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deliverer, whom you have no right to ic
faso. Your life may be spared for many
years to come, and should it be embit
tered to you in the world by the degra
dation forced upon you by the heathen,
remember that you may find sanctuary in
rhose convents of holy women, of whom
I have told you. They, who have dedi
cated their every thought and action to
God, would receive you with open arms
as their sister in Christ, for His sweet
sake. And then, in an atmosphere of
purity and holiness, your heart will find
that repose and peace, which can but ex
ist in those spots over which the spirit
of the Dove loves to hover. You must
come, ray dear child, with me, if possible
this very night, for all is in readiness for
our flight, and not a moment can be
spared.”
‘•My father,” answered Caroline, who
had been, as usual, calmed by his gentle
wor.ls, ‘‘l will do as you think best; but,
to-night, circumstances which cannot be
prevented would lead to an immediate
discovery and pursuit, which would en
danger your life, so valuable and pre
cious; to-morrow night I will be in
readiness to obey your every wish.’’
The good Prelate pressed his hand to
his brow, in deep thought, for a moment,
and then said:
“To-morrow night, then ; the eunuch
who aided me in coming here will assist
you to mount the wall nearest yonder
thicket; there I will await you. You
have been so often heard to wish for
death, that the ignorant Mussulman won
der that it has never occurred to you to
drown yourself in this stream. Before
you leave them you must place some of
vour garments on the bank, which will
lead them to believe that you have
really cast yourself into it. You must
oiler no opposition in donning the habit
of a eunuch, for disguise is au imperative
necessity. Now, my child, I dare re
main no longer. Be prepared, and,
meantime, fortify yourself by fervent
prayer to our holy Lord, and commend
yourself to the protection of His holy
Mother.” As lie fiuished speaking,
Caroline knelt before him, and bowed
her fair head to recive his blessing, after
which he hastened to regain the portal,
an 1, passing out without adventure, soon
reached the palace.
The following day, the great Prelate,
feeling that the conduct of Abubeker ne
cessitated his soi-distant departure, and
being, moreover, buoyed up by the suc
cess of his interview with Caroline, ap
peared before the Prince at an early
hour. He offered his thanks for, and
expressed his appreciation of his kind
ness and hospitality, and tendered his j
adieus. The Prince received him at first j
coldly, but, by degrees, became so charm
ed by the graceful and elegant deport
ment and acknowledgments of the Eu
ropean, that, before the interview termi
nated, ho was won to complete gracious-
ness.
The great Prelate then left the city,
being escorted outside of its precincts by
the same handsome guard that welcomed
him. When they left him he proceeded
with his few attendants to the aforesaid
thicket, or grove, outside of the garden,
and there, wrapt in the dense shade of
the palms, he awaited the still darker
shadows of night, to complete his suc
cesses. At evening, Omar joined him, and
they repaired to the appointed wall.
The hour fixed upon for the appearance
of Caroline came and went, but all re
mained still and hushed.
Another hour followed its predecessor
slowly and wearily. The watchers were
becoming restless and anxious, when, at
length, a soft rustling, followed by the ]
flutter of a signal from the top of the 1
wall, summoned their assistance. And
this aid was required to the fullest ex
tent; for Caroline, whose health and
strength were sorely shattered by her
sad trials, fainted just as she was about
to descend from the wall. The difficul
ty which they had to overcome in let
ting her down in her unconsciousness,
without injury to her, was almost insur
mountable.
At last, however, they received her in
sensible form, and having been admon
ished by his experience of her weakness
in the garden, the thoughtful Prelate
had provided restoratives, which he now
quickly applied. These soon recalled
her, but she was so feeble and attenuated
as to awaken serious fears for her in his
heart.
