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1852.]
ther,” and took her accustomed place at
her mother’s side. The meal passed in
silence, and Mr. Raymond arose from the
table. As he reached the door he turned
around, and addressed himself to Emily,
but without looking at her. “You are
at liberty to go out as usual, but I exact
! a promise that no letters are to be sent or
received by you from any one to whom 1
object. 1 wish no clandestine correspond
ence.”
‘‘You shall be obeyed, father,” was
I the reply; and the faint tones of the
sweet voice smote his heart. But he left
without another word, and went out of
the house feeling more wretched than
ever. He had been cruel in his behavi
our towards the two beings he loved best
in all the world.
Mrs. Raymond was excessively griev
ed at his harshness, and a burning spot
on her cheek gave evidence of her uneasi
ness. She did her best, however, to con
ceal it, and ordering her carriage, begged
Emily to dress herself and accompany
her in a drive out of the city. She knew
ithat the poor caged bird pined for a
breath of pure air, and something like a
smile illumined that pale face, as they
drove oft from the door. Her mother
watched her closely, and with moistened
eyes remarked her pallor.
“Do, my dear child, look a little like
yourself once more,” said she. “ It breaks
my heart to see you so sad and listless.
Am I to be given up and forgotten, Emi
ly, for the friend of a few months ?”
“No, dearest mother, no ! I will not
be so selfish. You shall see me smile,
and hear me talk as merrily as ever,
hereafter. I thank you for reminding me
ot what I owe to the best and kindest
mother on earth.” And passing her arm
around her, she exerted herself so suc
cessfully that the faint colour stole into
her cheek, and she seemed to forget her
sorrows for the time. They were out in
the country now', amid the lonely roads
an d many tinted trees. Autumn had
come, but no one heeded it, for the sw T eet
halmy air seemed more like spring, and
the clear blue sky foretold many a fair
’ before the cold weather should set
ln * Itav were returning slowly, and
hmi, y loaned back gazing on the scene
without, and listening to her mother as
Nle skilfully pointed out its beauties,
when a horseman galloped by, startling
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
her from her recumbent position, and
tempting her to put her head out of the
window.
“ \\ hat a beautiful horse !” exclaimed
she. The rider turned his head, and
wheeling round was at the carriage in an
instant. It was Norman.
“ Emily !” he cried, his handsome face
glowing with delight. “ How happy 1
am—l felt as though you were lost to me
indeed, it has been so long since we met.”
lie coloured deeply as he perceived Mrs.
Raymond, but her kind smile and extend
ed hand re-assured him.
“You do not hate me, then,” said he,
smiling in return. “ You will not forbid
my accompanying you during the rest of
your drive ?”
“ 1 am only sorry that we are so near
its end,” replied she, with her usual po
liteness ; “ Emily seems so much revived
by the exercise, that I hate to take her
into the house.”
“ She does not look so well as when 1
last saw her.” said he, his lip slightly
quivering. “Have you been ill ?” And
he looked anxiously in Emily’s face.
“ Not ill exactly, but quite as bad,” said
her mother. “ But I never despair of
anything, so I hope that after a while she
will be herself again.”
Norman looked eagerly at her, as she
said this, and a ray of hope shot into his
soul. She knew not positively to what
she clung, in expecting that her husband
would alter his determination, but there
seemed in her heart a presentiment that
happiness was yet in store for them all.
It was almost a superstition, but she
nursed it until it became a consolation.
Emily’s improved looks, her cheerfulness
throughout their drive, then the meeting
with her lover, and his joyous counte
nance combined to make her augur plea
santly for the future, so that w T hen they
turned Jnto their own street and Norman
afit
left them, she had quite forgotten her hus
band’s harsh words and their cold parting
in the morning.
“ Now mother, 1 am going to be a good
girl for a whole week,”said Emily as she
ran up stairs to take off her bonnet.
“You will see how very, very beneficial
exercise is to house prisoners, for I am
coming down to practice on my piano,
and tune up my poor neglected harp. 1
heard the strings popping away at such a
rate yesterday, that I was tempted to
steal down and loosen them, in spite of
my bondage.”
When Mr. Raymond returned, he was
surprised to hear gay music in the par
lour, and to see his wife meet him kindly.
He so little deserved it, that he might
well be surprised, but women get slight
credit for sweetness of temper from angry
husbands. If they do not in the space of
an hour forget the most humiliating in
sults, and wear a smiling aspect upon the
re-appearance of the man who willingly
plants a thorn in their breasts, they are
stamped as shrews, viragos, Mrs. Caudles,
and are accused of driving their better
halves to clubs, cases, theatres and other
recreations, in which they so often in
dulge. If Douglas Jerrold had foreseen
the mischief his curtain lectures were des.
tilled to produce, he would have burned
his manuscript. How many a poor wife
has winced under the soubriquet of Mrs.
Caudle I cannot tell, but if Caudle really
did stay out at night, keep the lamps
burning, and his vivacious lady waiting,
I don’t blame her in the least, and fully
sympathize with her. However this is not
my story. Mr. Raymond neither frown
ed less nor spoke more, at dinner that
day. Emily performed her usual duties
for him, as willingly as before —peeled
his oranges, shelled his nuts and burnt his
lump of sugar when coffee was brought;
but her father scarcely noticed her, and
threw himself in the arm chair for an af
ter dinner nap, well fed, well attended to,
and conscious of being very disagreeable
while every one else was very amiable.
This lasted another week, during which
Emily’s behaviour was unexceptionable.
She did not seek opportunities for meet
ing her lover, found no fault with her
father’s interdiction of his visits, played,
sang and worked as gaily as ever, stifling
each sigh as memory stole across the
chords of her soul, and trying to hope as
her mother did, that prejudice could
wear out, when every thing tended to
loosen the screws by which it was held.
Time passed and Mr. Raymond seemed
to forget his ill humour; was again kind
and gentle with her, carressed her fondly,
and listened to her pleasant girlish talk
with the old-time pleasure. But not a
word of Norman, ever passed his lips;
not one allusion to the past ever escaped
him. He vainly hoped to force her into
forgetfulness imperceptibly, while each
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