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THE BAPTIST BANNER
«&» SSSXaM&MO'OS' jggw% 3P A. %? 3® j 8,.,
BY JAS. N. ELLS & CO.
VOL. IV.
ota gaptfct IBiuwr,
DEVOTED TO RELIGION AND LITERATURE,
Is published every Saturday, at Atlanta, Georgia, at the
subscription price of three dollars per year.
JAMES N. ELLS & CO.,
Proprietors.
J <9. N. Ells. S. D. Niles. A. K. Seago.
MISCELLANY.
THY WILL BE DONE.
Searcher of Hearts I—from mine erase
All thoughts that should not be,
And in the deep recesses trace
My gratitude to Thee!
Hearer of Prayer!—oh, guide aright
Each word and deed of mine;
Life’s battle teach me how to fight,
And be the victory Thine.
Giver of all!—for every good
In the Redeemer came—
For raiment, shelter, and for food,
I thank Thee in His name.
Father and Son and Holy Ghost!
Thou glorious Three in One!
Thou knowest best what I need most,
And let Thy will be done.
[From Household Wortfs.]
LOST "ALICE.
A. DOMESTIC STORY.
CHAPTER I.
WHY did I marry her? I often asked
myself the question in the days that
succeeded our honeymoon. By right, I
should have married no one. Yes, I loved
her, as I love her still.
She was, perhaps, the strangest character
of her age. In her girlhood I could not
comprehend her; and I often think, when I
raise my eyes to her grave, quiet face, as
she sits opposite me at dinner, that I do not
comprehend her yet. There are many
thoughts working in her brain of which I
know nothing, and flashes of feeling look
out at her eyes now and then, and go back
again, as captives might steal a glimpse of
the outer world through their prison bars,
and turn to their brick-walled solitude once
more. She is my wife.’ I have her and
hold her as no other can. She bears my
name, and sits at the head of my table ;
she rides beside me in my carriage, or takes
my aim as we walk ; and yet I know and
feel, all the time, that the darling of my past
has fled from me forever, and that it is only
the ghost of the gay Alice, whom I won in
all the bloom of her bright youth, that lin
gers near me now. 1
She was not a child when I married her. 1
though she was very young. I mean, that 1
life had taught her lessons which are gene- I
rally given only to the grey haired, and had
laid burdens upon her which belong of right »
to the old. She had been an unloved child, '
and at the age of sixteen she was left to her- I
self, and entirely dependent on her own ex
ertions. Friends and family she had none, I
so she was accustomed laughingly to say ; 1
but I have since found that her sisters were
living, and in happy homes, even at the
time when she accepted that awful trust of
herself, and went out into the great world 1
to fulfil it. Os this part of her life she
never speaks; but one who knew her then
has told me much. It was a time of strug
gle and pain, as well it might have been. —
Fresh from the life of a large boarding
school, she was little fitted for the bustle of
a great selfish city ; and the tears come to
my eyes as I think, with a kind of wonder,
on the child who pushed her way through
difficulties at which strong men have quail
ed, and made herself a name, and a posi
tion, and a home. She was a writer, —at
first a drudge for the weekly press, poorly
paid, and unappreciated. By-and by, bright
er days dawned, and the wolf went away
from the door. She was admired, read,
sought after, and —above a*ll—paid. Even
then she could not use the wisdom she had
purchased at so dear a rate. She held her
heart in her hand, and it was wrung and
tortured every day.
“I mav as well stop breathing as stop
loving,” she would say, with a happy smile.
“ Don't talk to me about my tolly. Let
me go on with my toys; and, if they break
in my hand, you can not help it, and 1 shall
not come to you for sympathy."
She was not beautiful; but something —.
whether it was her bright, happy face, or
the restless gaiety of her manner—bewitch
ed people and made them like her. Men
did the maddest things imaginable for her
sake : and not only young men, in whom
follv was pardonable, but those who should
have been too wise to be caught by the
sparkle of her smile or the gay ringing of
her laugh. She did not trust them —her
early life had taught her better ; but I think
she liked them for awhile, till some newer
fancy came, and then she danced past them
and was gone.
It was m the country that I met her first;
and there she was more herself than in the
dty. We were distant relatives, though
w e had never seen each other, and the !■ ates
sent me to spend my summer vacation
with my mother’s aunt, in a country vil
lage, w here she was already domesticated.
