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I
HUSBAND AND WIFE;
OR,
Which was in the Wrong.
A Story for Young Couples.
feY V. F T.
“He quieteth the earth by the south wind.”
Sbe had just drawn np the Venetian blind,
and thrown open the window—the lady whose
roioe, soft and solemn, nttered these words.
Sbe bad a face which 6tiited the voice, a face
with thin, classic outlines, aDd large, aznre gray
eyes, clear and steadfast, and a month whose
physiognomy endorsed the eyes. It was large
and full, yet the lips sat down so steadily to
gether, yon would scarcely have imagined the
beautiful varieties of expression there were in
them.
But there was something sad in the pale,
pure face, something which made the gaz ?r feel
that the great shadow and the greater glory
were drawing nigh unto it. Alice Mayne was
twenty-six years old at the time she looked out
of her chamber window, that morning in the
late May. The night had been frenzied with
.winds and seething rains and the day had risen
out of it gloriously, or vast arches of pearl, and
the mists lifted their mighty pillars on the
mountains, and the ‘soft south wind’ was a great
cens6r waving through the air unto Gad the
sweet incense of the earth.
Alice Mayne was the only child of the Pres
byterian minister of Westfield. Her mother
had died of a hereditary heart disease when the
girl had reached her fifteenth year, and Alice
had inherited the fragile constitution of her
parent.
Parson Mayne was a good man, and dearly
beloved of his parish. He was in person a
thorough type cf the Puritan fathers, tall, state
ly, imposing, and he hau, partly from constitn
tional tendency, partly from habit, something
of cold reserve in his manner; but every one
knew that beneath the slightly frigid exterior,
beats a heart full of running fountains of ten
derness and love for all mankind.
No one wondered that the old man fairly
worshipped his fair child, Alice, for she was the
last of seven, and the others W6re a household
in Heaven.
But as the girl stood at the parsonage window,
looking out on the sweet face of the new-born
day, the front gate was suddenly opened, and a
small figure hurried hastily up the walk, and
catching a glimpse of Alice, burst into the sit-
ting-rocm without knocking.
‘Oh, Alice, Alice, do yon know what has
happened?'
The brown veil was thrown hastily back from
the straw bonnet, and a face Dot beautiful, not
handsome, but very pretty, looked up to the
girl. It was full of rapid changes now, and
the eyes, large and bright, and oftenest full of
6miles, were swollen as though they had wept
hot, passionate tears.
‘Why, Delia, what does all this mean?'
She evidently asked the question in quick
alarm, and there came a sodden pallor about
her mouth. Delia was too exoited to notice it
•It means, Alice Mayne, that Harry Leeds has
been false to me, in word and deed, and that I
am no longer his wife. I am going home to
papa and mamma this very afternoon.’
'Oh, Delia, Delia!’
She fairly gasped out the words, with the
pallor growing about her.mouth.
‘No wonder you say it, Alice, and so will the
world, too, vUb it finds out bow I’v6 been self,
deceived, ana abused, and insulted in my own ' > i
house.’
Alice Mayne had by this time partly recov
ered from the shock which Mrs. Leeds words
had given her.
‘You are so excited, Delia, child, you don’t
know what you are saving. Take ofl your bon
net now—sit right down here, and tell me all
that has happened.’
And she stioked the soft, brownish bands of
hair that the wind had ruffled over the lair
brow.
•I’ll try to, Alice; but, you see I’m so com
pletely overwhelmed by all I've passed through
in the last twenty-four hours, that I can hardly
give a rational a ;count of the matter.
‘But to commence somewhere. I've thought
for the last six months, a change was coming
over Harry, he’s been so cold, and petulant, and
indifferent to my wishes; and hasn’t been in
two nights of the week before eleven or twelve
o’clock.
•I’ve talked and questioned and pouted and
cried over it, but I couldn’t get the least satis
faction from the gentleman, only cross words
and surly looks, so I just made up my mind
that marrying was a great disappointment, any
way, and must bear it as well as the rest of my
sex.
