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JOURNAL AND MESSENGER
JOURNAL & MESSENGER.
UACOX, GA., THURSDAY, OCT. 15.
ALICE STAXLEV.
liV MliS, H. C. HALL.
*■ They sin who tell na love can die.”
Southey.
There is an ancient manor-house in a
c ertain English county, where I have
gpe nt many days ; yet the place, and its
uiaster, and its amusements, resemble
more the things we read of in old books
f hmi matters to be met with in modern
habitations.
jt impossible to see Mr. Stanley with
out an involuntary feeling of respect; his
voice, one of the most uuerring tests of
high breeding, confirms the impression ;
and his well-chosen words, always few in
number, convey his ideas so distinctly,
that you know at once exactly what he
desires you should know, and no more.
He never was flatly contradicted in his
life but once; it was by an American, and,
ever since, no one has cared to mention
America in his presence. Not that he
was ever guilty of flying into a passion.—
Mrs. Braude, the venerable housekeeper,
who has lived (to quote her own quaint
words) “in his honours service half a
century and two years,” told me she never
heard him raise his voice. “Madam,”
quotft Mrs. Brande, “his honour never
aid; when he is angry, he only looks, and
remains silent. I never saw any one who
eouhl abide that look twice . It’s danger
ous, madam— the lightning without the
thunder it’s the* only warning he ever,
jrjves ; but no servant bides it twice.”
You would never dream of calling Stan
ley Pleasaunce a “Liberty Halland yet
1 have seen people happy there; perhaps
because more orderly than at some of
those new-fashioned “Liberty Halls,”
where tiie host and hostess meetyou in the
drawing-room, for the first time in the
day, ten minutes before dinner, and con
sider they have performed all the rites of
hospitality when they inquire, “How have
you spent the morning?”
There are a Bible and a timepiece in
every room at Stanley’ Pleasaunce ; and a
variety of bells are rung at regular hours,
or, i should rather say, minutes, to call to
prayers, breakfast, and so on ; and the head
and chief of all this punctuality is the old
gentleman himself. Everything in and
about the house may be described by the
term punctuality; but, though the meet
ing ami eating hours are the same all the
year round, the intermediate hours are
filled up in many varied ways.
Mr. Stanley has numbered more than
seventy years; yet his poiitenesss is per
fection. From being a strict lover of
iorms, his first attentions are paid to those
whose positions in society demand them ;
but he has the happiest manner of pre
venting his humbler gusts from feeling, or
even perceiving, that the slightest differ
ence exists ia the circumstances of any
nartaker of the hospitality of Stanley
Pleasaunce.
His walls are liung with tapestry, or old
pictures; his hall, noble and lofty in its
proportions, is a perfect museum of old
English implements of sport and war;
stag-hounds and a pair of genuine English
mastitis act as sentinels at the porch ; and
Pus stud is unrivalled. He keepsa falconer,
and the hawks are the best trained in Eng
buul. His preserves are filled with game;
uud, conceiving it to be his duty to provide
lor the amusement of “his people,” as he
is nld-iashioned enough to call aud con
sider his tenants, the May-pole is as care
lully preserved as his Dutch flower-garden,
i-ie village bowling-green as his park, and
! 110 wi cket ground is as clearly a matter of
interest to the lord of the manor as to the
peasa a ts. He caters i y every possi ble w’ay
in tne amusement of his visitors; but
n nen he tells them how they ought to be
that they will be so.
m iI . Pi P 1 h'Hgland is the world; that
ma tA L f U ,\ e Potions of the four
therein n» f 6 8 ?. be are 'congregated
Os modern o>? WayS * Stens to t,ie accounts
smile of di«h?f r ? Ve,laeilts witil a polite
of t-ikinu- h,- eie an vv °uld as soon think
railroad in a balloon as on a
tom[ L He !° ve » toke *P «P old cus
ox raLio a mi sletoe hung in the hall, an
mii o- h« a n b .° and hogshead of “hum
mem broached for the entertain*
,urnj f i . 8 vi i^ a gors at Christmas, and
j... A ae Hvo first couple to the tune of
L|, u> he Coverley, at the accustomed
- u on Aew-Year’s eve, then resumes his
],! a carved, high-backed chair, raised
-\ a single step above all others—and
o< }* s gravely on at the festivities.
\fr ul , d bedifficultto determine why
wh'v i!t Dley see ®. 80 , much company, and
vi glves himse,f so much trouble,
htch every one says yields him no pleas -
smi'io- 18 b ?, bits ’ ma uners, words, and
il? F,' f- e u a tbe • I ' esult of a species of
•ut h’ \- bl^i l be as firmly entailed
m tb ? estates. The society of the
whether for rank or talent;
oomphments of the polite, nay, the
th?f of the poor, the widow, and
ne fatherless, on whom he is ever con
firing benefits, do not reach, much less
uar na, his heart.
