Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME I.
fllE INDEPENDENT.
sui Itliu. t, INISU
J. C. GALLAHER, Editor and Proprietor.
Puliliahnl Wnrklf t s'i (10 per Annuni
tn \dvaN(-c,
Sinn It Copte* *1 cents.
TU EM \ \ B VUs AGO,
[Tho follow ing is uiic of those good old
|>iccu* w hich has long flouted through the
liow.sjMuu r world without any one appear
ing to claim it* authorship. It is much
too good to bo lost ami would hour rep
etition toil thousand times.]
Trft wnndero4 to tho village, Tom— Tvo sat bo
liufttii the tret;,
Upon the achooirhonse play-ground, which sheL
tured you dhd mo,
Hut none weroUuru to grout mu, Tom, and few
wore left fc* iuuxic,
That played with us qp> u tho grouty Sumo twenty
yaw# ago. * ~
TTao grass is 2art >8 ween Tern—barefooted
boy*atply' 7
Were sportiugf Jnat its wedid then, wtyfc spirits
Junta* gay;
Dnt .Master upon tho hill which, routed
o’er withsljovv.
Afforded us a sliding place, Just twenty years
*K%
Tim old school-house is altered some, the benches
are replaced
By new urn s very like the same our peu knives
had defaced;
But the same old bricks are iu the wall—the boll
swings to and fro,
Its music’s just the same, dear Tom, as twenty ■
\car ago.
The lsiys are playing some old game beneath the J
same okl tree,
I do forget the name Just now- -you’ve played the
same with me;
On that same spit ’twus played with knives by
throwing, so and So,
Thu lender had a tank to do there, twenty years
Tin* river's Just an Htill,thew.U on its
Hide
Art* km#i*r than they were, Tom; the utreani ftp-
JHHT* lt'HH wide,
l)Ut the Kraptr vine HwiitK is ruined now, where
once we played the bean
And our Mvveetliearttf—pretty girln—-Just
twenty yearn a^o.
The spring that bubbled ’neath tha hill olt*Re bv
the spreading beaeh
1h very low twas oiico so high that we could al
most reaeh
And kneeling down to get a drink,, deaf Tom, I
started ho
To see how much that I have changed since
twenty years.ago.
Near by the spring upon an elm, you know I cut
your name,
Your awH*theart*H Just beneath it Tom, and you
did mine the same;
Hme heartless wretch has peeled the hark, ’twan
dying sure, but slow
Just as tile one whose name you cut, died twenty
years ago.
Their lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears
OAJne in my eyes.
Aa I thought of iier I loved so well and those
oarlv broken ti*s,
I visited the churchyard and took some flowers
to strew
Upon the graves of those we loved some twenty
years ago,
Htmiu are in tho churchyard laid, same sleep Ik*-
neath the Mia
But few are left of our old class, excepting you
and me.
And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are
*a!led to go,
I hope they’ll lay us where we played Just twenty
years ago.
PLUCKED FROM TIIK BUKX
-IXO.
I mn not dying ; liinvni lias been mer
eiful to me, mid I shall live to lieu bless
ing to him (or no In- finally tll mo)
whose curse I bml so nearly proved. Wt,
Weak and prostrated iin lam, I cannot r. ~t
until 1 have written down the details of my
Kid story; for whilst there is a chance of
their recital deterring Nil eh as would tread
the paths T well nigh stumbled in, and
that chance remains unheeded, I feel I
have not made all the reparation which
lies in my power.
I must begin with the beginning of my
life. My father was an officer in the lieu
gal army, but he and my mother dying
within a few months of each other, left
mo early to tho core of guardians, who
imagined that, by keeping me at a respect
able la larding school from tho time I could
talk plainly until the age of eighteen, they
amply fulfilled the trust they had under
taken. From my childhood I knew that
when my eighteenth birthday arrived I
should lie sent out again to India, not for
the mere object of marriage, lmt because
there is a shrewd condition attached to the
enjoyment of the fund provided by the
Bengal army for its female orphans, by
which, if they are to continue to draw the
allowance made for them, and which ceases
upon marriage, they must take up a resi
dence in the presidency upon attaining u
marriageable age.
I had lio provision to look to except that
derived from the fund, anil my guardians
hod neither the wish nor the ability to
maintain mo; therefore, at tho time ap
pointed, I set sail for India, alone.
Having no fair friends to leave behind
me, Iliad looked forward to this change
in my condition as an era in the life which
had been s|ient in schoolroom monotony;
but the reality did not fulfil my expecta
tions.
Arriving in Calcutta, I found myself do- 1
pendent on the hospitality of friends, to
whose care I had been confided, if not for j
actual support, at least for that protection 1
without which u young woman cannot mix
in the world.
