Wilbur. "It's a most singular thing," said Mr. Sorrel, in conclusion: "The man is a low character; calls his name Stripe. The only object he had in- committing the murder was vengeance for the harsh treatment he received from Mr. Brance." "What a depraved, desperate fellow he must be!" exclaimed Mrs. Sorrel "But what led him to confess the murder?" asked Alice. 1 Remorse!*" answered Mr. Sorrel -- re- orse!" -rso Silby breathed very heavily, but she concealed her emotions well. The murderer's confession, as reported by Mr. Sorrel, corre- sponded in nearly every particular with the vagabond's confession to herself; but he had not/revealed his real name, nor had he ex- plained his original, cause for hating Mr. Brance. For this Mrs. Silby felt thankful, and whatever her feelings were in connection with her husband's guilt, she certainly disguised them well. The affair of the confession was fully dis- cussed and Corrinton and Alice were happy. THE CONFESSION. 241 Joseph could not help knowing how matters stood with his cousin and her lover, but he felt no very severe pangs of jealousy. He had of- fered his hand to Alice, and it had been rejected so many times that he had learned to bear his lot with fortitude; and, having given up all hope of marrying his cousin himself, he could advance no objections to her choice of Coffrrin- ton, whom he considered the only man worthy of the place he occupied in her heart., While the Sorrels, and the Silbys, and Dr. Corrinton were thus assembled together for the- first time since the death of Appleton, Mr. Roger Brance, having heard something of the confession, and supposing Mr. Sorrel knew more, entered in great perturbation. While Mr. Sorrel was repeating to him the intelligience, and describing the appearance of the murderer, nothing but the quick meaning eye of Mrs. Silby, which was fixed upon him, prevented Mr. Brance from exclaiming against his old enemy, and demanding of that lady who he was. He was much agitated at hearing how the murder came- about, and immediate. ly gave his hand to Corrinton, declaring him- 21 page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] AJIAK ,LJJL iM J,1JlJIaJ-JLb LJL JJL J: EkA L& IJ A. -= self happy to know that he was indeed guiltless of the crime which had bereft him of a son. Mr. Brance was on the point of proceeding to the jail, to learn more of the affair than Mr. Sorrel could relate, when Mrs. Silby desired him to give- her a brief interview in her own room. What passed between them we cannot say; but it is well known that their engagement was broken off that evening, and that they parted to meet again no more, except by acci- dent and as mere acquaintances. On the following morning the vagabond was found dead in his cell. There was no mark of violence on his person; he had not died by poison; but the spark of life had evidently gone out in the course of nature. His career was ended. The hopes of his youth had long since faded, and now the dark- ness of an ignominious death covered him. When she heard of the vagabond's death, Alice prayed Heaven to pardon his sins, and grant peace to his soul; but little did she know that she was praying for her father. CHAPTER XXI. CONCLUSION. THREE months later, or a little more, -that, is to say, in the early part of the earliest of the spring months, - while yet the air was frosty and snow storms frequent, an assemblage of unusual brilliancy might have been witnessed, one evening, at, the residence of the Sorrels. We have no inclination to enter upon the details of the wedding, - for such the occasion was,--nor do we think a long description would interest the reader. Of the several guests we might say enough -to fill quite a number of chapters, each of respectable length; dwelling upon the appearance of Mrs. Nichols, date Miss Lucy Fantom,) who was present with her husband, the barbarian author of the black eye which had once disfigured the countenance of Mr. Joseph Sorrel; describing more fully than we have yet done another of the wedding guests--the redoubtable Major Smith, whom Joseph no longer feared, having learned that monstrous whiskers do not always (243) page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] "JL-: 'L'SI Lff iT ,lMOju Iw ,'.i j proclaim him who wears them to be a monster; introducing to the reader other characters, bright and shining lights of fashion in the goodly village of Verfield; repeating all the sayings of Mr. Joseph Sorrel himself, who was in his element, gay, witty, and happy even on the occasion of the marriage of his cousin, to whom he had offered his hand, for the last time, that very day. But we must overlook the minor characters in this drama of life, to speak of those whose fortunes form the subject of our story. The reader has, of course, divined who were the pair wedded on that evening. Alice Silby, the beautiful, the lovable, the good, - the girl of mind anda soul, whom her lover esteemed superior to all her sex, - Alice gave her hand to Albert Corrinton, who was the happier to receive it, as it had been promised him in a dark hour of his life, when others shunned him, and his future looked dreary and dark. Sudden had been the change in Albert's for- tunes. From being notorious he had become truly famous; every body wished to know him, and every body, for miles around, had hastened to employ him in his professional capacity; CONCLUSION. 