Newspaper Page Text
234
“ I have come, sir,” said I to our host, as soon
as the first salutations were over. “ according |
to ray promise, to lay before you the proof? of
my innocence.”
“They are not needed, Mr. Hopeton, was the
reply. “I have found that your accuser is a
lying scoundrel. This I have heard from more
sources than one.” . ,
“Nevertheless. Mr. Bently, I do not wish
that all my trouble—or rather my friend's trou
ble, for he* arranged everything before I arrived
at Galveston —should go for nothing. Besides,
Ido not want you to merely think 1 am inno
cent ; vou must know it.”
“ / have come, sir,” said Fitzwarren, to show
you that the man for whom I pledged myself, is
above the breath of suspicion. As lor myselt.
I care not, only to prove that I am no liar—that
I redeem my pledges. Think what else of me j
you like. Indeed you can hardly judge too j
harshly of a ”
“Let us have tins matter settled,” said I. in
terrupting Fitzwarren hastily.
“I had much rather, gentlemen,' said our
host,” you would let it all pass.”
But we would not hear to this.
“ Well,” said Mr. Bently, finally, “if you in
sist, let us go into the library.”
We went and showed Mr. Bently the doeu- |
ments we had brought, with the nature of j
which the reader is already acquainted.
“ I am perfectly satisfied." said he, when he
had looked over them, “ and since it is over, I
believe 1 am glad you forced me to an examina- j
tion. But let me once more offer an apology for
the unjust suspicions I entertained concerning
you, and my thoughtlessness in not giving you ,
a hearing. Perhaps I was wrong, but neither
of you is competent to judge me—none but the
father of a daughter can be.”
“ That," said I, “ is a consideration which had
uot before crossed mv mind.”
“Go with me into the drawing-room," said j
onr host, leading the way out of the library.
We found Mrs. Bently and Helen. The form
er saluted us in an exceedingly friendly manner:
the latter coldly and politely. llow changed
she was since the first time I saw her! She was
pale and her eyes were constantly gazing on va
cancy.
“ Mrs. Bentlv and Helen,” commenced Mr.
Bently, “you both recollect that Mr. Lorraine—
I ought rather to say, the villain Lorraine —told
us some tales of the misdoings of Mr. Fitzwar
ren and Mr. Hopeton—particularly the latter.
He supported the charges with evidence which
appeared to mo incontrovertible, and I told you
to avoid these gentlemen as much as you could
possibly do, without being guilty of impoliteness.
I began, some time ago, to suspect that these
gentlemen had been slandered, and lately I have
heard so much against Lorraine, and I remem
bered that Mr. Hopeton and Mr. Fitzwarren had
always acted honorably, I concluded to dismiss
my suspicions against them.
“ But they have taken the trouble to make a
long journey, on purpose to obtain evidence with
which to refute the slanders against them, and
although I told them it was unnecessary, they
insisted on laying it before me. Before Lorraine
endeavored to lower them in our opinion, I and
you looked on them as particular friends and
perfect gentlemen. What I have to say now,
is, I am fully satisfied that the allegations of
Lorraine were totally false, and I hope you will
receive Mr. Hopeton and Mr. Fitzwarren again
into favor as those who have kid us under par
ticular obligations by their services to Frank.”
The last named gentleman had come in and
stopped at the dqor, just long enough to hear
the two concluding sentences.
“ I thought Lorraine lied from the beginning,”
he said, coming forward and offering me his
hand. “I would have told you all about it,
Jack, but I knew Mr. Fitzwarren would right
the matter if it could be done—at least I thought
so—and father and I concluded the best course
would be just to get out of the way till the thing
was settled in somo manner. Forgive me if I
did wrong. But you don't know whether 'twas
wrong or not, because you’ve got no sister.”
“ That is true, Frank,” I answered, “ and I be
gin to think you and your father acted just as I
would have done under the same circumstances,
and that there is nothing to be forgiven.”
“ And I hope Mr. Fitzwarren’s judgment will
be as lenient," said Frank, giving his hand to
that gentleman.
“I think," answered Fitzwarren, “we—at
least I—would have had no right to complain,
had you never spoken to us again.”
“Let me assure you both, gentlemen,” said.
Mrs. Bently, “ that I deeply regret this miserable
understanding, and I hope that no recurrence to
it will mar our future friendship.”
“And I,” said Helen, “never believed the
slanders uttered against either of you, so I have
no apologies to offer.”