I was proud in spirit., notwithstanding
the humbleness of my position, and after
awhile the knowledge galled me, and 1 ;
felt that I could bear it no longer. Acting
upon this impulse and the advice of mv I
friends, I made the fatal mistake, which
ho many of my sex have made before me,
of accepting the first eligible offer which
I received, which chanced to he from
Laurence Edwards, tire rising partner
in a large mercantile firm.
I did not love him. Whatever my heart
feels for him now, I must record that here.
How could I Las t' loved him, ami yet have
this story to relate of myself 2 He was a
grave, business-like man, some 12 years
older than I was, and whose disapproba
tion of my levity was the occasion more
than once of our engagement being nearly
broken off. However, matters were made
smooth again between us. I liked him as
well, or better than most of the butterflies
who were hoveringnboutuie; my Acquaint
ances congratulated ino on the excellence
of my prospects, and I endorsed their
opinions by becoming his wife. Hut very
shortly after my marriage I had a danger
ous illness; so alarming a one indeed that
the doctors recommended an immediate
return home as the only means of restoring
my health. My husband could not go;
with me; he had but iatelv returned from
l‘j3 l-f-tr of pleasure, and the other partner
JL _JL JL Jl J jl- n! Ji — A JL \ Jli Ji JL 9
!of tho lionso was uway, so he was cotn
jwllwl to h>t rao depart by myself. He
put mo on boon! the houiewanl bound
steamer, was vigilant in providing all
things ueeessrtvy for my comfort (luring
tho passage,and full of cautions nato my be
havior on my wrival in England; but lie
iliil not express mueli grief at our separa
tion. That he felt it 1 now know well, but
110 was a man who could bow himself
graeefully to the inevitable; lie feared to
excite my alarm by appearing to think
too much of my state of health, and 1
attributed his reticeuoo to want of feel
ing.
I returned to England then, ns 1 left it,
alone, and, for the first time, thrown oil'
uiy own discretion as a guide. Legally 1!
vna no longer a child, to be looked after ;
and directed by guardians; but in reality i
1 was just as unfit to Vic my own mistress
us when I left school. Having no family
of my own, except the- most distant con
nections, I first visited that of uiy husband,
in Scotland; bnt I W 1 nof*ttay there long.
His countrified ami rtanehly l*rosbyterinn
relatives scared mo with their rigid ways
and doctrines, as doubtless 1 horrified j
them by tho laxity of my lnnuncrs. Hav- j
ing been brought up entirely at school, |
and being very foolish and heedless, as bo-1
euuie uiy youth, I had no idea of accom
modating myself to tho habits of those j
prim Scotch people, and cried myself ill !
before I had been a week under their roof,
which set them so against me that it was:
a uintaal pleasure when tho day for my
departure was fixed. 1 had never lived
out of Loudon before, and every other I
place seemed strange to me; therefore my j
husband consented to my taking a house
111 the Mlliurlw, where, with my small es
tablishment of maid servants, 1 expected!
for some time to hear that, lie was on his
way to rejoin mo. lint business interfered
with his plans, and one thing after another !
combined to prevent his return until wo!
bud lioon three years separated from cjieh
ether;and although my own health was
then jierfcetly restored, 1 was enjoying
myself too mncli to have any wish to revisit
; Calcutta.
M ore than that, I lmd begun to regret,
j guilty creature that 1 was, that I had ever
i seen the place or the man whom J called
i iiiv husband. I had never known much of
bitn, its may lie supposed. During our
i brief married life he had been occupied
j for the greater portion of each day, and
! the little I did know wits fast fading from
!my memory. The heart forgets quickly
j from 18 to 21, and particularly when ab
i senee is added to the feeling which had
| never culminated beyond gratitude. And
mneh happened during those three years
to wipe the remembrance of him oil' my
mind. I was exceedingly thoughtless and
foud of gaiety, and mv little house was
soon crowded with visitors. I was pretty
also—l need have no hesitation in trans
cribing the fact, since paper cannot reflect
'my blushes and some among my new ae
' ipmintance were found bold enough to tell
;me so. Among these was a certain Alfred
I Know-lon, a connection of my -own, who
| bad introduced himself to me on that ac
! count, claiming a distant conaiuship, and
! taking advantage of that claim to establish
nil intimacy between ns. He was a hund
! some young fellow, not many years older
j than myself, with lots of life and sparkle
! about him; and when at last he ventured
i to tell me that lie loved me ns lie lmd nev
i er loved woman before, he made mo bo-
I li.'vo lie was very much in earnest ; and, to
i my mi l rv, I went still further, and be
ll ieveil not only that I returned his love,
I but was very much in earnest also. Per
haps some may w onder that I can write so
; quietly on such a theme; but I have unob
: jeet in doing so. My purpose in telling
this tide is to show tho means by which I