•But yesterday Betty came to me with a very
lugubrious face and told me that ber sister,
whose mistress lives next door to Mrs. West,
had seen Mr. Leeds riding out twice during the
last week with that lady. Just think of it! A
woman I actually wouldn’t be seen in the street
with, alter all the talk there’s been about her;
and to have Harry Leeds leave his own poor
wife at home to take that widow out riding 1
•Well, I questioned Betty awhile, and at last
drew out the whole truth, that Harry was at
Mrs. West’s at least three evenings out of the
week, and that Mrs. Graham, (my girl’s sister’s
mistress) had talked about it together, until
they’d grown real exasperated, and said there
was that fascinating, unprincipled Mrs. West,
trying to get another man's afflictions from his
wife, and it was a burning shame, and they did
pity Mrs. Leeds from the bottom of their hearts.
•Well, yon know, Alice, I was never a jealous
wife, but no woman worthy cf the name could
have borne this. I understood now what all
those excuses of ‘clubs,’ and ‘engagements/
and ‘society meetings’ meant, and that they’d
completely * blinded my eyes all this time. I
never was so indignant in my life. I cried one
moment, and the next I put on my bonn6t, and
was just on the point of starting round to Mrs.
West’s, and giving her one piece of my mind.
‘But I finally concluded to wait till Harry
came to supper, but the gentleman didn’t arrive
until near ten o’clock, and I had all this time
to think about the matter.
“Well, sir,’ was my opening salutation, as he
came into the sitting-room, ‘have yon hal a
pleasant evening with Mrs. West?’
•He started and changed color. ‘What do
you mean about Mrs. West, Delia? I couldn t
get Lome to-night, because I was deluged by
some business of that miserable client of mine.’
•I believe that he spoke the troth this time,
though of course 1 didn’t tell him so. I merely
replied that as Mrs. West would probably be
anxious on account of his absence, he had best
call round there, and relieve her at once by
explaining the circumstances which oooasioned
^•Oh Delia, Delia,’ broke in Alioe’s reproach
ful voice, ‘that was not the way to meet your
husband, to make him sorry for the wrong he
hE ‘W^r*Alice Mayne,* with a flash from the
bine eyes, ‘would yon have me endure such
outrage without resenting it-sure y, I should
have been less than woman, if 1 had.
•Are veu sure of that, Delia? Doing this,
might have been more than woman, without
GO Thewords fell down softly on
spirit of the little wile.
the roused
•Well, Alice, I never professed to be more
than one, as you are; but Harry’s reply to me
wee such a mixture of indifference and insult,
that I eould not bare any more, I, who was the
aggrieved party, too !
•I turned right upon him, and told him that
so long as I lived under his roof, and bore his
name, I would be treated with the respect and
attention which a man owed to his wife, unfor
tunate as I considered myselt in occupying that
relation towards him,’
•You did not say that?
•To be sure, and very much more like it. I
was almost scared when I got through, Harry
had grown so white, bat he answered:
•Your threats, madam, do not in the least
alarm me, and as to your remaining here that
is a matter perfectly optional with yourself,
perfectly indifferent to me One thing, how
ever, is certain; so long as I pay for this roof,
I shall maintain my own right under it, to go
and come just when and where I please, and
that I shall in no wise hold myself responsible
to yon for any of my movements.’
•And he went out, slamming the door after
him. That is the last I've seen of him, and the
last I ever expect to.’
•You don’t mean to say he‘s run off? There
was terrible alarm on tb9 questioner's face.
‘Ob. no;hecam6 in last night about twelve
o'clock. I had retired, the most wretched of
women,and of course I heard him, fori couldn‘t
sleep, and be passed the night in the library.
I wasn't down to breakfast tuis morning until
after he was gone.'
•And this is the end, Delia! 4
She said the words slow aiiil very mournfully,
looking at the young wife.
‘The end of all this;—is that what you mean.
Alice?*
‘I mean the end of that joyous bridal eve I
remember seven yeais ago in the late May-
bridal I looked upon as supremely smiled on of
Heaven and earth. Do you remember it, Delia,
and how we stole away from all the guests, ana
walked np and down the garden in those
great swathing bands of moinligkt, and bow
you said to me, 'He is so hindsome, so noble,
so gifted—oh, Alice, I can-t understand how he
chose me above all the women iu the world?'