These words were uttered with a voice and
manner perfectly polite, but oh, how cold! I
was astonished. If Helen had not credited the
reports about me, what could be the reason of
her reserve—nay rudeness—toward me? “ Per
haps,” I thought, “ she merely obeyed her pa
rents." But why was she so cold now? Os
course, though, nothing was to be learned in the
presence of others.
[to be concluded in our next.]
I»I
The Milky JVay.—The milky way forms the
grandest feature of the firmament. It complete
ly encircles the whole fabric of the skies, and
sands its light down upon us, according to the
best observations, from no less than eighteen
millions of suns. These are planted at various
distances, too remote to be more than feebly un
derstood ; but their light, the medium of meas
urement, requires for its transit to our earth pe
riods ranging from ten to a thousand years.
Such is the sum of the great truths revealed to
us by the two Ilerschels, who, with a zeal which
no obstacle could daunt, have explored every
part of the prodigious circle. Sir William Iler
schel, after accomplishing his famous section,
believed that ho had gaged the milky way to its
lowest depth, affirming that he could follow a
cluster of stars with his telescope, constructed
expressly for the investigation, as far back as
would require three hundred and thirty thou
sand years for the transmission of its light. But,
presumptuous as it may seem, we must be per
mitted to doubt this assertion, as the same tele
scope, in the same master hand, was not suffi
ciently powerful to resolve even the nebulas in
Orion. Nor must we forget that light, our only
clue to those unsearchable regions, expands and
decomposes in its progress, and comiug from a
point so remote, its radiant waves would be dis
persed in space. Thus, the reflection is forced
upon us, that new clusters and systems, whoso
beaming light will never reach our earth, still
throng beyond; and that, though it is permitted
toman to behold the immensity, he shall never
see the bounds of creation.— Marvels of Scienre.
-
Tiie first newspaper in India was established
in 1780, by Mr. Hicky. The first printing press
in North America was established in the city of
Mexico, about the vear IGOO.
* 1
fll SOIT9P3E3S&X YX3G&3) 111 YKSSnS.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
ALICE LEE;
OR. THE SACRIFICE OF LOVE.
BY BESSIE B.
CIIAITER VI.
Two years have passed since George Hast
ings entered upon his legal studies. He has
been admitted to the bar, and is rapidly rising to
distinction. Major Laurens has gone to his
“ long home,” and the once dark looks of Col.
Lee are blanched to the whiteness of age. But
his tall form is still erect, and the lustre of his
eye is undiminislied. George has not visited
the old place since arranging his affairs there,
immediately after his uncle’s decease. A trusty
agent has charge of the plantation, and occupies
one wing of the mansion with his family. It is
now rumored that the owner is about to pay it j
a visit.
Alice's twentieth birtli-day is approaching,
and her father has desired her to celebrate it. by
inviting the gentry of the neighborhood to an
evening party.
Her thoughts flew to George, and she wished I
he would return in time to be present. But the ;
eventful evening came, and he had not arrived.
Os late his letters to her had been less frequent, j
and they seemed constrained and hurried; but
she attributed this to a press of business, and
looked forward to the expected visit with bright j
anticipations.
Her guests had been for some time assem- j
bled, and she had been flitting hither and tlnth- I
er among them, striving to promote the happi- |
ness of all, when she found herself for a few
minutes by the side of Miss Morrison. Her
brother she had never seen since he left the
house in such a rage, after her rejection of his
suit; but had heard that he had gone to “the
far West”
“ Have you heard the news about George |
Hastings ?” asked Miss Morrison, with a malig
nant light gleaming in her eye.
Involuntarily Alice started, as she replied: j
“No, what is it?”
“ llis marriage was in the Baltimore paper j
we received to-day.”
Reader, can you remember a period in your j
existence, when some fondly-cherished hope was \
suddenly extinguished forever?—a hope that |
had twined itself about your heart till it seemed I
a part of your very existence ? And did you
not feel (to use the expressive language of ano
ther) “ the blood, drawn from every avenue of
the frame, settling in thick and stagnant pools
about the seat of life ?” And at the same time
have you been conscious that there were those
watching you who would mock your suffering?
If you have felt all this, then—and then only—
can you realize the situation of Alice.
A deathly pallor overspread her face, and, for
a moment, she felt as though she would suffo
cate, but it was for a moment only. Her wo- i
manly pride came to her aid, and she replied :
“ My attention has been so occupied to-day,
that I have not looked at the paper.”