was rescued from the wrong I contempla
ted; but I will not sully ii - pages by dc
; tailing how the sin was so nearly brought
about. When it was that I first fancied I
loved Alfred Knowles I cannot say; but the
idea grew by little and little, until I was
strongly imbued with it, and when the cri
sis of my fate arrived I felt as though I
were entangled in a web from which there
was no possibility of escape. It was not
many days after the completion of the
third anniversary of my arrival in England
that he implored me to break through the
shackles of a marriage which had been
unhallowed by affection, and to link my
lot with his, and I consented. \\ ithont
taking time to weigh the consequences of
the step I was about to take, without hav
ing seriously ascertained w hether my lover
was really worth the loss of position, and
mime, and honor to me, I had promised to
give up everything for him; persuaded,
almost against my better judgment, by the
professed ardor of his attachment and the
fervor of his entreaties I
How well do I remember tho night up
on which I had agreed to fly with him 1
how well recall each trival incident of that
miserable time I It was a w arm evening
in July; even at nine o'clock it was still
light, and I thought the daakness ;would
never fall to cover my disgrace. I sat in
mv drawing room, striving to occupy my
self and to make the hours pass as they
did on ordinary occasions, but. without ef
fect. My nerves were so painfully acute
that the least sound made itself apparent
ami distracted my attention. As the time i
advanced I could hear the servants chatter- j
ing to each other as they put up the, shut- j
tors and bolted the doors, and shuddered j
us I thought how freely they would han
dle my name upon the coming morrow.
Ten o’clock! How slowly the hours 1
dragged themselves away ! Would they
never go to bed 2 As I anxiously awaited
the moment when I should have the house !
to niyslef, and dared not hasten their move
ments by a word which might excite sus
picion, all the events of my past life
crowded into my mind, and while I could
have counted the loud pulsations of my
heart, it seemed as though I lingered
there for no other purpose but to gaze up
on the panoramic pictures which memory
presented to me. With my elbow leaning
on the table and my eyes staring into va
cancy,! must have looked more vanquished
than triumphant—more like a defaulter
who hears the approaching step of the of
ficer of justice than a woman whose cov
eted happiness is just within her grasp!
Why did the remembrance of my husband,
of the man of whom I had thought so lit
tle, come to torment me in that hour of
nervous expectation, and make me
turn so hot each time I thought of him
that there did not seem enough air in the
room for me to breathe V I did not love
him, neither did I fear him; but I knew
him for a man of unblimeshed honor, and
I could not contemplate the blow I was
about to inflict upon his name without ac
knowledging that ho deserves something
better at my hands. He had taken me a
dowerless orphan, for his wife; he had,
loaded me since with every benefit that
QUITMAN, GA., SATURDAY, DECEMBER 0, IS7*L
j money could procure; I could recall the af
fectionate gravity with which he would re
proach my girlish levity; tho cheerful
readiness with which lie acceded to every i
innocent wish that I expressed. Why
why, in the name of Uod, did nil tins,
which 1 had so long forgotten, come back
Ito iuc now ? Wliul w mid lie say ? What
would he think? How would lie look
when he heard the dreadful news that I
had dishonored him and left my home
1 with a Htilingm ? I dared not consider; 1
covered mv face tightly with my hands,
and rocked myself baekwurk and forward
in my pain.
And yet how could I disappoint Alfred,
jor give him up who loved me so? “Oh!
| w hy," 1 inwardly moaned, “why did my
\ husband send me home to England, or w hy
! did he not come also to protect mo from
harm V 1 have lived alone, without a
friend to warn mo of lay danger, and now
it is too lute—it is too late 1" So in my ex
tremity 1 sighed, anil wo I thdbifht.
The servants now appearing to ask if I
required anything further at their hands,
1 dismissed them impatiently, and listened
; wearily for the momentwhen silence should
j reign over tho little household, mnl its
| mistress be free to forsake it. When it ur-
I rived I went to uiy bedroom. There stood
: till 1 boxes, addressed and corded, to account
i for the presence of which J laid been com
! polled to fabricate the falsehood of my lio
j ing about to pay a visit, in the country the
| following day, trusting that when the ser
! vants found I was gone they would for
ward them to their destination.
In tlie meanwhile I had only a small
i travelling bag to carry in my hand, and
tlie few articles which 1 required were soon !
placed ill it. 1 stripped oil' the jewelry
; which I wore and locked it in my jewel
ease, putting the key in a place of safety. ;
I emptied the contents of my purse upon j
the dressing table, for I had no intention '
of taking anything with mo flint 1 could
possibly do without. Then I robed myself,
iu my walking apparel, and 1 was ready— ;
ready for what ?