He now took leave of Omar, feeling
grateful tor his important aid ; and wish
ing him all the happiness consequent to
a ueart alter the performance of a good
or noble act, they then started on their
flig :t. J»ut, alas! the weak condition of
the young girl rendered anything like
rapid movement impossible. The swift
horses were useless, and lie was forced to
p.aoe Caroline upon his own elephant as
comfortably as he could. They proceed
od as quickly as these trying circum
stances would admit, and by day-light
reached the residence of the friend who
bad promised to have fresh horses in
readiness. But Caroline was so utterly
exhausted and powerless to proceed, that
these were not needed either, and, in
deed, they were obliged to remain there
that day, that the enfeebled sufferer
might gather a little strength. She
seemed to fade more and more, like a
wilted flower, and her Pastor watched
her with increasing solicitude. She mur
mured not, however, but seemed to droop
into a state of perfect resignation and
listlessness. Added to his fears for her
health, the good Prelate was in constant
dread and watchfulness of pursuit. The
next morning, long before the sun arose,
he went to ascertain the strength of his
patient, and, to his relief and surprise,
found her dressed and ready to continue
their journey. A gleam of hope seemed
to enliven her countenance and sustain
her, com'rag, doubtless, from their suc
cessful escape thus far. They were,
however, forced to stop many times dur
ing the day, that she might be revived by
a little rest. The close of this dav
found her even more prostrated in
strength than the foregoing one. Thus
was the kind heart of the good Prelate
saddened and concerned for his poor
charge. lie feared she would have
scarcely strength sufficient to reach her
former home, as day after day he was
obliged to travel more slowly, and
to lengthen their intervals of rest. At
the end of a number of long and weary
days, however, they reached the little
cottage home of which we have already
spoken,
And who could describe the meeting
between this unhappy mother and daughter!
Humility, anguish, despair, on the part of
the former, as she beheld the wreck of
her lovely child; and a sorrowing for
giveness, with a weary, weary meekness,
on the part of the daughter. The
mother toiled and labored as no slave
ever did, to bring back one glimmer of
strength, one expression of life, to the
sad face and wasted form; but the more
untiring her superhuman efforts, the
more palpable became the changes for the
worse in Caroline. The excitement of
her return, and the effort to remain calm
during her mother’s turbulent meeting,
had combined to give her the semblance
of a strength which she possessed not. As
her excitement died away, her life seemed
to ebb with it. The good Prelate, with a
prescience of what was coming, remain
ed with them the next day. Nor was
there need to linger longer, for, when
twilight gathered softly around her, the
stem of life snapped. The lily throat
drooped to rest the pallid cheek upon
her bosom, as the soul of Caroline went
forth among the shadows to meet its God.
Not, however, until it had been refreshed
and strengthed for its lonely journey by
the life-giving Sacrament, held to her
longing lips by her own well loved
Pastor.
. “The Christian woman has drowned
I herself!” was a statement readily be
lieved throughout the Harem by all,
save, indeed, the eunuch who had cliscov
ed her garments on the banks of the
stream, and who promulgated the report.
But his own knowledge of the truth be
kept locked in his heart, nor dared give
utterance to it.
The great Prince Abubeker heard the
tidings, and sorrowed for the favor
ite, whose gentleness and virtue, al
though incomprehensible, had, neverthe
less, deeply impressed him. But the re
gret was soon expunged, and with the
Mussulman the Christian girl was as
though she had not been. Not so with
her Pastor ! the faithful Shepherd who had
risked his life to save his owu lost lamb!
He kept iicr memory in his heart, fresh
as a dew drop. And, even, after the
lapse of years, when his anchor was fixed
in distant lands, would he repeat, with
emotion, to those who had learned to love
him much, the sad history of Caroline,
the Indian Maiden.
Written for the Banner of the South.
ELEANOR STAUNTON.
BY A SOUTHERNER.
• r<
dedicated to miles m. farrow, esq., of
CHARLESTON, S. C.
[continued]
Windemere Park, Nov. 18th.
1 thought that I had no additional
grief to suffer. llow li* tie L knew.
A "room, came over from Leslie Hall,
this evening, and brought me the follow
ing letter from my father:
Leslie Hall, Nov, 17th, 18—.
‘•That most excellent, and virtuous
young lady, Eleanor, whom you con
strained by your misconduct to seek an
other home, appealed to me, in her per
plexity for advice; and I, influenced not
less by her beauty and excellence, than
by the wish to repair an injury inflicted
MBBii mt mwm:<
by a member of my family, offered her
the protection of my name and the shel
ter of my roof. She did me the honor
of accepting both; and we were married
this morniDf*'.
i write, not merely to apprise you of
this fact, but to inform you that I disown
you forever. Henceforward, we are
strangers to each other. I have no
longer a daughter, nor you a father.