If there needed proof how little wealth,
Ration, and high birth have to do with
.ppmess that bright fountain of light,
18 lu ._ itself a sun m tke dark places
iii i ?. l e . artk » warming and illuminating
ail w *thin the circle of its rays—the mas-
SUPPLEMENT.
MAOON, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15, 186&
ter of Stanley Pleasaunce would be the
example of all others I should select to
show the incompetence of what is most
coveted to yield the rich fruitage which
is the object of our labours and ambition.
It is said that George IV. was so much
charmed by the manner and appearance
°I Mr. Stanley, that he caused it to be
communicated to himthat, if he pleased,
he might be elevated to the peerage.
“1 thank his majesty,” answered the
gentleman, “but I have no son.”
“But sir,” replied the nobleman who
conveyed the gracious message, “you have
a nephew.”
A deep shadow passed over Mr. Stan
ley’s face ; and, lest his voice should be
tray any emotion, he paused before he
answered: “One, sir, unworthy to bear
my name, much less to be honoured by
His Majesty.”
Air. Stanley, though Providence had
crushed his ambition by denying him
children by his first marriage, and or
daining that, during the lifetime of his
third wife, he should follow two noble
boys to their grave, had still a child of his
second marriage to watch over and com
panion his old age, though she knew she
had not the power to render it happy.
But if Alice Stanley had not the power
of making her father happy; if the feel
ing that his principal estate was so strictly
entailed that it must go to the nephew,
whom, justly or unjustly, he hated with a
bitterness that lent its flavour to every
portion of his existence, Alice Stanley
both possessed and exercised the power of
cheering every other heart and brighten
ing every other eye. She had passed the
age when women are considered either
young or handsome; the latter, strictly
speaking, she had never been ; yet, after
spending a few hours in her society, every
one declared they had forgotten her fea
tures in her fascination.
Although her mother’s noble fortune
had been settled upon her, and it was
well known that her father had used
every method which law could devise to
impoverish the entail and make his
daughter passing rich, at forty, Alice
Stanley, beloved, blessed, and endowed
with the highest personal as well as men
tal accomplishments,—at forty, Alice
Stanley was unmarried: there could be
no doubt of her preferring to remain so:
and there was a dignified composure in
her manner, an avoidance of thedressand
habits of youth, a resigning herself, long
before most women consider “the time”
arrived for such resignation, to the cus
toms of elder life, which proved, more
than words could prove, that Alice Stanley
would neither be wooed nor won.
It couid not be supposed that this was
the resuit of apathy, or a want of the af
fections of our nature; if nothing seemed
to touch her father’s heart, everything
appeared to vibrate upon hers. It w’as a
treat to see her leaving the village church
on a Sunday afternoon ; her father always
accompanied her, or rather she accom
panied him on the Sabbath morning.—
The Stanleys went regularly to church,
from time immemorial, in a carriage
drawn by four greys, and were invariably
seated in the old family pew before the
church beil had finished ringing ; but Mr.
Stanley would have considered it as wrong
to go in the afternoon as it was right to go
in the morning. He held it, that women,
to whom every courtesy should be shown,
even to the standing up when a lady went
in or out of a room, were, for all that, not
of sufficient importance to make their go
ing or not going to afternoon prayers a
matter of consequence: so he permitted
his daughter to do as she pleased ; and it
was a treat to see her leaving the village
church; to note the shrivelled hands lifted
in silent or half-uttered, prayers for the
blessing of their lives; to watch the chil
dren crowding round her path, to catch
the smiles she so willingly exchanged for
theirs ; and to listen to the words of kind
ness, consolation, or advice, which fell
from lips that were as eloquent as her
father’s were silent.
In the stately receptions in which Mr.
Stanley’s desires, rather than his words,
had required that she should bear so dis
tinguished a part, she managed to com
bine the nameless aud numberless formal
ities of the old school with the ease of the
new ; it was not that she seemed to do or
say a great deal, but, if absent from illness
or any other cause, something, the most
important of all things, was immediately
discovered to be wanting, not by one per
son, but by all.
“I have served many ladies in my time
—and seen many,” said the old house
keeper, one day, in a confidential tone,
and yet one of aged exultation. “I was own
maid to the first Mrs. Stanley; a lovely
creature she was, aud well the master
loved her, until, when they had been
three or four years married, finding she
had no children, his love cooled, and she
soon died. He married, at the end of a
year and a day, just such a lady as Miss
Stanley was —no matter how long ago—
only more gay like; and the birth of her
daughter aud her own death w r ere within
one hour of each other. My master met
me at the door, just as all w’as over. ‘She
is in heaven, sir!’ I whispered ; he drew
back, covered his face with his hands one
minute, and then inquired, ‘And the
child?’ —‘A sweet daughter, sir,’l said.