Eleven o’clock, the hour for meeting,
was close at. hand, yeti lingered; loath,!;
am glad to think, to break through the
tics which bound me yet a little longer to 1
the society of the good and the pure, lint j
1 had made up my mind; I laid given my
promise. What was there to detain me?
I was leaving the room, when .1 caught
sight of a print which adorned its walls--
the representation of an infant, with
clasped hands, kneeling upon its little bed.
Tho sight stunned me; the remembrance of
my orphaned childhood, my neglccti and
youth, my unloved maturity, rushed into
my head, and for a moment I wept bit
terly.
"All ! : ’ I exclaimed amidst mv tears;
“lia<l I had a baby of my own this had
never been; or Inal I had a mother to
teach mo how to pray, heaven might mer
cifully have guarded me this night against
myself!”
' But I felt, that 1 had gono too far, and
that tho time for thinking-thus had passed
over my head. Drying my eyes, I quietly !
nnfastened the bedroom door, and, with a j
lighted candle in my hand, crept stealthily i
down the staircase, fearful lest the servants !
should be attracted by tlie sounds of my
footsteps and fancy that I needed tlieir as
sistance.
But w hen I reached the hall I found the
task before me, of obtaining a quiet, egress,
more ditlleult than I bad anticipated. The
ponderous bolts and bars ami chains were
rusty; some I could seal move, and of j
others I did not understand the mechan
ism. As I was lingering them with trepi
dation, lest I should be overheard, the
footsteps ut a man sounded upon the pave-1
merit outside, ami fancying it. must be that
of the olio I was about to join, 1 applied j
myself with fresh energy to the task,and Imd ;
just accomplished it, when a thundering’
double knock upon the door itself, and.
close against my head, nearly threw me j
off my balance with alarm.
Wlio could it be ? Not Alfred surely—
with a noise that reverberate, through the |
little tenement ! Iu my surprise and con
fusion I suddenly threw open tlie unfus- j
trued door, and saw before me tho figure |
of him whom I hud imagined to be thou
sands of miles away -of my husband, Lau-.
renee Edwards 1
Tho shock was so great and unexpected
that I staggered backwards and leaned j
against tlie wail. The candle w hich I had |
brought down with me was still flaring in j
its candlestick upon the hall table, and its
feeble, uncertain light threw a sickly glare ,
upon my husband’s face, as doubtless it |
did upon my own. Ho, apparently us as
tonished as myself to have the halt door!
opened to him at eleven o’clock at night j
by his wife, clad in walking attire, regard
ed me for a few ;seconds iu total silence. I
was tho first to recover myself.
“brood heavens,Laureuco!” I exclaimed,
• ‘how you frightened me t I never dreamed
of seeing you ! Why did you not apprise
mo of your intended return ?”
“Because I had a fancy for taking you
by surprise," ho replied, gravely, “and I
seemed to have succeeded perfectly.
Where, are you going?”
“Going 1”I faltered. “Going! Where
should Ibe going at this time of night V” ;
“No, to be sure. You have just conic 1
in, of course. Well, get out of this,
draught, Marion, while I settio my busi-;
ness with the cabman.”
He reopened the door as lie spoke, find I j
perceived that a cab with his portmanteau ‘
stood outside, and guessed that ho had j
been looking for the number of the house j
for some minutes before ho startled me j
with liis knock.
I obeyed him, and walked mechanically >
into tiie sitting room, where the servants, j
roused by this time, had appeared with j
lights. My head was so confused that I;
could hardly think, but above the knowl- j
edge that all my plans had been upset by j
my husband’s reappearance, and the fear
us to how much he might or might not |
guess concerning them, rose the idea of a !
great deliverance. 1 felt as though I had ;
been standing on the brink of a precipice j
and someone had suddenly drawn me ]
backwards; as if I had been bent upon
suicide and the angel of God had stood in
in the path with a flaming sword and:
forced me to turn another way. In an
other minute Laurence joined me. 1 had i
hastily removed iy bonnet and shawl and ,
thrown them in a corner. He eatno up to
my side and tenderly embraced me.
‘< ‘Xs my wife glad to have me home
again ?" he said kindly: “or is she sor
ry ?”