•Don't talk of that time now, don't, Alice, or
you'll drive me crazy! 4 There was a tremulous
working of the lips.
•Well. I won't, then, but of another, a day I
saw Harry for th6 first time after Delia Hope
had promised to be his wife. I remember the
information had taken me quite by surprise,
for you know that I had been at grandpa's most
of the previous year, and knew nothing of what
had transpired here anti! Harry wrote me so.
On meeting him, my first words were—‘Oh,
Harry you are sure you love her—sure you can
make her happy?*
•Love her, Alice! She.s the daintiest little an
gel that ever folded her wings around a man's
heart. If I don't make her happy, I deserve to
be cursed of God and man!'
‘Did he say that? Did he say that?' asked
Mrs. Leeds.
And now the tears were struggling out from
her thick, brown lashes.
‘Every word Delia; and now, as I said, this
is the end,'
‘Well, it isn't my fault, Alice, I‘m sure. I‘ve
loved Harry, and tried to make him happy,
and if he hadn't said those things which have
placed a great gulf between us ‘
•And whose words widened the gulf?*
‘Oh, Alice you don't know how it is to be
stung to madness, as I was last night, by neg
lect and contempt; by having your husband
prefer the society of another woman to your
self, • \ ' *
I lie o,id3 impetuosity' hal gone obi oi ner
tones now.
‘But, dear, have you always done your duty
in this thing? Have you always been the bright
sweet loving Delia Hope that he took to his
heart and his home seven years ago?*
‘Perhaps not, Alice, but I‘va meant to do
right. ADd then Harry's disappointed me
in many particulars. He's not half so perfect
as I thought he was; he's selfish and petulint. ‘
‘But, Dear, have you in any way assisted him
to reform his faults and weakness, or have yen
reflected them? Is Harry Leeds abetter, strong
er, truer man for these years you have walk
ed together, and for your influence over him?’
The little wife's head drooped under the earn
est, searching questions, and quick changes har
ried over her cheeks.
‘No, Alice, I don’t believe he is a better man.
I dare say it would have been well for us both
if we had never looked in each other's faces.*
‘But if it be so, it is your fault, Delia.
‘On, Alice, not mine only. You are too hard. ‘
Sue spoke in a meek, pleading tone, and al
together she was very unlike the roused, indig
nant woman of a half hour before.
‘And now, • Alice went on, without heeding
Mrs. Leeds* remonstrance, ‘because von have
reflected Harry’s faults, because you have not
soothed his irritation, and strengthened him
where he was weakest, and not continued by
the sweet, loving words and ways which first
won his love, to retain it; and because, with
social instincts and susceptible temperament,
he has been drawn into the society of an art
ful, attractive woman, you are now going to
leave him with anger and recrimination, when
you know doing this will probably be the man's
ruin, soul and body.'
‘Oh, Alice?’ and a shudder went over the lit
tle figure.
•I only say your own words, Delia. Oil, how
wiil you answer to God fur ibis day's work?’
‘What in the world can I do, Alice—must I
go home, and snbmit to neglect and abuse?'
The tears were pouring down her cheeks,
now, and she asked the question in a grieved,
helpless tone, which must have touched any
heart. Alice wound her arms round her friend.
‘I would have you do this, darling: Go home,
and 6ndeavor to win back, by forbearance and
forgiveness, by making yourself fair and lovely
in word and deed before him, the lost tender
ness of your husband,*
‘I will try, Alice.*
‘The Lord helping you. Delia. 1
‘The Lord helping me,'
She saic! the words in that humble, reverent
tone which is the best prophcey of His doing
this.
Bat, ! alas! Theobawoter of neither hus
band nor wife had been tried’ and disciplined,
and when the time came which demanded on
both sides something of self-conqaest, and for
bearance, and generosity, each was found want
ing. Perhaps there was equal blame on either
side, for both had been accustomed to having
all things subordinated to their whims, and
both were unoonsoionsly selfish.
It is the history of so many ill-starred mar
riages. Each grew pettish, sullen, neglectful,
and petty retort and recrimination succeeded,
until there grew up a great coldness and indif
ference between these two solemnly bound to
gether in the blessed covenant of marriage.
