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tfif FLOWERS COLLECTION
VOL. V. J. H.&-WB. SEALS,}
ATLANTA, GA., JULY 19, 1879.
Terms in advance:} gS5.u, < cop® 3 §2- No. 2i0.
ON PLACING A DAUGHTER AT SCHOOL.
Good sir, I have just called this morning,
My daughter to Diace in your charge;—
She has a mind of the very first order,
Though her body you see is not large.
She has learned spelling, reading and writing,
Though on these you may give a review,
And let her take chance at odd times, sir,
To brush up Geography, too.
Let her give some care to her grammar.
And Rhetoric let her learn well;—
Also Botany, Chemistry, History,
With a peep now and then at Vattell.
Of course have her thorough in Latin,
French. Spanish, Italian and Greek;—
Tongues ancient I'd have her to read well,
The modern, I’d have her to speak.
Arithmeic, too, you must teach her.
Algebra then let her learn.
Geometry, Calculus, Fluxious,
She must each take np in its turn.
Instruct her to reckon.eclipses.
And tiie transits of Planets compute.
Let her have such skill in Logic
Thatnonecan her reasoning confute:
On the Ilarp I would have her be perfect,
On the piano let ber excel;—
And to sing and piay the guitar, too,
And to dance let her also learn well.
You must see that her manners are finished,
Make her walk with Hebe-like grace.
And in talk you must make her so charming
That no one will think of tier face.
In-truet her in cooking and sewing.
Telegraphy be sure to impart.
Learn ber patchwork, washing and brewing;
Make her skilled in the printer’s art.
She must paint and handle tliechise';
Learn all about Medicine, too.
With something of Law and Divinity.
While she reads Bacon and Shakespeare thro.’
All this full “course of Instruction,”
In cardsyou to teach do profess;—
I believe I neglected to mention.
You promised to learn her to dress.^
N■ -,i j', Diiri'j ..>V. it’iuiu iie uear JeA'ei
So bright I’ll not know its the same,
But remember, if anything's lacking
You alone must bearall the hlatne.
BERTRAM’S LEGACY.
BY VI Its. A. C. COCHRANE.
Stately Lyndon Mansion, with its ivied walls, its
noble pillars, its broad sweep of green lawn, and its
fine old elms looked in the autumn sunlight, what it
was—one of the proudest homes of the old English
gentry.
Three weeks ago it bad been thrown open for the
first time in fifteen years. Its owner, Hon. Henrv
Singleton had returned from a long residence in In
dia, where he had filled the post of governor of one
the provinces, after having been for several years a
member of the English parliament. He had returned
to his country and his old ancestral home, but he had
returned to die, and to rest buside his wife whose re
mains he had had disentombed and brought with
him from India that they might rest in the burial
place of his fathers. He brought with him too, the
only remaining member of the family—the sole be
ing who should bear his proud name wdien he was
no more—his daughter, a slight, fair girl, pale with
long watching on her invalid father, sensitive and
shy through never having mixed with society, and
grave beyond her years, through having been so long
the companion only of her grave father, her view
be>ng bounded by the walls of his sick room, her
hopes rising or falling with the pulse that beat in
his wasted temples.
There was another reason for her gravity. Though
not yet nineteen, India Singleton was a wife—a
Wife in name and in heart—the wife of her father’s
ward, the son of his dearest friend.