‘Lost her life for a daughter!’ muttered
my master, stalking away like a shadow ;
and that was the sting, poor gentleman —
a daughter! Then there was another
wife self-willed, aud a beauty ; she left
him two noble boys, and though, when
my uaster followed the last of them to his
grai?, he was only five and thirty, he
said ‘I am too old, I will marry no more;
the i is a curse over the inheritance.’ But
of t ese three ladies, and of all that ever
cancj to aud went from this house, there
nev r was any like Mis3 Stanley; there
are one like her, and there never will
be! :
“ Vhat a pity she never married !” was
thejiatural observation.
“V pity!—ay, it is indeed a pity; it is
suci as she who ought to be wives and
mo hers. She’ll never marry now, she
kmjws better ; it’s a cast of a die any time
—bit it’s no business of mine. She’s too
gooi for—an angel even!” quoth the old
housekeeper, as she hobbled off; for the
next day was Miss Stanley’s oirthday,
anc of course, to be kept with all the
ponp which evidently the lady would not
liavi herself bestowed upon it!
Tie morning was ushered in by the
ringing of bells, and Mr. Stanley had, as
usui.i, invited a large party, to do honour
to tie occasion. “It was an old family
custom,” he said, “and should never be
neglected.”
The guests who were staying in the
housje observed that the lady was not in
her usual —one could not exactly say
“spirits,” for she was always calm and
even—but her rnaner was abstracted, and
she, always so ready to return the slight
est courtesy, was silent, even to sadness.
The day passed on—the dinner in the hall
was perfect. The venerable man who
proposed Miss Stanley’s health had been
her father’s friend —that is, they assimi
lated in politics and religion, and all
county matters—for fifty years; and when
Mr. Stanley returned thanks, he spoke so
well, and looked so handsome, that lew
would have believed he was in the seven
ty-second year of his age.
At the proper time the visitors with
drew, and the old man and his daughter
stood side by side, a oue in the stately
drawing-room.
“Are you very much fatigued, dear
father?” inquired Alice, tenderly wind
ing her arm within his.
“No, my dear, not at all, particularly as
I have observed that you have something
to say to me.”
“Thank you, dear father,” she answer
ed, “J shall not, I hope, detain you long;
but the servants want to put out the
lighJ«. Will you go to your library or
dressing-room?”
Mr. btanley led tbe way to the library,
and, having placed a chair for his daugh
ter, seated himself opposite to her, wait
ing with well-bred attention for her
words.
“You will bear with me, dear father,
will you?” she inquired, or rather whis
pered, while her frail, slender frame trem
bled with emotion. “You will bear with
me, will you not?”
“I have never had anything to bear,”
replied the old gentleman most truly.—
“You never contradicted me in your life;
you never angered me but once—never
but once , Alice, never but once ! Ido not
think you would do it a second time.”
“God knows I would not! father—but
you will bear with me?”
Mr. Stanley w r as not a father either to
caress or be caressed, yet Alice pushed an
ottoman close to bis feet, and crouched
rather than sat down upon it, as if she
had been a little child. Her dress, of the
richest silver-grey satin, fell in massive
folds around her; her hair, which was
streaked with white, was partially con
cealed by a dark velvet head-dress, She
had endeavoured to conceal her agitation,
but. as she drew closer, her father per
ceived that her features were almost con
vulsed ; and she trembled so violently,
that she grasped the arm of the chair upon
which he sat with both her hands, as if
that would impart strength to her quiver
ing ffame.
“Alice, my child !” exclaimed her father
quickly, “you are ili; I never saw you
thus before"!” He would have rung the
bell, but she prevented him by her ges
tures ; aud when she had regained her
self-possession, so as to enable her to speak
again, she said, “If you only say you will
bear with and hear all I have to say, I
shall be well presently.”
“I will, Alice, I will; my own, patient,
gentle child,” answered the old man; and
while he spoke, he fondled her head, pass
ing his hand over the silken aud silvered
hair. She seized it, and kissed it eagerly.
“Thank God, my dear father, for all
your kindness ! My birth and my whole
course of life have been a disappointment
to you—l know that; but you love me,
my own dear father, I know you do.”