Then Harry Leeds’ young wife grew indiffer
ent and exacting; and it was not strange that,
with bis social temperament he sought the so
ciety of agreeable and fascinating women, un
til Delia certainly had cause to complain of his
•Nonsense, Alice ; don't talk about its being
buried with you. You must live to wear it many
a year.’
She shook her head slow and mournfully,
and it struck Delia that she looked strangely
white, and she rose and went towards her.
•Does anything ail you, Alice ?’
‘Yes. She drew her hand over her eyes. ‘I
can’t see you, Delia, and—oh, dear! I can’t
breathe. Do lead me to the window.'
In great alarm, Mrs. Leeds put her arm around
her friend, but a quick spasm convulsed Alice's
features, and her head dropped forward.
‘I am going, Delia. You will comfort poor
papa—and you will take charge of all my things
here? I was prepared for this. There is a paper
in the drawer which will inform you of all to
whom I have left remembrances. Good-bye,
now, until we meet at home.’
Her head dropped lower as she faltered out
neglect. And so, in blindness and folly they j the last words, another quick, light spasm, and
had gone on, sowing broadcast th9ir seed for j the life of Alice Mayne went out—whither all
the futures-sowing them in angry words, and
sour glances, in mutual recrimination, or days
of sullenuess, until these had suddenly blos
somed and bore fruit.
He started up and looked around him. Ho
was lying ou the bed iu his own room, and then,
as consciousness came slowly back to Harry
Leeds, he groaud out sharply. Suddenly there
dropped on his throbbing temples a hand cool
and sotVitjj^.i'iy that has slept ali night cn still
currents ot,water.
•Harry, my husband, cm 1 do anything for
you?’
He look'd np quickly, and saw ber sweet face
bending over him. It was very pale, but full of
sorrowful tenderness and pity. Harry Leeds
covered his face with his hands:
‘Oh, Delia, do you know all?’ he faltered.
‘Everything, my darling;* and here the little,
fluttering hand stole about his neck.
‘And you will look at ms—speak to me again?'
‘Look at you! Speak to you ! Oh, Harry,
God knows I wonid gladly give up my life this
minute to save you !'
And Harry raised himself up, and drew down
that fair face, drenched with tears, to his heart,
and his own fell fast on the bright hair he
stroked so tenderly.
‘Tell me all about it, Delia. •
•It was last night about ten o’clock, and I sat
in the parlor all alone waiting for your return
and oh, Harry, I had been down into my heart,
holding soleina counsel with it all day, and
was longing so for vonr footsteps, that I might
rash np and run to you, and tell you I was sorry
for all the foolish and angry words I had spoken
in the morjjjng, and patting my arms around
your neck, beg you to take me back, for I loved
you better than all the world beside. Suddenly,
as I sat listening breathless, there was a hurried
pull at tfi#4»dVand I rushed to the door, feel
ing oertain that something had happened. They
held you there, those two men, and oh ! Harry,
as the light fell on you, I thought '
She could not finish the sentenoe; she only
clung to him and shuddered. And the young
husband knew then that his wife loved him, as
he had not known it in the days of their be
trothal, or in the j >y and peace of their early
marriage. And then, laying baek for faintness
on the pillows, Harry Leeds laid his inmost soul
bare to the heart of his wife; and if shame or
fear made him falter sometimes in the painfal
relation, the soft, flattering fingers, which kept
up their motion like a flock of white birds
throngh his hair, gave him courage to pro
ceed.
He had gone out from Delia's stinging, angry
words that morning, a wretched, desperate man.