During nine years of his life, from the time he
was twelve until he had come of age, Bertram Gray
had been an inmate of Mr. Singleton’s peaceful and
beautiful home in India. He was looked upon as
one of the household. He loved Mr. and Mrs. Sin
gleton as his own parents and the bitterest tears of
his life was shed, kneeling with his arms around lit
tle India, by the bed where his adopted mother had
breathed her last. India had been his constant com
panion and playmate—the sharer of all his boyish
delights and troubles, the enthusiastic listener and
believer in all his plans for the future. She was a
sweet-faced, but rather backward and delicate
child of fourteen when the time came for Bertram
to return to England and assume the possession and
care of his property, that had hitherto been attend
ed to by agents of Mr. Singleton’s. He would leave
on the next steamer, with his tutor, the learned and
excellent Professor who had attended to the greater
part of his education. India was inconsolable, and
pleaded to go with him. ’
‘Not vet,’ said her father, and he drew them both
to him, and spoke of a purpose that had formed it
self in his mind during the last few days. Both Ber
tram and India knew that they had been in a man
ner betrothed from their cradles, and that it had
been the last and most earnestly expressed wish of
Bertram’s father that the contract -hould be con
summated by marriage as soon as the two had
reached a suitable age. Mr. Singleton, now thourht
best, that the ceremony should take place before
Bertram left for England. Of course the marriage
would be one only in name, and wheu Bertram re I
turned to India, there would be another ceremony !
to make this more binding, but. Mr. Singleton
was anxious for the future of his young ward and
thought that the vows that would bind Bertram to
the gentle girl he seemed to loved so well, would I
be a safeguard and a talisman to protect him in the '
midst of the temptations sure to beset a young man '
who was at once brilliant, social, rich and inexpe
rienced in the ways of the world. "
So the morning he was to say good-bye, while his
horsee waited at the gate to bear him on the jour
ney to the coast, the maririige form was gone
through with, and Bertram clasped his child-bride
in his arms and kissed her tearswet cheeks and
quivering lips, a caress that was at once a token of
nnion, and a parting, for in that kiss he murmured
his good-bye.
He reached England, and there among relatives
and friends of his family, he entered a new life, full
of fascination for one of his social nature. He was
admired and courted, his society sought because of
HIDDEN BY THE DOOR OF THE CARVED CABINET INDIA HEARD THE WORD-, THAT FELL LIKE WITHERING FROST ON HER HEART.
his fine conversationa 1 powers, refined manners,
and lengthy^ rent roll.
Taken up with pleasure and business, he gave less
and less thought to the friends in India and began
to look upyi that marriage -yith the little , pale
■. Ji .aji ht.-it aiai...tie sentimental t'liiid s
piay—an v * for which lie could not be held respon
sible. His letters to India became shorter and more
rare. At last India ceased to write at all, and only
her father was Bertram’s correspondent. He began
to hope that they would attach no importance to
the youthful marriage; he contrasted his little pale,
timid child-bride with the brilliant beauty and
dashing style of Isabel Graham, who rode so fear
lessly at fox hunts, waltzed so divinely and looked
at him from under her black eye lashes as .-he sang
•Darkeyed one, dark eyed one I languish for thee!’
Mattel's were at this pass when a letter from Mr.
Singleton broke upon his delicious love-dreams like
a knell. It contained information that he would
take passage for Eugland on the next steamer. He
had been very ill, and hoped, but hardly expected
to recuperate in his native country. He wrote:
‘India,your childbride is now fully grown and is as
noble and true hearted a girl as lives. I cannot tell
you how dear she is to me. My sole anxiety is for
her. I do not fear to die, but I want to leave her
happy. As soon as we reach dear old Lyndon, we
must have the ceremony that gave her to you made
more solemn by another, and then I can die satis
fied,knowing that my daughter’s happiness is in the
hands of one who has always been as dear to me as
a son.’
This letter threw Bertram into such perturbation
that it nearly made him ill. To get rid of disagree
able thoughts, he accepted an invitation from one
of his friends to spend the shooting season with him
at his country place in a part of the country quite
distant from Lyndon.
It was not the attraction of grouse and pheasants
that drew him there however, but the fact that Is
abel Graham was one of the invited guests at Heath
Hall. He fully intended to face his duty and meet
Mr. Singleton on his arrival in London as he was
bound in common courtesy to do; but the fascina
tion of Miss Graham’s society detained him against
his conscience, and as time went by he found it
more difficult to go. He had acted badly, his better
feelings reproached him for it continually.
He dreaded to meet the rebuke of Mr. Singleton
and the tears and reproaches of India. He put off
the evil day from time to time, until three weeks
had gone by since he had seen in the Times the an
nouncement of Mr. Singleton’s return to England.