And moving away, she mingled with her
guests, without one trace of the conflict that
was passing within, save an unusual paleness,
and a look of stern resolve which none had ever
seen on her countenance before. All, however,
except Miss Morrison, attributed this ton deter
mination to make the evening pass oft' as agree
ably as possible; and, had this been her object,
so far as the company was concerned, she could
not have succeeded better. The brilliancy of her
fancy, and the readiness of her repartee, charm
ed all who witnessed it. At the request of her
father, seconded by her guests, she seated her
self at the piano, and played and sang several
stanzas she had herself composed and set to
music, descriptive of the happiness which had
marked her life thus far. Her voice, always soft
and sweet, but not remarkable for its strength,
rang out in some of the more exulting strains of
the music so clear and loud, that Jenny Lind,
even in her palmiest days, might have envied
her.
As the company were separating, she sought
her maid, who always occupied a pallet in her
room, and told her that she might go home
with the servant of a neighboring family, who
had been with her, and spend the night. The
girl at first demurred, on the ground that her
mistress would be more than usually fatigued
that night, but on being assured by Alice that
she would not need her, consented to go.
When her father pressed his good-night kiss
upon her brow, after their guests had departed,
he said: “You have made me prouder than
ever of you to-night, my daughter.”
“ Dear father 1” she thought, “he shall never
know that what he has so much admired, was
the mask which hid a breaking heart.”
Before she retired to her room, she sought the
paper, and read herself the fatal paragraph. It
stated that the “ happy pair’ were going to Mr.
Hastings’ country seat, in Virginia, to spend the
honeymoon.
“They will be hero to-morrow,” she mentally
ejaculated, “ and I must meet them. Oh! how
can I do it?”
She entered her room, and locking the door,
flung herself upon the carpet. Laying her throb
bing head on a chair, she now, for the first time,
gave way to her grief. Oh! the fearful agony of
that night 1 No pen of mine can portray it.
Towards morning she arose, and drawing aside
the window curtains, looked up at the moon,
which was bathing the landscape with its silvery
light. In its cold, calm beauty, it appeared at
first to mock her anguish; but as she gazed, its
calm seemed to sink into her soul. She began
to think of Him who had voluntarily suffered so
much for mankind; of the blessiugs which she
had all her life enjoyed, and with which she was
even now surrounded. She remembered that
this was the first great affliction she had ever
known. She recollected how providentially her
life had been preserved, first at the swing, (and
here her heart gave a great throb, as she thought
of George as the agent,) and then at the preci
pice. Something seemed to whisper: “ Hereto
fore yon have lived for yourself. This disap
pointment is sent to teach you to live henceforth
for God," and bowing her head, she exclaimed,
in the language of the hymn—
“ Here, Lord. I give myself to Thee,
’Tis all that I can do.’’"
When, some time afterward, she raised her
head, the calm, sweet light of the moon seemed
reflected from her own countenance. The bit
terness of death—the death of her earthly
hopes—was passed.
The next morning, her father remarked that
she was very pale, and feared that the fatigue
and excitement of the preceding evening had
been too much for her. She replied that she
was quite well excepting a slight headache.
As her fathdlr was looking over the paper |
that morning, he suddenly exclaimed:
“Alice! my child! come here.”
“ What is it, father ?” she asked, rising and
going to him.
“Look there!” he said, pointing to the an
nouncement of George Hastings’ marriage.
She read it through calmly, and then said,
with a faint smile, “They will be here to-day.”
Her father regarded her attentively for a few
moments, and then muttering, “ I don’t believe
she ever loved him,’’ laid down the paper and
went out.
A tear stole silently down the cheek of Alice.
It was not for herself, but for her father. • She
knew that this was a bitter disappointment to
him, and she feared that he would not draw
consolation from the source where she had
found it
That evening. George and his bride arrived at
their plantation.
CHAPTER VII.
“ Father, will you accompany me to call on
the newly-married pair?’’ said Alice, the next
morning.* She had fully resolved to conquer a
love which she felt was now sinful.
“ I suppose I must,’’ said the Colonel, “ but
I am really vexed with the boy for not having
chosen a wife nearer home.”
The same sweet smile, Vas his only answer.