The sullen Jjours went over him in his office, in
some d erb^nfT&^colffse "ot*'iic T fJlff •‘K.MLJf?
after dispatching his business, he went into a
saloon, and attempted to drown mind and con
science in a glass of brandy. The young law
yer had one of those highly-wrought, nervous
organizations, which stimulants at once excited
to frenzy, and he remembered nothing subse
quent to his dashing madly out of the saloon;
but late in the evening he had bean brought
home by two of his neighbors, who had rescued
him from a miserable drunken broil in the lower
part of tha city, with fearful gashes in his fore
head, and bruises on his cheeks; and the great
anguish of that moment had cleft ifo way to the
living wateri in the soul of Delia Leeds. The
terrible remirse of the time when her soul oscil
lated betwetn hope and fear for her husband s
life, had accomplished a blessed work for the
young wife, and she received the information
that Harry.lived, as a message from God, or as
one takes-'ttck from the arms of death the be
loved. Hart)’ was not so much injured as at first
appeared. He was faint from loss of blood, and
afterwrads juite stupid from the effects of the
spirits whim he had taken; so it was not until
the late mining that he had awakened to con
sciousness with handkerchiefs bound about his
head, and is bruised, swollen cheeks present
ing a mos repellant spectacle to all but the
loving, sle >less eyes which had watobed him
throughou the night. And lying* there, with
her arms illowiug his head, Mr. and Mrs.
Leeds rem rd the vows of their betrothal; and
Delia told > him of her visit to Alice Mayne,
and how s s had returned from the parsonage,
resolving I be once more the angel of Harry’s
life. j
•Oh, Del, I am willing to endure all this
pain and lortification, now it has brought back
my little ike to her old place in mr heart.’
‘And H*y, you didn’t love her as you did
me, did yp?’ said Delia, with soft blushes flat
tering uppto her cheeks.
‘Did yoI fear that for a moment, my dear
child?' Id he drew down her face fondly to
his lips, id she was satisfied.
lives must go, under the black arches, over the
still waters of the river of Death.
was just
Three weeks had passed, and, one day, with
aching heart, and still tears dropping down her
oheeks, Mrs. Leeds stood again in the west
chamber of the little parsonage—the chamber
that had once been Alice Mayne’s, and that she
had exchanged now tor chambers whose walls
were of agate, and whose columns were of pearl
and whose windows looked out on fair gardens,
with fountains of sweet, flowing waters, locked
in by the shining hills of eternity. Sue was
examining, in accordance with her friend's dy
ing wish, the drawers where were carefully laid
nway her little wealth of treasures, graceful
gifts, and tokens, which women usually gather
about them. In one corner was a small glass
box, containing some letters of Harry’s, written
before his marriage—warm, free, gossipy letters,
such as a brother might write to a loviug sister.
But there was one of a later date, containing
only these words, in Harry's handwriting :
‘Alice, Dear Sister :—Rejoice with me, for
last night Delia Hope promised to be my wife.’
And, underneath, in small, graceful chirogra-
phy, ran a line—‘Oh, God, temper thou the
wind to thy shorn lamb.’
The paper dropped from Delia’s hand, for
tbes9 words sprung open a door closed and
bolted in Alice's heart. She knew now why
her friend had turned from all who would have
approached her with that love which is so sweet
to the heart of woman, saying she had nothing
but friendship to offer any man.
It was not strange that, brought a.s they were
together, Alioe Mayne's heart had recognized
the charm of Harry Leeds’ presence ; and his
wife felt almost like a guilty thing—as though
she had claimed the right of another, and that
her husband belonged rather to Alice Mayne
than to herself.
And then there came over her hashed soul the
swell of holier thoughts. Was it not to Alice
that she owed the joy and peace of ber wedded
life? And, kneeling down, the lady thanked
God with many tears ; and this knowledge that
oame to the husband and wife when Alice was
angel in Heaven, was a holy sacrament,
keeping them, by the help of God, from temp
tation and delivering them from evil.
DELAMERE;
—OK—
Gorinne the Sphynx
BY PAUL C. LE SUEUR.
CHAPTER XIII.
IUC COtutj jok.t to, J
the family were seated one evening around the
supper-table.
Bose brought forth an oil cloth mail bag which
was yet unopened, having just come from the
offiee. She seized it and dived into its con
tents, for like the balance of her sex she took
considerable interest in the mail.
‘An invitation, I see !‘ she exclaimed, holding
up to the light for inspection a tiuted missive
which was the first thing to reward her search.
This, after ascertaining that the remaining con
tents of the bag consisted only of pamphlets,
circulars and newspapers, sue proceeded to open
and read.