At last, one day came a telegram summoning him
to the deathbed of Mr. Singleton. Stricken with
remorse, he hastened to Lyndon, and threw him
self on his knees beside the bed where his father’s
friend—his kind protector and guardian lay in the
amaciation of consumption. Overcome by the
tender reproach in the sunken eyes and by the
white agony in the face of the girl who hung over
her father, he spoke no word of dissent when Mr.
Singleton tlrew him down and whispered his re
quest that the marriage be re-solomnized then by
his bedside. India yielded a passive assent, though
all her thoughts, seemed to belong to her father,
and as all was ready the rites were performed at
once-—Half an hour afterwards, Mr. Singleton
breathed his last, and India, half fainting, was car
ried to her room ■
It was the afternoon of the next day; the dead
lay in sta: e in an upper room of the mansion, Ber
tram wandered about t he silent house and grounds
like a restless spirit. The reaction had come; the
overwrought feeling of yesterday had subsided, and
he said to himself that he had "been a fool to rivet
the chains upon himself by consenting to let that
ceremony take place. Goodbye now to hope, to
happiness, to Isabel, he said, striding up and down
the long colonnade his brow knit and his arms
crossed tightly over his breast.
A gentleman who had come unpercieved up the
broad walk entered and approached him. He turn
ed, saw who it was, and held out his hand, which
the other shook warmly. He was a man past the
first prime of life, with a grave good face—Gerald
Stanford, a man of letters, who had won distinction
but bad known much sorrow was Bertram's best
friend. He had been drawn to Bertram by the
young man’s frank, affectionate nature and his
bright and quick intellect. The warm grasp of his
friend's hand, the kindly sympathy of his eyes was
more than Bertram could bear at that moment.
He could no longer repress his feelings, and draw
ing Stanford into the library, he sat down by him
and burst out with a confession of the trouble that
oppressed him. t His friend listened patiently, find
ing it a difficult case and one in which it was im
possible to give advice. He said at last;
‘It is a merciful thing that time brings inward as
well as outward changes. We are apt to think our
feelings now are fixed but find that in a little while,
we change, and what seemed wholly unfortunate,
appears in a far happier light—sometimes comes
to be a blessing.’ .
‘ TITiftt blessing can this ever ' .the young
man t”i >>ur - • ■' -* •’ '>n
his friend's knee. Aly life is /’ -wred mf-ever. I
have married a woman I do not atyij never'can love,
even if there was not another woman whom I do
love dearly and who loves me. The marriage was
forced upon me by circumstances, I could not con
trol. It is the death blow to my happiness, to my
ambition.’
‘And hq|v-About her happiness,’ said Stanford
seftly. ‘An orphan, left desolate among strangers,
in a strange country, the father she had nursed so
tenderly dying and leaving her bound through his
wish to a man who has shown indifference to her,
at a time when mere courtesy would have demand
ed the kindest attentions both to the sick father
and the anxious daughter: 1 ’
‘I know, I know! you cannot reproach me more
than my own conscience does' I am msierable :
come let us walk in the grounds; the close air stifles
me.’
They went, and when the door was shut behind
them, India, white as death crept out from a corner
of the room where she had been hidden from sight
by the carved cabinet she had opened a moment
before the entrance of Bertram and his friend.
She had gone to tlie library, knowing it to be unoc
cupied, to try and find in the quaint old cabinet they
had brought from India, the minature of her mother
that her father held so sacred, and a duplicate of
which she possessed. She meant to place it on bis
breast, beneath his clasped hands, as he lay in his
coffin that it might be buried with him. irhile
she stood there, the door opened without warning,
and the two meu entered. From her position,
they could not see her, and as she was about to
move forward, she heard Bertram speak of her
and of his marriage in tones that stayed her steps
and forced her to stand and listen to those wild ut
terances of disappointment and despair that es
caped the young man’s impulsive lips.
last began to resent in feeling at least, the indiffen-
ence thus meted out to him, when he claimed con
fidence and deference. He himself he reasoned
. had separated frtnn old association®, had pu* the
,1 :-.V <'■ ■ 4. ." • -..Y'iViii fie Vveu i.dvdt Ins luitlil,
and showed a willingness to make duty his guide,
and now she seemed not to appreciate his sacrifice.