Had 1 known this, I should have kept my
distance; for it was only a fourteenth or
fifteenth cousinship that lay between us,
and I had a kind of horror ot her. I hardly
knew why. 1 was a steady-going, quiet
ATLANTA, GEORGIA, FEBRUARY 21, 1863.
sort of a lawyer, and hated to have my short
holiday of rest an I quiet broken in upon
by a fine lady. I said as much to my aunt,
s in return for her announcement of “ Alice
Kent is here,” with which she greeted me.
She looked over her spectacles in quiet
wonder as I gave her a slight sketch of the
lady’s city life, as I had it from the lips of
“ Mrs. Grundy ” herself.
“ Well —live and learn, they say.. But
whoever would think it was our Alice you
are talking of, Frank ? However, I’ll say
no more about her ! You’ll have plenty of
time to get acquainted w’ith her in the
month you mean to pass here. And we
are glad to see you, and your bed-room is
ready—the one you used to like.”
I took up my hat, and strolled away to
have a look at the farm. By and-by, I got
over the orchard wall, and crossed the
brook and the high road, and went out into
the grove behind the house, whose farthest
trees were growing on the side of the hill
which looked so blue and distant from my
chamber window. It was an old favorite
place of mine. A broad wagon track led
through the woods out to a clearing on the
other side, where was a little sheet of wa
ter, called “The Fairy’s Looking-glass,”
and a beautiful view ot a lovely country,
with the steep green hills lying down in the
distance, wrapped in a soft fleecy mantle of
cloud and haze. I could think of nothing,
when I stood there on a fine sunshiny day,
but the long gaze of Bunyan’s Pilgrim
through the shepherd’s glass, at the beauti
ful city towards which he was journeying.
And it seemed sometimes as if 1 could
wander “ over the hills and far away,” and
lose myself in one of the fair valleys at the
foot of those hills, and be content never to
come out and face the weary world any
more.
I walked slowly through the woods, with
the sunshine falling through the green leaves
of the young beeches in chequered radiance
on my path, drawing in long breaths of the
fresh air, and feSTing a tingling in my veins
and a glow at my heart, as if the blood
were flowing newly there, until I came to
the little circular grove of pines and hem
locks that led out upon the “ Fairy’s Look
ing glass.” Something stirred as I pierced
my way through the branches, and 1 heard
a low growl.
A girl was half-sitting, half lying, in the
sunshine beside the little lake, throwing
pebbles into the water, and watching the
ripples that spread and widened to the oth
er shore. A black Newfoundland dog was
standing between me and her, showing a
formidable row of strong white teeth, and
looking me threateningly in the face.
She started and looked sharply round,
and saw me standing in the little grove,
with the dog between us. She burst out
laughing.
I felt that I was cutting rather a ridicu
lous figure, but I put a bold face upon the
matter, and asked coolly,
“ Are you Alice Kent?”
“ People call me so.”
“Then I suppose I may "all you cousin,
for I am Frank Atherton?”
“ Cousin Frank ! We have been expect
ing you this week. When did you come ?"
“Just now.”
She made room for me beside her. We
talked long, about our family, our mutual
friends, and the old homestead of the Ath
ertons, which she had seen, though I had
not. She told me about the house, and our
cousins who were then living there, and I
sat listening, looking now and then at her,
as she sat with the sunshine falling round
her, and the great dog lying at her feet. I
wondered, almost as my aunt had done, if
this was indeed the Alice Kent of whom I
had heard so much. She was dressed
plainly, very plainly, in a kind of grey ma
terial, that fell around her in light soft
folds. A knot of plain blue ribbon fasten
ed her linen collar, and a gypsy hat, lying
beside her, was trimmed with the same col
or. Her watch chain, like a thread of gold,
and a diamond ring, were the only orna
ments she wore. et I had never seen a
dress I liked so well. She was tall (too
tall, 1 should have said, had she been any
one else; for, wffen we were standing, her
head was almost on a level with mine) and
slender, and quick and agile in all her
movements. Her brown hair was soft and
pretty, but she wore it carelessly pushed
away from her forehead: not arranged
with that nicety I should have expected in
a city belle. Her features were irregular,
full of life and spirit, but decidedly plain;
her complexion fair, her mouth rather large,
frank and smiling her eyebrows arched as
■ if they were asking questions; and he” eyes
, large, and of a soft dark grey, very pleas
ant to look into, very puzzling too, as 1
) found afterwards to my cost. Those eves
were the only beauty she possessed, and
• she unconsciously made the most of them.
J Had she been a Carmelite nun. she would
j have talked with them: she could not have
s helped it. When they laughed, it seemed
j their normal state —the bright beaming
J glance they gave ; but when they darkened
suddenly and grew softer and deeper, and
*| looked up into the face of any unfortunate
r wight with an expression peculiarly to
themselves, heaven help him !