George received them cordially, and presented
them to his beautiful bride, and the friends that
had accompanied them ; but somehow, he felt
ill at ease iu their company. He could not help
feeling that, perhaps, he had wronged Alice,
lie had never before noticed how very spiritual
was the style of her beauty. The trial through
which she had just passed, had heightened this
expression. Great, indeed, was the contrast be
tween her and the young bride. With a form
tall and finely developed, hair and eyes black as
the raven’s wing, regular features, and a clear
complexion, Mrs. Hastings seemed queen-like in
her regal beauty, but its whole expression was
of the “earth, earthy;” and such, I may as well
add here, was her character; while Alice seemed
angelic in her loveliness.
She conversed with case and freedom. All
the old want of conversational power had van
ished : and after watching her for some time,
George came to the conclusion that he had mis
interpreted her feelings, when he had suspected
her of entertaining for him any other than a sis
terly affection.
Often, while sitting by the fascinating woman
now his wife, had Alice Lee's sweet face risen
up before him, seeming to upbraid him for not
first ascertaining the true state of her affections;
and something whispered, “You will find in her
a more congenial spirit;” but the spell of the en
chantress was upon him, and he yielded to its
power. Now, however, when he saw her cor
dial manner towards his bride, he flattered him
self that he had done her no wrong.
Mr. and Mrs. Hastings did not remain long at
their plantation. Mrs. Hastings could not en
dure the quiet of country life. They soon left
for a fashionable watering place, and after the
usual round of fashionable folly in such resorts,
returned again to the city.
George now hoped to enjoy the domestic bliss
he had often pictured to himself of late ; but
soon found that society—not himself—held the
first place in his wife’s affections ; and bitterly
did he regret, when too late, that he had not
made choice of Alice Lee, instead of Adela It—.
His wife died in less than three years after their
marriage, and was soon after followed by his in
| fant child, and George Hastings was again alone
! in the world.
r_
CIIAPTER VIII.
Go with me to where Cheat river (so called by
the Indians on account of the frequent, rapid
and unlooked for rise of its waters) winds along
the western base of the Alleghany mountains.
If you want to see Nature in her grandest, most
sublime moods, you will find her here. You will
see solitary places, where grandeur itself sits
enthroned. Gloom lurks in the deep ravines,
where the sun never seoms to penetrate, and
beauty laughs iu the cascades that leap from rock
to rock, o’erhung with tiny rainbows and bor
dered with flowering shrubs.
Where the mountain slopes gently down to
wards the river, you will see a large, commo
dious looking farm house, built of massive hewn
logs, and plastered with lime, till it rivals the
gleaming marble in its whiteness.
Enter, and you will recognize in its inmates,
Col. Lee and his daughter Alice. How came
they here, you ask. A few words will suffice to
tell the tale. It is an old story. Col. Lee, de
frauded by one he had trusted, found himself
suddenly so embarrassed, that he was obliged
to sell the old plantation on the Potomac, and a
portion of the servants, and with the remainder
! lie crossed the mountains; thus placing them
| between him and the scenes of his former hap-
I piness and subsequent misfortunes.
It was a sad day for the old Colonel when he
left the home endeared to him by so many fond
, recollections ; but the cheerfulness, even gayety
j of Alice, served to reconcile him to the change.
' It is now two years since the eventful night
when she first entered, through much tribula
tion, the kingdom of Heaven on earth. Her re
ligion has been like herself—beautiful and unob
trusive ; but casting a halo around her, which
you could not belong with her and fail to per
ceive. It has not been without its influence on
her father; and she is now rejoicing in the glad
assurance that his hope“ is anchored within the
vail.”
She has not been without her trials. It was
hard for her to bid a final adieu to the home of
her childhood —to leave all those haunts endear
ed to her by their associations with her earliest
love. But she felt it was for the best. There,
everything tended to revive her straggles with
this most unconquerable of all the passions.—
Here, amid new scenes, and with many new du
ties devolving upon her, from their altered for
tunes, she hoped entirely to subdue it.
One day, not long from the time we introduc
ed the reader to her new home, she wandered
away from the house, and ascending the moun
tain a short distance, sat down on a rock, shaded
by a cluster of beach and maple trees. She
felt more than usually depressed in spirits, and
the remembrance of her early disappointment
came over her with more overwhelming force
than she had experienced since her removal from
the old home.
She had been for sometime engaged in silent
prayer that she might be able to banish all sin
ful regrets, and now, with clasped hands, and
eyes directed heavenward, she sang in plaint
ive tones—
Oh this wrestling—struggling—panting—
To be freed from secret sin !
Each rebellious thought recanting,
But to think the same again !
Tuor ! who while on earth wast tempted
By the world, as I am now.