Yet he could not accuse her of being cold-natured.
He had seen her devotion to her father, he noted her
gentleness to the servants, her quiet household ways,
her attention to her birds and flowers, ber kindness
to the poor, her neat dainty taste; he saw and felt
the force of these attractions and gradually came
to admiring her, though still secretly deploring
her want of style and accomplishments, for she
gave no sign of any capacity for these. She had
no heart foi them.
And she was so quiet, so calmly indifferent that
it exasperated him. How could he know that her
heart had shut within itself like a sensitive plant.
Irritation grew 7 upon him, and it was well perhaps
that at this time he found that it was necessary for
him to go to India to settle up finally Mr. Single-
ton's business in that country. He had been left
by Mr. Singleton sole executor of bis will, and heir
of all his wealth, except the estate at Lyndon. The
Indian property, left in the hands of careless agents
needed sadly to be looked after. He made his ar
rangements to be absent a year and left with only a
touch of the hand and a simple 'goodbye’ from his
bride.
CHAPTER II.
The day of the funeral arrived, the sad rites were
to be performed at sunset; all visitors and attend
ants had left the deatn-chamber, giving place to
the daughter who would be alone with her dead.
In her black robes and pale almost as the rigid
face before her, India stood above the coffined
form, looking for the last time upon the beloved
face, from which the light had forever fled. Fall
ing on her knees beside the body, she imprinted
kisses upon the cold lips and a cry of bitter anguish
escaped her.
‘No love, no friend ever more ! Oh, God ! be
merciful and take me too.’
That cry went with thrilling power to Bertram’s
ear as he stood in the bay window, hid by the deep
curtains. He forgot self; memories of early days
and of India, the sweet comforter and child-friend
rushed upon him, and his heart went out to the
stricken girl in tender compassion.
He walked across the room to where she knelt,
and laid his hand upon her bowed head.
‘India,’ he said softly, ‘from my soul I sympa
thize with you; let me comfort you, child- lookup;
have you forgotten me—Percy of the dear, old
home ?’
She shrank from bis touch.
‘Do not come now,’ she said; ‘you are too late.
He prayed for your coming, but he is gone now
forever.’
‘Forgive me, India, for the thoughtless wrong I
have done to him and to you. I should have long
since claimed you as my own, and here in the solemn
presence of death, I register a vow to make such
atonement for my sin as lies in my power.’
She did not answer, she only motioned him from
her, and when he still lingered she said:
‘I asked to be alone.’
‘I will go. but think of me as with you in heart,
dear India,’ he said gently, as he bent and kissed
her forehead and softly quitted the room.
A month had elapsed since the funeral. India
had kept her room persistently and had gently but
coldly repelled Bertram’s attempts at consolation
or tenderness.
As in duty and honor bound, the young husband
installed himself at Lyndon, but in solitary state,
for the bride lived as seemingly unconscious of his ex
istence as when oceans and a continent lay between
them. It was truly a double house, and never was
there nun within convent walls more isolated from
the world than was India from her husband. In
contrition for his past conduct as well as respect
for her wishes and compassion for her grief, he ac
cepted the situation, though he continued to try by
unobtrusive attentions to lift the sorrow from her
life. Thus weeks passed by, the lonely Bertram at
CHAPTER III.
Bertram returned to England without having
notified any of his household of his movements.
Lyndon was five miles from the railroad station
and procuring a conveyance and fast horses, he was
whirled rapidly along the level road leading to
the villa. As he neared the elegant home bequeathed
by Mark Singleton to his daughter, he turned his
head as if to shut out the view before him. Often
he had resolved to leave at once a place where he
was so completely set aside, to renounce all claim
to the fortune conferred upon him, to free forever
the woman who thus persistently ignored his claim.
A reluctance to afford food for scandal and per
haps the dawning of another and nobler feeling had
fought against pride and deterred him from carry
ing out his purpose.