Though I had known her only five min
t| utes, I felt this, when I chanced to look up
HIS BANNER OVER US IS LOVE.
and meet a curious? glance she had fixed on
me. She had ceased to talk, and was sit
ting, with her lips half apart and a lovely
color mantling on her cheek, studying my
face intently, when our eyes met. There
was an electric kind of shock in the gaze.
I saw the color deepen and go up to her
forehead, and a shiver ran over me from
head to foot. It was dangerous for me to
watch that blush, but I d'd ; and I longed
to know its cause, and wondered what
thought had caused it.
“ Fred, bring me my hat,” she said to
her dog, affecting to yawn. “It is time for
us to go home to supper, I suppose. Are
you hungry, cousin Frank?”
“ Yes—no,” I answered, with my thoughts
still running on that blush.
She laughed good naturedly, and took
the hat from the Newfoundland, who had
brought it in his mouth.
“ How fond you are of that great dog,” J
said, as we rose from our seat beneath the
tree.
“ Fond of him?” She stooped down
over him with a sudden impetuous move
ment, took his head between her two hands,
and kissed the beauty-spot on his forehead.
“ Fond of him, cousin Frank? Why, the
dog is my idol I He is the only thing on
earth who is or has been true to me, and
the only thing—” She stopped short, and
colored.
“That you have been true to,” I said,
finishing the sentence for her.
“So people say,” she answered, with a
laugh. “ But look at him—look at those
beautiful eyes, and tell me if any one could
help loving him. My poor old Fred I so
honest in this weary world.”
She sighed and patted his head again,
and he stood wagging his tail and looking
up into her face with eyes that were as she
had said, beautiful, and what was better
far, brimful of love and honesty.
“I doubt if you will keep pace with us,”
she said, after we had walked a few steps ;
“and Fred is longing for a race; I always
give him one through the woods. Would
you mind?”
“ Oh dear, no ! ”
The next moment she was off like the
wind, and the dog tearing after her, bark
ing till the woods rang again. I saw her
that night no more.
CHAPTER II
As I have already said, I was a grave,
steady-going lawyer, verging towards a re
spectable middle age, w ith one or two gray
hairs showing among my black locks. I
had had my dreams and fancies, and my
hot, eager, generous youth, like most other
men ; and they had passed away. But one
thing I had not known, one thing 1 had
missed (save in my dreams), and that was
a woman’s love.
If I ever gave my visions a body and a
name, they were totally unlike all the real
ities 1 had ever seen. The wife of my fire
side reveries was a slight, delicate, gentle
creature, with a pure pale face, sweet lips,
the bluest and clearest of eyes, the softest
and finest of golden hair, and a voice low
and sweet, like the murmurings of an /Eo
lian harp. And she sat by my chair in si
lence; loving me always, but loving me si
lently, and her name was Mary. I dare
say, if 1 had met the original of this placid
picture in life, I should have wooed and won
her, and have been utterly miserable.
So, as a matter of course, 1 fell into dan
ger now'. When Alice Kent went singing
and dancing through the house, leaving ev
ery door and window open as she went, I
used often to lay down my pen and look
after her, and feel as if the sun shone bright
er for her being there. When she raced
through the grove and orchard with the
great dog at her heels, I smiled, and patted
Fred on the head : when she rode past the j
house at a hand gallop on her gray pony, j
Fra Diavolo, and leaped him over the gar
den gate, and shook her whip saucily in my
face, I laid aside my book to admire her
riding, and never thought her unwomanly
or ungraceful.
We grew to be great friends—like broth
er and sister, I used to say to myself. How
that liking glided gradually into loving, I
i could not have told. 1 met her one day in
the village street. 1 turned a corner ano
came upon her suddenly. She was walk-1
ing slowly along, with her dog beside her, j
and her eyes fixed upon the ground, look- j
( ing graver and more thoughtful than I had .
ever seen her before. At sight of me her ;
whole face brightened suddenly ; yet she
passed me with a slight nod anc’ a smile,
and took her way towards home. Seeing i
■ that flash of light play over her grave face,'
and feeling the sudden bound with which i
my heart sprang up to meet it, I knew i
what we were to each other.
It was late when I reached home, after a J
musing walk. The farmer and his wife had
gone to bed, the children were at a merry
making at the next house, and a solitary
light burned from the parlor window,;
' which was open. The full moon shone
I fairly in a sky without a cloud. l.unfas-’
' tened the gate and went in ; and there, in
■ the open door, sat Alice, with a light shawl .
thrown over her shoulders, her head rest
’ ing on the shaggy coat of the Newfoundland
I dog. II is beautiful brown eyes watched
ime as I came up the path, but he did not
> stir.