Oh, m>.ma,‘ she adled, with some approach
to animation. -George Eiluner is to bo mar
ried on the 18;h at Mr. Eminer's ! Here is an
invitation to Mr. Delamere and lamily. ‘
‘Dare's one letter on de flo‘, ‘ said Bose. ‘Fell
down j ns’ now, ’
•Pick it up, ape, and hand it here then.’re
plied Corinne.
Bose somnolently obeyed.
‘Humph ! one for you'too, Eryc,’ she said, ex
amining the handwriting on the back of the en
velope, ‘from somebody terribly anxious for your
aware that she was handsome,
thinking so myself,’
They laughed at the naivete of ber reply, and
then she begged Lryo to let her drive some as
she was anxious to learn how. He put the lines
into her hands, but she soon gave them back to
him, saying she was afraid to attempt to pass a
vehicle which sbe Baw ahead comiDg toward
them. He looked where she pointed and saw
that the person approaching was Harry Wilmot.
•Is he not driving very fast?' asked Miss
Devon.
‘He seems to be coming up pretty rapidly,’
answered Eryc, withdrawing to one side of tha
road in order to prevent a collision. He had
scarcely done so before the new comer was bt-
side him. The latter drove a pair of large, coal-
black horses, panting and flecked with foam. It
was soon evident that he had been drinking.
At first he was about to pass them, but as he
came opposite to where they were, he saw and
recognized them and pulled hard upon the
reins. The nettled animals reared and plunged
at being so suddenly checked, and would have
broken away but for the strong hold upon them,
‘He has come for you, I suppose,’ said Eryo
to Mis Devon.
‘Oj, I dare not go with him,’ she replied, in
a whisper.
Eryc, knowing that Harry had come for his
companion, said to him without preliminary:
‘Miss Devon says she cannot go with you,
Harry; she is afraid of your horses,’
•Gentle as lambs,’ replied Mr. Wilmot. 'Look
how pensive they are. Come, Vesta, we'Ji have
a two miles dash of it now.’
‘Not now, Mr. Wilmot—I cannot go with you
now.’ said Miss Devon in a voice far different
from that in which she had been speaking be
fore.
Eryc looked at the horses. Tiisy were toss
ing their heads and flinging bits of foam from
their mouths. He saw that there was some dan
ger in them, and endeavored to persuade Harry
to leave Miss Devon with him. After some reas
oning, the latter reluctantly consented.
‘Well, curse it, give me the road then,’ he
said with angry disappointment. He turned
his ho Bn short around, nearly upsettii g
the baggy as he did so, and dished ofl at the
same furious rate at which he had driven up.
‘They are running away, are they not ?’ asked
Miss Devon, anxiously.
‘No,’ said Eryc. But apprehensive of some
accident himself he drove forward more rapid
ly* They all reached Mr. Ethmer’s, however,
without any serious accident.
The circle in which Eryc found himself when
all the guests arrived, was to the last degree,
high-bred. It was the representative of the
wealth and aristccraoy of the country and of
the cities around—rich merchants with their
families, the friends of the bridegroom and the
bride, came for a brief respite from the toil and
bustle of the towns—a sprinkling of lawyers
and editors who deemed it an Louor as well as a
pleasure, to be invited to spend with a choice,
small number of friends, a night in tha country
at the house of Mr. Ethmer, the wealthy stock
holder. Altogether the guests were selected
with that shrewd regard to worldly position
which seems to be a second nature with some
men, and all wko had not on the wedding gar
ment of gold, remained exclusively unbidden.
For the coming guests the folding doors of
the great parlor were thrown open, forming a
capacious ball-room, and the music furnished
for the occasion was of the approved style and
execution.