Delivering the horses to the groom, the master
proceeded on to the house, with firm, haughty step,
the light of a proud resolve burning in his face.
He vowed to himself to see India and give back
her freedom, relinquish all claims to her wealth and
then leave her untrammeled to exercise her own
free will.
He had entered the house and was going on to
his rooms, when his eye caught the stream of light
that came from one of the parlors. The folding
doors were thrown open and he involuntarily paused
upon the threshold taking in at a glance the ex
quisite picture within. Not the paintings of the
masters, nor the fine statuary, held his look cap
tive, but the graceful figure of a living and lovely
woman,in a rich black, flowing dress perfectly fitted
to the outlines of her faultless form and enhanc
ing the pearly whiteness of her skin. The laces
about the neck of the high corsage were clasped
with sprays of jeweled violets, while clusters of star-
jessamine gleamed among the soft braids of dark
hair. Her large, dreamful eyes wore a shade of
sadness and the lids drooped their long fringes to her
cheeks.
For a few moments she gazed wistfully about her,
then walking across the room seated herself before
the organ. Opening the instrument, she ran her
fingers over the keys in prelude and her voice rich,
sweet and full of expression sang:
“Hark ! ’tis the angelus sweetly ringing
O’er hill and vale,
Hark .' how the melody maidens are singing
Floats on the gale;
Ring on sweet angelus though thou art shaking
My soul to tears;
Voices long silent now with thee are waiting
From out the years—
From out the years.”
The last, quivering notes dropped like a’sob upon
the ears of the entranced listener.
A far-away look had crept into her dusky eyes,
and the white fingers were interlaced and now idly
resting upon the wory keys.
The haughty lines had left Bertram’s face, a light
as the enkindling of slumbrous fires, leaped into his
eyes, hitherto so cold and hard; and bending over
until his quick, panting breath swept her cheeks, he
softly murmured:
‘India !’
Startled, the beautiful dreamer sprang to her feet
and first flushed then paled as she ’met his ardent
gaze,
‘India, my wife, have you no sweet welcome for
me ? Why do you ever avoid me ? Is it that I am
an intruder, and that vou would forever banish
me from your presence ?’
‘It can make little difference what I desire—I,
whom you mai'ried because circumstances forced it
upon you—a wife but in name,’ she answered, the
blood mantling brow and cheek, as proudly poising
her regal head, she continued;
‘It is I, who am the intruder, and forced upon
your acceptance, but repudiate as you may the tie
binding us. you cannot deplore it more than I do;
had it not been the dearest wish of my father, nev
er would I have left my distant home and come to
this cold, unlovely land: never have submitted to
that last mockery of a marriage beside his dying
bed. But for me you shall not be sacrificed; the
world, less than nothing to me now, shall still he
open for you, for I will renounce it that you may
have back your freedom, and within convent -walls
pass the remnant of a life blighted in its morn
ing.’
‘Never, by Heaven ! never shall you leave me,
my own sweet, beautiful darling; you can, you
must forgive the past and come to me, my wife.’
He would have folded her to himself in tenderest
embrace, but divining his purpose, she glided past
him anil in the next instant had left the room.
His first impulse was to follow her, snatch her in-
from t he sanctuary of her apartment and force her to
listen to his demand that he be treated with t he re
spect due a husband. But pride end self-respect de
terred him. and he left the room and paced back
and forth beneath the old elms with bowed head
and thoughtful step.
CHAPTER IV.
It was a week later; Bertram and India had not
met, for if she avoided him, he never sought her
presence, evincing by neither word or-action that
lie was conscious of her existence. Daily absenting
himself, he regularly returned atnightfali, and from
her window, India had learned to watch his going
and await his coming. But there came a time at
last when he returned not at the accustomed hour;
the tw ilight had deepened into darkness, stars were
twinkling in the skies; the katydids were chanting
their vesper hymn, while not far distant sounded
the note of the cuckoo calling for its mate. Sti'l
Bertram came not.