I sat down near her, but on the lower
step, so that I could look up in her face.
“ Alice, you do not look well.”
But I am. Quite well. I am going
away to-morrow.”
“ Going away ! Where ? ”
“ Home. To London. Well ? What
ails you, cousin L rank ? Did you never
hear of any one who went to London be
fore ? ”
“ Yes: but why do you go ? ”
“ Why ? ” She opened her eyes and
looked at me. “ For many reasons. First
ly, I only came for six weeks, and I have
stayed nearly three months ; secondly, be
cause I have business which can be put off
no longer; and thirdly, because my friends
are wondering what on earth keeps me here
so long (they will say soon, it is you
I’rank). They vow they can not do with
out me any longer, and it is pleasant to be
missed, you know.”
“ And so you are going back to the old
life, Alice ? And by-and-by. I suppose you
will marry ? ”
I would not advise any man, be he old
or young, in case he does not think it wise
or prudent to marry the woman he loves,
to linger with her in the doorway of a si
lent farm-house, and hold her hand, and
look out upon a moonlight night. The
touch of the small slight fingers was play
ing the mischief with my good resolutions
and my wisdom (if I had any).
“Alice,” I said, softly; and I almost
started, as she did, at the sound of my own
voice, it was so changed. “ Alice, we have
been very happy here,”
“ Very.”
I took both her hands and held them close
in mine. But she would not look at me,
though her face was turned that way.
“ There is a great difference between us, f
dear Alice. I am much older than you, (
and much graver. I have never loved any
woman but you in my life, while you have ‘
charmed a thousand hearts, and had a thou
sand fancies. If you were what the world •
thinks you, and what you try to make
yourself out to be, 1 should say no more
than this—l love you. But I know you
have a heart. I know you can love, if you
will ; and can be true, if you will. And so J
I beseech you to talk to me honestly, and
tell me if you can love me, or if you do. — (
I am not used to asking such questions of ;
ladies, Alice, and I may seem rough ?nd
rude; but believe me when I say you have (
won my whole heart, and I can not be hap
py without you.”
“ Yes, I believe you,” she said.
“ But do you trust me, and do you love
me ? ”
She might trifle with & trifler, but she
was earnest with me.
“ I trust you, and I love you,” she an
swered, frankly. “Are you wondering
why I can stand before you and speak so
calmly? Because I do not think I shall |
ever marry you. You do not love me as 1 |
have always said my husband should love j
me. 1 am wayward and exacting, and I (
should weary your life out by my constant
craving for tenderness. 1 was made to be |
petted, Frank ; and you, though a loving,
are not an affectionate man. You would |
wish me at the bottom of the Red Sea be
fore we had been married a month; and,
because you could not get me there, you
would go to work and break my heart, by
way of amusement. 1 know it as well as if
I had seen it all—even now.” ‘
She looked at me, and all her woman’s 1
heart and nature were in her eyes. They
spoke love and passion, and deep, deep ten
derness —and all for me. Something leap
ed into life in my heart at that moment ’
which I had never felt before—something ’
that made my affection of the last few hours i
seem cold and dead beside its fervid glow, i
I had her in my arms within the instant—i<
I close—close to my heart. ; !
“Alice! if ever man loved woman with I
heart and soul —madly and unreasonably ifi
you will, but still truly and honestly—l I
love you, my darling.”
“But will it last? O, Frank, willitlast?” 1
I bent down, and our lips met in a long, i
fond kiss.
“ You will be my wife, Alice?” ■■
She leaned her pretty head against my i
i arm, and her hand stole into mine again, h
“ Do you mean that for your answer?—L
Am 1 to keep the hand, dear Alice, and call
I it mine ? ”
“ If you will, Francis.”
It was the first time she had ever given
I me that name. But she never called me |
J by any other again until she ceased to loVfel
‘ me; and it sounds sweetly in my memory
i now, and it will sound sweetly to my dying
I da y.
CHAPTER 111.
j We were married not long after, and for ■
six mouths we dwelt in a “ fool s Para
dise.” When I think that but for me it
might have lasted to our dying day, I can
only sigh and take up the burden of my
life with an aching heart.
They had called Alice fickle—oh, how
wrongly ! No human being could be truer
. to another than she was to me.