“Glad,” I replied in a low voice, and I
did not lie. I was glad- that he had come
to save me. Now that the least cheek
had been given to my impulse, I felt how
unworthy it laid been of me, and how I
had magnified its attractions. T did not
i feel any the bettir for this Conviction; on
the contrary, 1 knew that it withdrew* the
only excuse I could h ve claimed for my
intended treachery, i*fu, as it struck me
my head sank lower cud lower, until l felt
abased to tlie eery earth. My husband
did not appear to not!‘c my sonao of hu
miliation; he conversed cheerfully w ith me
during the meal which I caused to be pre
pared for him, on the rcusou of his.sudden
return to England; told mo that he had
often delayed it until the business should
bo better able to spare him, but finding
tlmt, each year increased instead of dimin
ishing its demands, had determined to put
it oil no longer. He questioned me on my
own plans, and trusted that his advent
would make no difference to them, while
1 sal before him like a eul iprit, each kind
word he uttered sinking like a knife into
my heart. Ah !if lie uttly knew, if he
only could have rend my thoughts, how
would behave felt towards me V When I
had somewhat acenstoumd myself to liis
presence 1 took conrago to raise my con
science-stricken head mid examine his ap
pearance. Ido not Pappose ho was much
altered from what he had been w hen wo
parted, blit. 1 had thought of him so little
that he looked almost like a stranger to
mo. I saw before me a tall, dark man,
rendered still darker from being exceed
ingly sunburnt, w hose blue eyes contrasted
strangely with his black hair and beard.
I was fair and small myself. He struck
lue as being very manly and good looking,
and I wondered that I never perceived it
before. As lie caught me iu the midst of
my scrutiny ho smiled, but sadly.
“I suppose you have nearly forgottou
what lam like, Marion? Well, you have
had lime enough to do so. Ido not see
much alteration iu you, my dear;you seem
quite unchanged to me. I trust your
Heart is ns much so as your face ?”
I. felt myself blush as he addressed me,
but I gave him no other answer.
“Como, is the house locked up again ?”
he said in anotCer minute. "If so, I think
we had better go to bed, for if you arc
not very tired I am 1”
This was the moment which I had been
dreading ever since his arrival, when lie
must see my corded boxes, and require
some explanation of their being there.
With all my wickedness 1 had not been in
the habit of telling falsehoods, and the
idea was dreadful to me; yet 1 was desper
ate, and I knew that I must lie or be dis
covered.
“Halloa 1” he exclaimed, as his eye fell
upon them. “What are these? Your
boxes, Marion ? Were you going away
anywhere ?”
“Yes,” I replied, I hardly knew liow.
“I was going away for a little while, but
it is of no consequence.”
“Dover,” said my husband; reading
the address. “Yarn wanted a breath of sea
uir, did you? Well, 1 don’t wonder at it
this stiffing weather. Wo can go together
my deal’, cun wo not ? It will do us both
good. ”
"Oh, no 1 Pray do not thiuk of it. I
would rather stay hero now that you
are come—l have no wish for a
change,” fell rapidly from my mouth, as I
j dreaded his insisting upon putting his
I proposal into execution. I could not have
! gone there with him. I would have died
sooner. I should have feared that the
j very stones would have cried out anil re
vealed my baso intentions to him -those
intentions from the thought of which 1
| had already commenced to shrink with
J horror.
“It shall bo just as you please, Marion,”
: was his quiet answer. “My only object
I in coming homo is to give yon pleasure.” J
It w ill bo readily conjectured that 1 did i
not sleep much that night. \\ hat my j
■ lover would think of my defection, and
how I should communicate my further
( wishes to him w lmt my husband would
Hay if he over guessed the truth, or part of
the truth, and how I could live so as to
best conceal it from him—troubled me too
much to permit me to sleep. How I
longed that night to die before the morn
ing'! What a debased and guilty creature
I seemed to myself ! How incapable of
making the happiness of either of the men
with whom I had to do 1 And yet I had
time to wonder at the fact that my in
trigue with Alfred Knowles appeared al
ready to have become a thing of the past;
that whatever became of me, that would
never happen now; that the merciful liin- 1
dranee 1 had received bad been sufficient [
to open my eyes and to cause mo to see
myself anil my design in their trim colors.
The next day I felt that I owed it to |
him to send him immediate intelligence of j
what had occurred and how I intended to
act for the future. I scarcely know what
I wrote. I believe I said simply that my
husband lmd returned, and that I consul- j
erod it an especial interposition of Pruvi- j
deuce to save us from a crime for which!
W’o should never have forgiven ourselves |
or each other, and that if he loved ino as j
ho said he did I prayed him to leave me |
to myself and that performance of duty by j
which alone I hoped to deaden tho stings
of conscience which assailed mo.
But ho would not do as I dosirod him;
ho was selfish and profligate; and instead
of considering that we had experienced a
great escape, he looked upon me as on one
who had cheated him and foresworn her-j
self. Ho did worse. He sent mo letters |
so openly that I lived in a state of ooutin- j
mil dread lest my husband should ask to j
I see their contents or from whom they |
; came; and, disregarding the privacy of;
■ my home, ho came there to upbraid and j
j revile mo for my cowardice, even threat- j
I cuing mo with exposure if 1 did not keep j
i my word. __ j
I But I was firm. Thank God, I was firm. !