245 so that, in a short time, his immense popularity had brought him more practice than his rivals, Drs. Dosemore and Draper, enjoyed. Therefore, with a profitable business on his hands, wealth in prospective, and a beloved wife in posses- sion, Corrinton was happy; and if the truth must be confessed, so was Alice. But now we must turn to one of whom we have said but little in this history, because we could have said but little good; but of whom we can now speak more freely, and with great- er satisfaction. A handsome, well-made young man, with quick, piercing, restless eyes, a pale brow, a scornful lip, and a proud bearing, stood by Mrs. Silby's side. He appeared scarcely twen- ty years of age; but, young as he was, his thoughtful cast of countenance proclaimed an experience of the world which had been bitter. Upon the handsome face of this young man, the calm, mournful eyes of Mrs. Silby were almost continually fixed. She followed his motions, studied his fine features,.looked sad when a melancholy shadow crossed his face, and smiled when she saw him pleased. The mother was contemplating her long-lost son. 21 page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] 246 THE VfikSEl&tiD FAMTrTy. It was only on the morning of -that day that Edgar had returned. With what joy he was received by Mrs. Silby and Alice, we leave the reader to imagine. In the gratitude of their hearts they welcomed him, forbearing to ques- tion him concerning his absence, that the pain* ful past might be forgotten in the joys of the present. And of the past Edgar 'had said nothing; -only did he allude to it, -when he exclaimed to his mother, "I have repented! Forgive me, and own me as your son!" And she had forgiven him, and blessed him 'for his return. The evening wore on, and all seemed happy -certainly all were gay - except the mother and son. Their -eyes met often; and there seemed a sympathy of sadness between them, which the gayety of others had not the power to destroy. At last Edgar approached his parent, and in a tone full of sorrow, whispered, ( I am dying -to speak with you alone!!" Mrs. Silby felt a thrill of pleasure, as she an- swered, t Come with me, my son! I have a mother's heart open to hear you!" CONCLUSION. t24t7 The widow led him into a sideroarm, whence, having covered her head, and -thrown a shawl upon her shoulders, she conducted him from the house. Although in the month of March, a thin crust of snow covered the ground, and the air was frosty. Not a cloud was on the sky, but the blue firmament of heaven was spangled with bright stars, which shed their pure light on the earth'smantle of white. It was a calm solemn night; and the mother and son went forth, invading the universal stillness with foot- steps which crushed the crackling snow against the frozen ground. "Mother," said the young man, supporting the widow on his arm, as she led him along a trodden path, " had I expected such a kind re- ception as this, I should have returned to you long since." "A few months ago, my son," answered Mrs. Silby, "I might not have received you as I now have done. I might have met you with reproaches." "I was prepared for them even now," added Edgar, sadly, "for I have deserved rebuke." "And I too have acted wrongly," said the 4.k. page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] -itO 'L'M I ,lUti'.'.U 'AM[I,.! widow. "I have been too stern, too exacting, too severe. I have felt that I drove you away, Edgar; and so thankful am I for your return, that I am afraid I shall run into the other ex- treme, and prove too indulgent. But O, my son! you can find some excuse for me in your heart, I am sure. Consider how I dreaded to have you grow up without steady habits of business - and you know why I had reason to dread such a thing. Blame me for my unyielding severity, but for nothing more, I had seen the sad effects of a loose education; my experience had taught me that habits of idleness and dis- sipation were the breeders of misery and sin. If I did not adopt the right course with you, blame my judgment, not my heart. My love for you was great, and my motives