Eryc was presented with dne ceremony to the
bride and bridegroom who had been made one
before his arrival. As these, however, have no
furcher part in this narrative, it will be sufficient
to say just here that the former was modest,
the latter handsome, affa
ble and courteous. It uad beefi for some time
whispered by these who professed to see things
in a different and clearer light from anybody
else, that the ‘old gentleman’ would do some
thing handsome for his young kinsman — s<>t
him up ‘swimming-like’ in the world: but oth-
eis fully as wise, and as well versed in all that
was passing in other men’s minds and all that
the future was pregnant with, slowly shook
their sapient heads, and smiled, and pointed to
. E-hmer's well-known lack of impulsiveness
in such affairs. In the course of time, however
—of a very short time—in fact ct an hour per
haps—it came out, as all things like thereto will
come out, that alter the congratulations had
been said, the aforesaid old gentleman had been
seen to place in the hands of his rnwly mar
ried nephew a certain document which purport
ed no less than the transference to him (said
nephew) cl a snug bit of property which had been
recently and mysteriously undergoing repairs,
as it tor occupants. Such a piece cf munificence
was the talk of the entire community for a
month and a day. and some asked wonderingly,
V nat next. Others said that age was teliing
Harry Leeds was an orphan, and he had been
the only pet and idol of his grandmother, and
consequently a spoiled child. He had naturally
a very fine character; he was talented, social,
fascinating, and perhaps these qualities, which
everybody so admired and loved, were the rocks
on which there was the greatest danger of his
character's being wrecked.
At the age of seventeen, he had passed a year
at the parsonage, studying Latin with Parson
Mayne, and the generous, noble-hearted boy
had won the affection of the household, and a
brother and sister intimacy had always existed
between him and Alice.
Harry Leeds entered college, and soon after
he had finished his professional studies, he be
came suddenly enamored of pretty little Delia
Hope, the only daughter of a physician in an
adjoining village. Delia, like himself, waaa
spoiled child, but with a warm, impulsive, im
pressive nature, though much indulgence had
made her selfish and exacting. The two were
married under peculiarly favorable auspices.
Harry Leeds was rapidly rising in his profes
sion. The families ot both parties were in most
comfortable circumstances, and the beautiful cot
tage home to which tne young lawyer took his
fair little bride had every adornment which
wealth and taste coaid bestow upon it.
‘Then fn and Harry are happy, now, Delia ?’
•On, sejery happy, Alice, and we owe it ali
to you, i it was your words that morning
which n" sent me down into the silent places
of my so|to take counsel with my life.’" And
there we| tears in the eyes of the littie wife. ’
She sab her friend’s chamber that June af
ternoon laid flecks of sunshine and light,
. woodlauj breezes coming in from the open
window^ Alice had not been well for a week
or two, irceiy able to leave her chamber, and
that oh pallor had settled heavier about
her lips ler lips that still wore their sweet,
patient iile.
‘It courts me, darling, to hear you say
those wfls, more than you can divine. They
are suwords as I should like to carry down
into thmlley of the shadow of death, feeling
that mjfe here hadn't been altogether in vain.’
‘Youlfein vain? Oh, Alice, was there ever
a womi life so strewn with pure, and good,
and noj deeds as yours has been ?’
She fed up her white hands deprecatingly.
‘Don-oh, don’t, Delia! I don’t deserve it.’
•Yesxu do, too. You ought to have heard
what J*y said of you last night. Positively,
if it hmeen any one else, I should have been
jealoufcnd see here, Alice, this is our mutual
gift, itemory, of—you understand.’
And s laid a small pearl jewel-ease on ber
friend lap. Alioe took it up eagerly, and
openc*. A beautifully executed locket and
chatete flashed up to her from the snowy
cushit She touched the spring, and the
case Aback, revealing two exquisite daguer-
reotyjikenessea of Harry and his wife.
Ohplia!'
t over, dear, and look on the outside.’
id the dainty carving of the case, the
:—‘To Our Sister Alice.’
darling, I should like to have this
th me.’
appearance on that all-important night, I sup
pose. It is a woman’s writing. I do wondc-r if
it is Diana's !
‘Let me see it,’ said Eryc, while the hot blood
rushed joyously to his cheek.
‘But no,’ continued Gorinne without heeding
his request; ‘Diana would hardly take the
trouble to back an extra envelope jus: for voar
sake, when one would have been sufficient for
us all. Aud yet it must be her handwriting too.
She tossed the missive over to him. He glanced
at it carelessly. How well he knew that deli
cate chirography I With an air of indifference
he put the invitation in his pocket. But when
be was alone in his room that night, poor, siliy
youth, he pressed it rapturously to his lips
again and again. Now, however, by way of
concealing what he felt, he remarked that he
had never seen either Mr. Ethmer junior, or Lis
future bride.