: Better still, the change in Alfred Knowles’ j
behavior to me made the flimsy thing:
which I had called my love for him, and
: which Inal had no surer foundation tlnui
flattered vanity, molt away into thin air,
. and leave nothing but thankfulness for my j
release.
All this time my husband did not relax
! iu any of his attentions to me. He was
; uniformerly kind and tender; lie almost J
i anticipated my wishes; and what touched :
me more than anything, he appeared fully ,
to trust an—l, who had proved myself so :
; utterly unworthy of liis confidence. |
| Throughout the period of Alfred Knowles’
j bitter reproaches to me and entreaties to
!me that I would change my purpose, my
I husband never seemed suspicious of my :
! cousin or myself; on the contrary, ho often
j left us together to fight out our battles, 1
: and was only (or the contrast made me j
j think so) the more tender afterwards than
! before. I thought that I hail never known
Laurence as I knew him then; 1 often said
;to myself, that had I only known him, I
I must have loved him too much to eoutem
! plate liis dishonor. But the idea would
make mo shrink from his caresses, feeling
j myself so unworthy of them, till he was
pained to imagine what could have so dis
tressed me.
One evening wo were at the theatre to
gether—for he was careful to take mo to
every place of amusement—w hen 1 ob
served Alfred Knowles in a box opposite
to the one wo occupied. He was accom
panied by several other gentlemen, and a
very beautiful but careworn woman, hand
somely dressed, was loaning over tho front
of the box.
“Do not notieo your cousin to-night,
dear Marion,” said my husband in a whis
per. “1 will give you my reason pres
ently.”
1 obeyed him, os indeed I had no wish
to do otherwise; but 1 stole several furtive
glances opposite in tho course of tho even
ing. I observed that, bountiful as tlm
woman was, none of the men appeared to
pay her much attention; that they talked
to each other without intermission, al
though she put up her hand several times,
us though to entreat their silence; that nt
the close of the play they left her to oloak
herself, and that she followed them out of
the box, without being offerod tho arm of
any ono.
i guessed who film might be, but I left
my husband to tell mo when ho thought
fit. As we were driving homo ho said:
“I wonder Knowles likes to show him
self iu public with a person of that charac
ter. Of course, Marion, you do not know
who she is ?”
1 acknowledged my ignoronee.
“Poor creature 1” lie replied, “what she
is is best not told; lmt she was the wife of
one of the peers of the realm, and the wo
man most to be envied, perhaps, in Eng
land. She made ono false step, and for
the sake of a man who forsook her a
month afterwards —and there she is, very
beautiful still, as you see, but devoid of all
claim to our respect or courtesy. It’s a
dreadful thought isn’t it, little woman ?”
A dreadful thought—ah ! was it not ?
Ho would have clasped me to him, but 1
shrank back into the further end of the
carriage seat, and trembled to think that
in will, if not in deed, 1 laid been as lost
as the woman he had spoken of. Had be u
ves I Thank Heaven, I need not alter
that sentence; the will had now as com
pletely vanished as tho probability of tho
deed.
My health now began to to fail so con
siderable that my husband took mo away
to the seaside.
Laurence thought it was the close Lon
don air; the doctor recommended tonics
and a change. I know the real reason
well, and thought the only change which
could heal me was death. I was begin
ning to love my husband; the more .1 was
convinced of this the more wretched I felt.
J could not live under the burden of de
ceit which my whole life was to me, lmt
neither had I tho courage to confess
to Laurence that I had so wronged
his trust. YVliat, then, was left me but to
die ? I was so strongly impressed with
this conviction that I actually brought my
self down to the doors of death.
Laurence took me aw ay to a quiet little
watering place and had the best advice,
but it was of no avail. I grew weaker and
weaker.
His tenderness to mo never failed.
Often would he entreat me to tell him if I
had any thing on iny mind, to he assured
of bis full forgiveness before f spoke, to
believe that he would not fail to lovo me
through everything.
But still 1 could not speak. It was all
very well for him, ignorant of tho true
cause of my melancholy, to entreat me to
reveal it; but were I to take him at his
word I was convinced that the effect would
bo far different to what lie supposed. He
could not love me with that knowledge on
his mind; lie would east me out from the
light of his presence forever.
And so 1 lay and looked at him, and
longed to disburden my soul, nml yet dared
not to do so, until weeks had resolved
themselves into months, and I really
through that I was dying. One evening,
when I felt weaker than usual, and he hud
been more than usually kind to me, 1 burst
into tears and hid my face in the sofa
cushion.