Hugh Leslie ”
This, this heartless abandonment is all
my reward for a sacrifice, the full extent
of which I have but lately learnt to es
timate. My cup was full enough. I
might have been spared this last drop.
One by one the reeds on which I leant
arc breaking beneath me; and I am
drifting aimlessly into the billows of a
dark and stormy sea. God, in thy mercy,
grant that my barque may soon go down;
I cannot breast the storm alone.
WINDEMERE PARK, Nov. 19tli,
When we parted to-night, Mr. Staun
ton put a letter in my bauds, saying:
“Take your own time to decide upon
its contents, Eleanor; and let me know
your decision. I shall be guided solely
by your wishes.”
He is, truly, the most generous of
men. I copy his letter:
“WINDEMERE PARK, Nov. 18th.
“I have determined to address this
| communication to you, my dearly loved
and deeply injured Eleanor, so that you
may fully understand my feelings to
wards you, and not blame me more harsh
ly than 1 deserve.
“To make a full explanation to you, I
must go back to my early life, and un
veil a portion of it before you. Aunt
Margaret, you once told me, gave you
the outlines of my connection with Miss
Percival. But she could not describe
the effect it had upon me, as I will do.
“When 1 first met Augusta Percival, I
was very young, ardently natured, a pas
sionate admirer of the beautiful, and a
worshipper of womanhood. My acquaint
ance with women was very limited, for I
had only known the best and purest of
the race.
“Miss Percival was exquisitely beauti
ful, very brilliant in mind, arid graceful
in manners; and [ learned to love her
with an earnestness and intensity that I
did not realize until I lost her. She
professed to love me, and I believed her
to be all she seemed.
i “How entirely I trusted her no words
can tell. Had an Archangel, still radiant
with the light of Heaven, come down
to tell me she was false, I should have
disbelieved him. I was speedily to be
convinced of her infidelity. Even now
I cannot bear to recall the event. The
shock, however, was a rash x>no. So
rash, that, from that hour, I lost all
faith in woman I looked upon them as
false, soulless creatures, with no higher
impulse than the gratification of some
iuordinate vanity, or some passing fancy.
I left the country and remained abroad
for years. Shunning women like a
plague, I was a thoroughly changed
man. No trace of the trusting, ardent,
chivalric nature of my boyhood remain
ed.
“Sometime after my return home, ac
cident, or fate, threw you across my path.
“At first, you possessed a painful fas
cination for me, from your marvellous
resemblance to Miss Percival. Then I
learnt to admire you individually. I did
not love you, for my heart was dead, or,
as I have since learned, benumbed. But
I admired you; you were very beautiful
and fascinating. I thought you would
adors my stately borne; and [ was a
lonely, discontented man. So, when
your father’s evil genius threw him in
my power, I hailed the chance as a fair
one, by which to win you. I did not
care to pay )*>u my addresses in the or
dinary manner; for I was not hypocrite
enough to play the lover that I was not.
But, Eleanor, I was not so utterly sel
fish as you seem to think ; I made every
effort to learn if your fancy, (for heart, I
did not suppose a woman could have,) was
engaged, and I was assured by those whom
I thought should know, that you were
positively fancy free. Had I been in
formed to the contrary, I think I should
have abandoned my design. Ido not
wish to use harsh terms, but your father’s
conduct has been so ungrateful that he
merited no consideration at my hands.
The only hesitation I felt in exposing
him was for your sake. And I reasoned
with this vain sophistry to myself: Since
yon cared for no one else, if you had the
commonest feeling, you would marry me
to save your father. Thus my aim
would be accomplished; and you would
be no sufferer thereby, since you could
have everything you could wish—a su
perb establishment, a high position in so
ciety, and an unlimited income—every
thing, in short, that I esteemed was
wanted to make up the sum of a woman’s
happiness. If you refused my dornand,
you were a cold selfish creature, whom
shame could not hurt; and so I would
be justified in bringing your father to a
strict account for his treachery.