“Alice,” answered Mr. Stanley, “that I
wished fora son, when divine will thought
fit to send me a daughter, I do not deny ;
that afterwards, when you were again my
only one, I desired to see you wedded to
him who bears our name, but whose de
light has been to mar my dearest wishes,
and who dared to spurn the alliance
which the highest coveted—when I was
thus insulted through my child, I—but
that is past ”
The old gentleman paused: he had
never in his long life permitted his
daughter to perceive that he was much
moved by any occurrence; while he
spoke, he did not venture to look at her,
but kept his eyes fixed upon some object
at the other end of the room. She was
unconscious of this, having covered her
face with her hauds. By a strong effort,
Mr. Stanley conquered the evidence of his
feelings, aud continued, “You refused the
only revenge which, as a woman w’as in
your power—you would not marry the
man it would have galled your cousin to
see you married to —instead of this you
paled aud pined.”
“Father!” interrupted Miss Stanley,
removing her hands, and gazing steadily
at her proud father, “do me not injustice.
That I loved my cousin beyond all power
to tell, is true. When, after cherishing
from girlhood the belief that he loved me,
I found he loved another —wheu he in
sulted me by the parade of her most
wonderful and rare beauty, I loved him
still. When, wrought by bitter broils be
tween you and him, he scornfully spurned
his cousin, she still loved him. l)o not
look so sternly on me, father!” said Alice,
as she rose, half-kneeling, from her lowly
seat; “I have been punished for that love.
I angered you by refusing to wed in deep
revenge, as you truly say, one whom it
would have galled my cousin into mad
ness to see me married to. I loathed the
man—you were angered at this. I paled,
it is true—revenge and love struggling
within the heart of a young girl were
enough to make her pale; but though
love was stronger than revenge, or the
dread of your displeasure, Alice Stanley
did not pine.”
She pushed back the hair which had es
caped from its confinement, and walked
rapidly up and down the room. Again
her father became alarmed either for her
life or reason, aud did not venture to
speak. At last she resumed her seat, and,
much calmed, said: “I cannot think why
what occurred full twenty years ago should
so unnerve me now’. Yet, though the
flesh shrinks and the colour fades, aud the
poor toil-worn frame aches for the quiet
of the grave, the springs of love are stronger
in some hearts than those of life.”
“Not in yours, I hope,” said her father.
There was something approaching to sar
casm in the tone of his voice which made
her shudder; but the cause she had to
plead gave her strength, and she continu
ed:—
“My cousin married—”
“He did,” said Mr. Stanley ; “he mar
ried —and had no children. There was
great comfort in that—he had no chil
dren—”
“His wife died,” continued Miss Stanley,
as if she had not noted her father’s inter
ruption.
“When?—where?” inquired the old
gentleman—“and how did you know’ any
thing about him, wheu I have not heard
for years?”
“You w’ould not hear, my father.” she
answered; “you would not hear; his im
prudence impoverished him.”
A thought, the most painful that could
be formed by such a mau, suddenly cross
ed Mr. Stanley’s mind; but, though it
changed the expression of his counte
nance, he did not give it words,
“It was disgraceful,” Miss Stanley said,
“for your nephew, your future heir, to
need aid from strangers.”
“Go on,” said Mr. Stanley.
“You have been most liberal to me,
father.”
“I pray you to go on —and quickly,”
muttered the old gentleman.
“I transmitted him money through a
bank, without his knowing whom it came
from.”
“Oh, you did ! —but bis wife was dead ;
and he in time found out, of course, and
is most grateful.”
“The fair and beautiful, whom the
whole world admired, was dead ; but, a
few mouths after her death, he married
again.”
“And you knew this?”
“Os course, I did. He married a young
English lady—”
“Rascal as he was, I am glad he did not
wed a foreigner,” thought Mr. Stanley.
“He married, and has left one child—a
boy.”
“Alice,” inquired her father, “what uo
you mean by left? You said he has left
one child—a boy—what do you mean by
left?”
“Need I tell you— must I tell you, my
dear father,” she replied, “the dull, cola
words—he is dead! I knew’ it only this
morning.”
“Dead!—dead !” repeated the proud old
man. “Why, he was but a boy. The
Stanleys live to a great age,—but he was
unworthy of the name —turbulent, seii
wdlled, proud, selfish.”
“My lather, if any living have a right
to heap heaviness upon his grave, it is i—
f—he was my blight. And yet he could
no more love me tnan I could love another
and out of your resolve that we should wed
sprung ail this whirlwind of sorrow. Bui
for it, he would have been to you as a sou;
he was the child of your beloved brother,
and you remember he has not died child
less.”
“And what is that to me?” inquired the
old man, with more than his usual steiu
ness.
“Much !—much! In a few years, wheu
our days are numbered, that boy must he
here—master of this house, of the Stanley
entailed estates. I ask you to bear with
me,” she said, grasping both her lather’s
hands in hers, and kneeling at his feet:
“God grant it may be many years!—but
it must be in the end. Let us teach him,
by care and tenderness, to look for it as a
loss, and not a blessing—let us make him
[continued ok second page.]