He came to me at once—my husband,
whom I had learnt to love so much—and
took my head and laid it on his breast, and
tenderly reproached me for my weakness.
“No, lio ! not there 1” I exclaimed, tear
ing myself, in the pain of self-conviction,
from the position he had caused me to as
sume; “not there, Laurence. I am not
worthy!”
“Not worthy, my dear wife?” ho said
gravely. “If you are not, who is ?”
Then his apparent perfect trust in my
goodness broke down the barrii rs of shame
which had hitherto prevented me from
telling him the truth, and' I thought that
sooner than livo any longer and endure the
bitter reproach of his unsuspecting praises
I would he thrust forth by his hand from
tho roof which I had so nearly deserted.
“Stop 1 stop 1” I exclaimed wildly.
Laurence, hear mo speak. Then I told my
wretched story, rapidly, and mingled with
tears, but with my face still buried in tho
sofa cushions. I told him all—from the
first to the last. I did not rest until I had
made a clean breast of it.
When I had finished (the miserable
recital did not take long) I lay still,
scarcely breathing, till I should hear his
exclamations of horror and surprise.
I lay still,determined to accept with pa
tience anything liis outnigi and feelings might
choose to inflict on me. But all that
issued from his lips was—
“ Well, dear wife ?”
I looked up timidly, and met liis blue
eves gazing at me with the utmost tender
ness, though there was sadnes mingled j
with their love. _ j
“Laurence 1” I gasped, “strike me 1 kill j
me 1 but don’t look at me like that! 1;
have told you all, as there is a God in,
heaven 1 And now you know why I am
not worthy of your love.”
“And wlmt if I knew it before, Marion ?”
he asked gently.
1 raised myself in amazement and stared !
at him. Yes lit was truth ! 1 read it in •
liis candid eyes; he hail known it and—he ,
1 had loved me through it all 1 j
I had no words wherewith to thank him, j
I no courage to inako protestations for the ;
! future; I could only kneel there sobbing,
and trust to my generous hearted Lau
rence to accept my tears and the clasping
I pressure of my hands for all that they
! meant.
' “I knew it before I left India, dearest
j wife; it was the knowledge of your danger
which brought me home so unexpectedly.
By accident you enclosed one of your let
ters to Alfred Knowles in the envelope
you sent to me. Once alive to the fear of
loosing you. I resolved at any cost to reas
; slime the office of protector to you, which
II shall tiever relinquish.”
• “It was uot your fault, dearest,” l,ntur
iliel'ed; “the fault has all been mine.
Would the misery had been so also 2”
“I deserved my share of it,” he an
swered. “I had many doubts about letting
you, so young mid inexperienced, return
to England afone; bnt tho hiqH-of speedily
anm.-a.ug a fortune, which you should enjoy
with me, proved too strong a temptation,
ami for it I risked my domestic happiness.
Thank God that I have only risked it 1”
My heart echoed liis thankigivuig.
“And n< w,Marion,now that it is all nv',
yon are sure that you are mine only ?” ho
continued wistfully.
I hioked straight into liis eyes—those
dear eyes which through oil my deception,
and doubt, and iudifereuco liml never al
tered their kind protecting garni; and
though mine were* almost too dim with
tears to see, wo understood each other and
were satisfied.
BUSINESS CARDS
JAS. H. HUNTER
ATTOKYIt AT t. AW,
QUITMAN,
JIHOOKS COUNTY, GEORGIA.
Willprnetico in tho Counties of file Southern
Circuit, Echols and Clinch of tho Brunswick, and
Mitchell of the Albany. ad'Cllice at tho Court
I louse, -a June2Btf
W. D. BKNNETT. H. T. KINUHUKRIIY
BENNETT & KINGSBERRY,
Atlonieys nt l^riNY'
QUI TM A X,
Brooks Comity, - Georgia.
jaaeSs-tf
EDWARD R. HARDEN,
Attorney tit Law*
(l U 1 T 31 A N ,
BROOKS COUNTY, - - GEORGIA.
Late ail Associate Justice Hnpremo Court U.
S. for Utah and Nebraska Territories; now' Judge
Comity Court, Brooks County, (ia.
may24-12iiio
JUS. N. S N GW,
DENTIST,
Quitman, ----- Georgia,
Office Up Stairs, Finch’s Corner.
ang2B-4in
DR. E. A. JELKS,
I’UACTISLNU PHYSICIAN,
Quitman, tia.
OFFICE—Brick building adjoining the storo ot
Messrs. Briggs, Jelks A,-Co., JSurevcii struct.
Diay-iO tf
... nil
BALTIMORE CAHD.
C 1.0 TIIITV <a .