“lou consented to my proposition;
and, by a strange contradictionness, I
was more than ever convinced of the
correcetness of my theory. I did not
love you; consequently I made no profes
sions of attachment. You made no ob
jection to my demands ; and I mistook
what I now know to have been the quiet
ness ot despair, for that of contentment.
“Heaven is my witness that the
thought of such a marriage being repul
sive to you, never once entered my mind.
“Had you but once remonstrated with
me, but once giveu me to understand that
the fulfilling of your promise was ab
horrent to you, I would, I am sure 1
would, have instantly released you. But
you were so quiet that I supposed you
satisfied. I married you and brought
you home, and was contented to see you
at the head of my table, and in the draw
ing room, never once dreaming that
you grieved over your chains.
“I admired you extremely; but you
inspired in my mind no other emotion
than the possession of a beautiful piece
of statuary would have done. And so it
was but little sacrifice tor me to permit
your wishes to limit our intercourse.
“I soon found that you cared nothing
for dress and display ; that what I had
conceived to be the idols of womanly
hearts received no homage from you ;
and, surprised at finding such a rara
avis, I began to watch you closely, to sec
what your real nature was.
“Your cousin’s arrival soon solved my
doubts. Under the influence of bis
genial, sunny, temper, I saw you expand
like a flower restored to sunshine. I
learnt that, though a woman, you had
lofty impulses, and a warm, tender heart.
Each day developed some new charm ;
and I, never dreaming what power was
at work, soon found my admiration deep
ening into love. And a second love grew
up in my heart; not the wild absorbing
passion of my earlier life, but a pure,
steady, flame.
“I learnt, anon, to watch eagerly for
the glance of a dark, bright eye, and to
fuel the blood flow quicker through my
veins at the touch of dimpled fingers.
In short, I loved again. But, with a
strang*e blindness, I never once thought
that your heart might have been wakened
for another.
“Fool that I was! I built so many
castles in the air ! I would wait until we
were alone again, and then I would win
your love by such tender devotion as wo
man rarely receives ; and, when you had
learnt to love me, to blush at my glance,
and tremble at my touch, then I would
claim you as my wife, not in name, but
iu fact.
“Mr. Howard left; I saw you pale
and drooping. But, still, no shadow of
suspicion crossed my mind, until Miss
Templeton s rude hand cast down my
structure, and destroyed my hopes. What
I suffered, I need not tell yon. But that
I fully exonerate you both from all blame,
I do, again, repeat.
“It has been some effort for me to de
cide upon the following propositions,
which I submit to you. But it was a
selfish feeling; you have suffered enough
at my hands already:
“I fear that, under existing circum
stances, my presence must be distasteful
to you. Therefore, you are at liberty to
choose your own residence, either with
your father, or, if you prefer to remain at
Windemere, I will go abroad. Or—and
yet I scarcely dare hope that you will
give a thought to this suggestion—we
will continue to live together here ; or,
if the associations connected with this
place are too painful, where you choose,
and I will still have the dear privilege ot’
seeing and taking care of you.
“Although, in any case, our relations
towards each other shall remain un
changed, I frankly confess that I hope
you will give the preference to this last
plan, as I cannot bear the thought of giv
ing you up entirely.
“Still, you must be influenced solely by
your own wishes, without the least refer
ence or regard to mine.
“Decide as you see fit; the past shall
soon be a sealed book between us.
“Rest assured that nothing will ever
make me cease to reg ird you with the
deepest respect, and most sincere affec
tion. Ever fatihfully yours,
Edward Staunton.
I have copied it word for word.
Noble and generous man! how can I
ever repay his kindness ?
Os course there is no question what
my decision is. I have no home but my
husband’s. Oh, that fate had woven
fewer adverse threads in the web of my
destiny! Had I never met Mr. Staunton,
I would have been Percy’s wife ; or, if
Percy had remained in India, I might, in
time, have learnt to love Mr. Staunton
sufficiently to have made my marriage
enduiable. late was certainly play in
at cross purposes when she dealt the card°s
of life for me.