The hint's.bragged themselves on, and wearvp.nd
heir’-sick. India at last -iueht b-r A. rr»
Li;: •*» loss :l\ w:iKi-%i!, cc mi ei'mg thoughts.
The night whined before sh.- closed her eyes in sleep,
and the sun .vas shining in the heavens when she
suddenly awoke.
Rising, she rang for her maid, who for sometime
had been awaiting her summons. More than once
while making her toilet, she had looked into the
girl’s face, while on her lips trembled the question:
‘Has your master returned ?
But no, she would not ask; ‘for why should she
care whether he be come or gone since it was his
will ? she queried of herself.
She scarcely tasted the light breakfast spread be
fore her, but restlessly walked her room, ever and
anon eagerly looking out of the window. Half
aloud, she exclaimed:
‘This suspense is intolerable. I will go out in the
grounds and wait—wait for what ?—for this fever
ish madness to cool in my veins. ’
She had left her room, was passing the library,
when by some impulse she turned and walked in’
She cast an inquiring glance around her, hurriedly
taking in painting, statuary and books, then her
eye caught a folded paper, lying on a table. Tak
ing it up and seeing it addressed to herself, she
broke the seal and read:
‘India, I accept my fate at your hands, be it weal
or woe; at your door lies a soul’s destiny. I go
hence that you may be free, and in other lands,
under other skies, will learn submission perhaps to
the decree that banishes me from your presence.
The riches conferred on me are all your own and
you need but consult jour late father’s confiden
tial agent in business relations. Be patient but
awhile anil I will be dead to the world that now
kuows me; aye. mayhaps, dead indeed and out of
your path forever. Until then still 3-ours,
Bertram.
The words seemed to blister themselves into her
senses and from the depths of her soul, then palpi
tated the anguished cry. ‘Oh ! pitying Christ.’
She crushed the note in hi r fingers and closed
her e\ r es as if to shut out the dread truth, while for
an instant the room seemed spinning around, bear
ing her on in a wild dance.
She was recalled to herself by the confused sound
of voices and hurrying footsteps in the hall; and
rushing out with a sudden presentiment of some
thing terrible, she came without warning upon a
strange group bearing a litter, on which lay the
motionless form of Bertram; theghastl3', upturned
face was stained with blood from an ugly gash on
the temple, dark circles were around the closed
e3 - es and the pallor of death on the lips.
One quick glance before her and India knew all.
‘Oh ! Percy, my life, my love, dead, dead 1’ she
cried, and with a wail that pierced the hearts of
those around her she sank in a dead heap at their
feet. .....
When India awoke to consciousness she was in
her own room lying on a couch that had been
wheeled to the window, with the kind face of the
motherly housekeeper bending over her.
‘What is the matter with me and why am I here?’
she asked.
‘You have been ill, dear, but are much better
now.’
‘Ill, ill,’ she repeated. ‘Was it all then a delir-
ous dream ? I did not drive my darling from me
with my pride and coldness: he is not dead. I did
not see him brought in ghastly and bloody ! Oh !
no, it was not a dream; I see it in your face; he is
dead, my husband is dead; let me die too; I will
not live. 7
It was Bertram’s rich voice that answered, as he
stepped from the head of the bed and knelt down
by her:
‘My dearest, my own wife, be calm. Yes you
will live, you will live for me. See I am kneeling
here by you alive and nearly well. I was thrown
from my buggy and stunned and hurt, but not se
riously. I did not suffer from it as I have done
since with watching your suffering. But 30U are
better, you will soon be well, and we will be happy
Will 3 r ou forgive me, my own ?’ rrj-
‘Forgive !’ For answer she held out her arms
and clasped his neck, as he pressed ber to his heart
and kissed her on brow and lips.
There was no more misunderstanding and es
trangement at beautiful Lyndon. The shadow
that had darkened their first year of married life
passed forever and they grew more united in heart
and purpose as time went by.
“Somebody is Waiting for Me,” was wailed out
by the man who bad been to the lodge, lost his
night key, and could see th- shadow of his wife’s
mother’s night-capped head on the curtain of the
Bitting room.