C. M. BROWN, of Florida,
•—WITH—
WE I DLER & KUO.,
271 W. Baltimore St., Baltimore, Md.
&i VAXXMt ADVERTISEMENTS .
DR. D. COX,
LIVE STOCK, SLAUGHTERED MEATS,
—ANI>—
1* I£ O 1> u Cl I S
COMMISSION MERCHANT
*—AND—
PURCHASING AGENT,
6M VA AhV.-l //) QKQUOIA,
—-on*
fStook LotHi
WILLIAM AND WEST BROAD STEETS.
IN BASEMENT OF CITY MARKET.
CONSIGNMENTS OV
BEEF CATTLE,
MILCH COWS,
SHEEP, HOGS,
(1 A M E ,
DRESSED MEATS, Ac., Ac.,
—A I.SO
POULTRY, EGOS,
VEGETABLES,
FRUITS,
MELONS,
! SUGAR,
SYRUP,
HONEY,
HIDES,
TALLOW, Ac.
respectfully solicited.
aiiglS-tf
MARSHALL HOUSE,
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
! A. B. LUCE, Proprietor,
BOARD, OO Pei- Day.
I auglO-H
NUMBER 31.
SA VAXXAH ADVERTISEMENTS.
J.N. LIGHTTOOT.
COTTON FACTOR
—AHD
COMMISSION MERCHANT,
100 Huy St.,Saiannuli, Ga.
Agent for the sale of
NERRYMAN'S AMAtOSIATKI) liOJfEfk
Liborol cash advances made on oottaignmefrt*
for aalo iu HuvAimah, or on shipmentM to reliable
correspondents in Liverpool, New York or Phila-
_ ocU-itii
JAS. R. SHELDON,
COTTON FACTOR
—AND—
Wcn’l Commission Merchant
No. 102 Bay Street,
Savuuuuh, - - - - Georgia.
Liberal Advances made on Consignments.
IIAddIMI, IKON TlKNand ROVKFuminhed.
Correspondence and Consignment* Solicit**!.
r HO MPT RETURNS (i UA R ANTE ED.
aopO-flm
IN3IAN, SWANN & UoU
COTTON FACTORS
—AND—
CO VI iIIISSION MERCIIA X TS,
96 Bay Bt.,6avannah, Ga., and Cotton Exchange,
101 Pearl St., New York,
Will make liberal ca.Hh advances on cotton ship
ments to cither our Savannah or New York house.
Will buv and Hell futures on liberal terms.
ocU-.hn INMAN, SWANK A- CO.
M. FITZGERALD,
(ESTA DUSIIEI) 1850. )
Manufacturer and Wholesalo and Iletail
Sealer in
C A NDIES,
CORDIALS, STRUPS,
Fancy Confectionary, &e.
Iwo Bryan St.,
Between Barnard and Jefferson Streets,
Savannah, Ga.
ang2-tf
TO TIIE PUBLIC!
SALOMON COHEN
Corner Bay and Jefferson Sts.,
Sri Fri YAM 11, GEORGIA,
OFFERS TO THE PUBLIC THE LAROEST
and best stock of
Two ond Four Seated Buggies,
liockuwuys, Carriages,
Express and Plantation Wagon*,
AT PRICES TO SUIT THE TIMES.
—AT.HO—
ALL KINDS HARNESS AND WHIPS-
Terms moderate. Enquiries promptly at
tended to.
Agent for tlie Studebakor Plantation Wagon,
Thu same have taken the premium at the Fair at
Savannah, (Ja. ootMn
BIiKSNAN’S
EUROPEAN HOUSE,
Nos. 156, 153,160 and 162, Bryan St.,
SAVANNAH, GA.
rilllH PROPRIETOR HAVING COMPLETE!!
1 the necessary additions and luiproYeiuoutev
cun now offer to his guests
all the comforts to he ob
tained a T OTHER HOTEL#
AT LESS THAN
HALF TIIE EXPENSE.
A Restaurant on the EUROPEAN PLAN lias
been added, where guests can,
At All lloui'M,
Order whatever can bo obtained in the market.
Rooms, with liuoril, $1 50 per da y.
Determined to bo
OUT DONE BY NONE
all I can ask is a TJtIAL, confident that complete
satisfaction will be given.
.H t-l-tf JOHN BIIEBNAN, Ptoprleto
MARKET SQUARE HODSE
j
VALENTINE BASLER,
(Successor to his brother Antony Basler)
THE WELL KNOWN
TJ-1N PIN ALLEY,
At the Old Stand, 174 Bryan St.,
OPPOSITE THE MARKET,
Continues to keep on hand the beat of
Brandies, Whiskies, Wines, Ales,
| AND ALL OTHER LIQUORS,
' My Foreign Liquors are all of my own Impor
tation.
1 ugO-tf