Since I have learnt that Mr St
Lves me, I must strive even more de° D
Perately to conquer my love for Percv'
His name must be wrttten no more h -
my hand; his very existence must lL
ignored, if possible. Oh, my darling
would that the heart that throbs for Y (v’
alone could cease to beat 1 I [ lu . U
written his name for the last time ' I
have given the last agonized thought to
his memory. Henceforth, he is to m* a<
one dead and buried.
WINDEMERE PaRK, Nov. 2ffik
I went into Mr. Staunton’s study this
morning, to inform him of my decision
and said:
“I have come to thank you, Mr. Staun
ton, for your kind, generous letter, and
apprise you of my choice of residence.”
“I thank you, Eleanor, for sparing me
the trial of suspense; you will return to
your father, I suppose ?”
“I have no father to return to,” [ ro .
plied, giving him the letter I had re
ceived from Leslie Hall.
He read it, and said :
“My poor child, this is a heavy blow
for you. What will you do ?”
“Remain here with you, if you will
permit me. I wish to have no home but
yours. And, though I can never return
your affection, I will never prove less
worthy than I am now ; and I will strug
gle hard to be contented and cheerful.”
“Eleanor, have you really decided so
generously ? Tell me, would you rather
live with me ?”
“Indeed I would ; I have no home but
my husband’s.”
“Then, my darling, you shall never
have cause to wish for another; my
whole future life shall be devoted to
binding up the heart that my infatuated
blindness has broken.”
How truly noble he is! I wish 1 felt
able to write all that he said. But a
dull, heavy feeling has oppressed me all
day—the reaction, after such intense
excitement, I suppose. My heart throbs
agonizingly, and a dumbness seems to
pervade my limbs. I iiope I am
not going to be ill, unless—but that
tnonght, almost hope, is sinful. I shall
not write it against me. For Mr. Staun
ton’s sake, I ought to wish to live, at
least be willing to live.
WINDEMERE PARK, Feb. 20th.
From the valley of the shadow of
death I have been rescued. My feet
have touched the brink of the dark river,
and my soul has hung, trembling, upon
the edge of that awful abyss which
separates life and death. From the
confines of eternity my weary feet come
back, to take up anew the burthens
of existence; Unmurmuringly I will
submit, and wait with patience the ap
pointed time.
I have been very ill, with a long, dan
gerous attack of brain fever. My last
date was “Nov. 26th.” The next morn
ing I woke with a racking headache and
scorching fever, and before night I was
raving in delirium. For many weeks, I
lay in a state just bordering on death.
But, good medical advice, joined to Mr.
Staunton's unwearied nursing, under the
blessing of Providence, has saved my
life. I have been sitting up nearly two
weeks, but have not felt strong enough to
write until now. lam much changed by
my illness; very pale and thin, and my
hair, which was cut off during my illness,
clusters all around my head, in, short lit
tle rings.
Mr. Staunton’s step sounds in the
ante-room, and wearied already by my
efforts, I will lay aside my pen.
Windemere Park, February 28th.
lam not improving at all. I gain no
strength, but lie listlessly on my couch
all day long, equal to no exertion. I
cannot tell half how good Mr. Staunton
is to me. lie never permits any one
to render me a service that he can per
form. So faithful and unselfish is his
devotion that the thought of business
never seems to influence him at all. He
surrenders his time entirely to me. Ah 1
that I could repay him with my heart
and love. Prat, alas ! Save the deepest
reverence and gratitude, and a sorrowful
tenderness, I have nothing left to give
him.
Aunt Margaret, too, is most kin 1 and
affectionate. They have both buried
the miserable past, and taken up life,
dating no farther back than my ilmcs'
They are anxious about me, Mr. Staun
ton has written up to town for more ad
vice. I strive to want to live for hr
sake. But existence has no charm tor
me. I grow soul sick at the bare thought
of taking up anew its duties and trials.
Windemerf. Park, March Ist.
Sir James Herbert, the great Loudon
Medical Oracle, came down this morn
ing, and declares that I must have • hange
of°air. He says a warm genial climate,
and new scenes, will restore me to mv
' self. Mr. Staunton O quite hopelnl