good." "So do I forget all -and forgive all, if I have any thing to forgive!" exclaimed Edgar, with emotion. "O my mother! why did I not understand you better? Your severity I took for unkindness, your discipline I regard- ed as tyranny; therefore I rebelled. In an hour of passion I left you, but my experience of life since then has taught me my error. I tremble now as I contemplate the gulf of ruin, on the dizzy brink of which I have scornfully stood and smiled. Thank Heaven, that in a time of reason I saw my danger -- and thought of you, my mother! I resolved to return, and be guided by you; for I feel that the very , discipline against which I once rebelled is re- quired to temper my perverse nature." Conversing thus, the mother and son walked on, until they reached a melancholy field, where dark mounds, from which the snow had-been swept by the wind, marked the white surface of the ground, and marble slabs gleamed in the clear starlight. The two had entered the solemn precincts of a graveyard. Mrs. Silby led her son among the cold tombs. They passed on in silence, as if fearful of dis- turbing the deep rest of the generation that slept around them beneath frozen sods. "Where are you leading me?" asked Edgar, in a suppressed tone. "Here " answered the widow, pausing be- fore a low grave in a --gloomy corner of the churchyard. "Why here?" inquired the young man, shuddering, and drawing back. "This awful place makes me feel strangely! Let us go." page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] ou0 THE DESERTED FAMLY. "Edgar," responded the mother in a solemn, impressive tone, " stay with me, and contem-n plate this lowly grave. Only this rude plank, you see, marks the resting-place of the mortal who sleeps here; but let me tell you the story of his life. The poor wretch who lies beneath this cold clod was a murderer!" "O, the man of whom you have told me," exclaimed Edgar. "Ah! the poor wretch!" "You have not heard half the story, my son," replied the widow, gazing at the snow-covered grave with a mournful aspect. "The rest is a secret known only to myself." "Mother!" "That secret is too much for my crushed heart, Edgar. I must share it with another. I cannot trust it with Alice - she is so good, so pure! But you have been familiar with dark- ness, my son; and the gloom of the picture I will show you, will teach you to love the light." "For God's sake, mother," cried the young man, shivering with awe and fear, " what do you mean?" ' This, my boy!" replied the sad woman in an impressive whisper. "This is the grave of . - , CONCLUSION. 251 "Of whom? Speak!" "Of your FATHER!" Edgar seized his mother's arm; and gazed into her pale face with a look of horror; then, sinking on his knees, he supported his dizzy head against the slab which marked the mur- derer's tomb. "Yes, my poor boy!" continued the widow, in a deep, tremulous voice; "this is his grave; and I have thought it meet that you should share the awful secret of his end with me. He died not so early as I thought. He lived - to sleep in this cold, cold spot at last!" Edgar bent over the grave, and his cheeks were bathed in tears. For some minutes neither of the living spoke. At last the young man arose, pressing his mother's hand, while his pale face-was turned to hers, and his sad eyes still rested on the grave. "Let the dead rest in peace!" he murmured. "Mother, a new light has burst upon my soul. It was the will of Heaven that the ruined fa- ther should save the son from ruin. To this man - if he be my father - I owe my escape from the pit. He sought me out in the paths of iniquity I followed, and spoke words of * I page: 252[View Page 252] 252 THE DESERTED FAMLY. warning, which, like seeds sown in good soil, took strong root in my heart, and grew to bear the fruit of resolution, which has at last brought me back to you. I knew not my father, for I thought him dead; but I fancied him speaking as he whom I knew not spoke; and now I know that what I fancied then was truth. God help me to profit by the lesson which this grief teaches me. O mother! tell me, can a life of virtue and usefulness wipe away the stain whichI feel burning my brow?" "Let not the living shame for the dead," an. swered Mrs. Silby. "My son, the sin of the father attaints not the innocent child. You have your own character to form, and yot make or mar it by your own acts, whether of good or evil." "You console me, mother!" murmured the youth, sadly. You give me hope- and I am more than ever ambitious of good. Moth. er, you shall never blush for me!" Half an hour later, the widow and her son turned away from the coldand solemn grave, yard, and in mournful silence walked back to the house, where the happy wedding party was awaiting their return.