.‘Oh, George is one of those idle young men
with a wnite hand and a pretty face, that girls
go crazy over,’ said Corinne, with considerable _
sarcasm, ‘and has no property m this world- j toMis's D^on, peVoleb^to e ^ a ? ed
educall:m ***** a “P le stock ! <*«nm his frolicsome exhibitions in' proportion'
1 his engagement became more certainly act
Mia? Devon was condemned in the
who
on the old man, and that be was r dapsing in to
second childhood; or that his brain was soften
ing. Ibis theoiy however was exploded by
aome one who stoutly argued that to whatever
r aD ‘* 8 , br( ‘ in mi « ht so ften, or however
childish he might become, there was not the
least slackening of his hold upon, or desire for
the universal commodity of exchange ’
*"7 Wilmot after foiling to prevail upon
Miss Devon to ride with him felt an inclination
to be angry both with her and with Eryc, but
he had not been drinking too deeply to* readly
see the absurdity of such a thing, and one of
ikt first acts he did after arriving at Mr. Ea
rner's was to go to the cellar (for he was as much
at home there as he was anywhere else) and
open a bottle of wine and freely imbibe of its
contents. Thus inspirited, as he expressed
himseli, he proceeded to the parlor, and joined
m he dance. Though Harry was considered a
httie wild, he was also considered a goodca'eh
xor slight irregularities are very easily orerlook-
ed in men of means. As soon as it had been
noised about, however, that he was
of impudence.
She intended a good portion of this satire for credited
- _ , that is only
tnree days off. We will ali go, as a matter of
course, I presume, borne of you will have to
go in the cabriolet. We must start soon for I
can’t bear to travel alter dark.’
•Is that fiat?’ asked Eryc.
•That's flat,’ returned Corinne, tartly.
‘Ihen I shall take Miss Devon myself,’ said
‘that is, if she will accept of my escort.*
Miss Devon smiled her consent. Corinne now
® n 8 a ged her mother in a lengthy discussion as
to what dress it would be best to wear, and Mr
Delamere entered into a lecture upon marriage
m general, laying it down as a maxim, never to
be departed from, that all men should marry
while very young, inasmuch as it begets habits
of industry, prudence and economy which they
would never acquire were they to live single to
a confirmed old bachelorhood.
. tfi® course of revolving time the eventful
eighteenth arrived, a calm and merry day
bright with the splendors ofan uu clouded sky
and joyous with the gay mnsio of song-birds in
the. grove. To enjoy its evening beauties Eryc
and Miss Devon Bet out from Delamere long
before the rest of the family were readv, intend
ing to drive slowly all the way. The former
looked unusually well and the latter very plain
ly intimated as much to her.
T cannot help believing you,’ archly answer
ed Miss Devon, who, without vanity, was well
This report might be true and might not be
true, and even if true, not necessarily continue
so. A little quarrel, or unkind word'might vet
undo it all, and Mr. Wilmot would be fre6 ogai-
as in all probability he soon would be, iu^’.
much as he had been entrapped into the thins
Poor Miss Devon! with just beauty enough to
arouse jealousy, and sensitiveness enough to feel
keenly every petty stab ot malice or revenge
how these fell whispers stung her generous’
open heart! ’
•May I have the pleasure of dancing the
next set with you, Vesta.*" asked Harrv un
steadily approaching her, as, with her partner
during an interval of the dance, she was seat
ed at a bay window, and shut out from the ob
servation of others by the drawn curtains She
hesitated a moment and then firmiy replied •
No, Mr Wilmot, you have been drinking too
much. You cannot stand steadily upon the
You don t approve of my conduct then?’ said
Harry in astonishment He was so far inebria i-
ed as to be unable to articulate distinctly
fll “w*. ap ?,VT 0f 8uch ’^egnlarities as
thestf Mr. Wilmot?’ she asked.
•Irregularities?’ repeated Mr. Wilmot. with
considerable merriment and difficulty. ‘This i
what i call regularity, Y T esta—regular thing, yot
iiuow, do it on every ‘oa3ioa. But let’s inn
Continued on 6th page.