“ I only wanted to find my master, Fran
cis," she used to say, when I laughed at her
about it. “ I was looking for him through
all those long years, and I began to think
Ihe would never come. But, from the first
TERMS— Three Dollars a-yrar.
moment when I heard you speak and met
your eyes, I felt that he was near me. And
I am glad to wear my master’s chains,” she
added, kissing my hand.
And I am sure she was in earnest. I
pleased her best when I treated her most
like a child. She was no angel—a passion
ate, high-spirited creature. She rebelled a
thousand times a day, although she delight
ed in my control. But it was pretty to see
her, when she turned to leave the room,
with fire in her eyes and a deep flush on her
cheek—it was pretty to see her with her
hand upon the lock even, drop her proud
head submissively, and wait when I said—
“ Stop; shut the door and listen to me.”—
Yet it was dangerous. I, who had never
been loved before, what could I do but be
come a tyrant, when a creature so noble as
this bent down before me !
She loved me. Every chord of her most
sensitive heart thrilled and trembled to my
touch, and gave forth sweetest music; yeti
was not satisfied. I tried the minor key.
Through her deep affection for me I wound
ed her cruelly. I can see it now. Some
wise idea found its way into my head, and
whispered that I was making a child of my
wife by my indulgent ways, and that her
character would never develop its strength
in so much sunshine. I acted upon that
thought, forgetting how she had already
been tried in the fiery furnace of affliction;
and, quite unconscious, that while she was
getting back all the innocent gaiety of her
childish years, the deep lessons of her wo
manhood were still lying beneath the spark
ling surface of her playful ways.
If for a time she had charmed me out of
my graver self, I resolved to be charmed
no more. I devoted myself again to my
business, heart and soul, and sat poring
for hours ever law papers without speaking
to her. Yet she did not complain. So long
as she was certain that I loved her, she was
content, and took up her pen again, and
went on with the work our marriage had
interrupted. Her writing-desk was in my
study, by a window just opposite mine;
and sometimes I would cease to hear the
rapid movement of her pen, and, looking
up, I would find her eyes fixed upon my
face, while a happy smile was playing
around her lips. One day the glance found
me in a most unreasonable mood, and I
said curtly :
“It is bad t#ste, Alice, to look at any
one in that way.”
She dropped her pen, only too glad of an
excuse to talk to me, and came and leaned
over my chair.
“ And why ? when I love some one.”
This was a bad beginning of the lesson
I wanted to teach her, and I turned over
my papers in silence.
“ Do I annoy you, Francis?”
“ Not much.”
Her light hand was playing with my
hair, and her breath was warm on my cheek.
I felt my wisdom vanishing, and tried to
make up for its loss by an increased cold
ness of manner.
“ One kiss,” she said. “Just one, and
I’ll go away.”
“ What nonsense, Alice. What time
have I to think of kisses now ? ”
She stood up and looked me in the face.
“Do I tease you, Francis?”
“Very much.”
She gave a little sigh—so faint that I
could scarcely hear it—and left the room.
1 had scared her gaiety away that morning.
This was the first cloud in our sky.
It seems strange, now, when I look back
upon it after the lapse of years, how perse
veringly I labored to destroy the founda
tion of peace and happiness on which I
might have built my life. The remaining
six months of that year were months of mis
ery to me, and, I doubt not, to Alice, for
she grew thin and pale, and lost her gaiety.
I had succeeded only too well in my plan,
and she had learned to doubt iny affection
for her. I felt this by the look in her eyes
now and then, and by the way in which she
seemed to cling to her dog, as if his fidelity
and love were now her only hope. But I
was top proud to own myself in the wrong,
and the breach widened day by day.
In the midst of all this estrangement, the
dog sickened. There was a week of mis
giving on Alice’s part, when she sat beside
him with her books, or writing all the time
—there was a day when both books and
manuscript were put away, and she was
bending over him, with tears falling fast, as
! she tried to hush his moans, and looked
' into his fast glazing eyes—and there was an
hour of stillness when she lay on the low
couch, with her arms around his neck, neith
er speaking nor stirring. And when the
poor creature’s last breath was drawn, she
bent over with a passionate burst of grief,
kissed the white spot upon his forehead,
and closed the soft, dark eyes, that even in
death were turned towards her with a lov
ing look.
She did not come to me for sympathy.
She watched alone, while the gardener dug
a grave and buried him beneath the study
window. She nevgr mentioned him tq me,
and never paid her daily visit to his grave
till I was busy with my papers for the eve
ning. So the year, which had begun in
love and happiness, came to its close.
[CONCLUDED ON FOURTH PAGE.]
NO. 14.