Till from trials here exempted.
Be my guide—my guardian, Tnou!
As she finished singing, a slight movement in
the top of a large maple a few feet from her attract
ed her attention. Looking toward it she perceived
a panther, just gathering itself up, preparatory to
springing upon her. * “ Ah I” she thought, “this
is such an ending of my trials and temptations
as I had not dreamed of. God help my poor fa
ther 1” and committing her spirit to her Saviour,
with eyes fixed on those of the monster, she
awaited the fatal spring. Her gaze seemed to
disconcert him, for he hesitated a moment—and
that moment was his last. The sharp crack of
a rifle, close behind her, caused her to spring to
her feet, just as the panther, uttering a piercing
shriek and leaping high into the air, fell against
the rock on which she had been sitting, and
rolled off down the side of the mountain, crash
ing the laurel shrubs in its course.
She turned to look for her deliverer, and saw
a young man in a hunter’s dross, leaning on the
rifle he had just discharged.
“ A narrow escape, Miss,” he said, lifting his
hunting cap from a high, white brow, and bow
ing gracefuly. “Yonder beast had anticipated
a dainty meal.’’
“ I owe you many thanks,” she said, extend
her hand, “ for my preservation from a dreadful
death. I was not aware that any one was near
till I heard the report of your rifle.”
“ An over-ruling Providence directed my steps
here,” he replied, “ I was hunting on the moun
tain, and, passing near this spot, was attracted by
your singing. I came up softly behind you, and
was about to retreat unobserved, at the close of
your song, when I espied the panther.”
Alice felt her heart drawn toward one who
had not only saved her life, but acknowledged
the guiding hand of the God she served, and she
invited him to go with her to the house.
He thanked her, but declined, saying, “ I
must now secure the trophies of my victo
ry over yonder blood-thirsty creature,” and bid
ding her good evening, he sprang down the side
of the mountain.
When she told her father of her adventure,
he expressed regret that she had not persuaded
the young man to accompany her home, to par
take of their hospitality for the night, as it was
nearly sunset and no other house within three
miles of them; and calling one of the servants,
he went to seek him, but when lie reached the
spot where the dead panther lay, the stranger
had disappeared.
The next evening a well dressed gentleman
rode up to the door, and dismounting, inquired
for Miss Lee. lie was shown into the parlor,
and on Alice’s entrance, he introduced himself as
Alfred Wells, from Carolina. She immediately
recognized her deliverer of the preceding day,
and welcomed him warmly. Col. Lee, coming in
soon after, expressed his gratitude in suitable
terms, and insisted that he should spend the
night with them. To this he consented, and in
tho course of the evening, they learned that he
was spending tho summer among the mountains
for the benefit of his health, which had been im
paired by hard study ; and that he had original
ly intended to enter tho ministry, but owing to
an affection of tho lungs, had been obliged to
abandon this design. He expressed himself so
much pleased with tho scenery of the moun
tains, that he had thought of luming farmer and
locating among them.
He became a frequent visitor at Col. Lee's,
and it was soon evident that he regarded Alice
with more than common interest. She was
pleased with his manners and personal appear
ance, and more than all with his religious sen
timents ; but she felt that none other could ever
occupy the place in her heart that Gcorgo Has
tings had filled.
CHAPTER IX.
Mountainous regions are the place for excit
ing adventures, and one which Alice met with
the autumn following her acquaintance with
Alfred Wells, threw all the others of which she
had been the heroine into the shade.
From the top of the mountain, near the baso
of which their house stood, a view of tho sur
rounding country was attainable, unequalled in
extent and magnificence, by any she had ever
seeu. There, forgetful of the world, she would
sit for hours, spell-bound with awe and admira
tion. Undisturbed, she could there resign her
self to the contemplation of the wisdom and
power of the Great Creator. Below her was
the valley through which Cheat river wound
like a huge serpent, clinging to the base of tho
mountain ridge ; while beyond it, toward the
west, far as the eye could reach, stretched tho
variegated landscape, rising at one timo into
lofty mountains, then subsiding into sloping hills
and beautiful valleys ; checkered here and there
with glistening streams ; while occasionally a
cultivated farm peeped out from among the dense
forests. The little village of Beverly could be
seen in one direction, nestled down among the
surrounding mountains, like a child sleoping on
its mother’s lap, while, in an opposite course, lay
Franklin situated quite as romantically. Away
to the north-east, was the south branch of the
Potomac, gliding on to tho home of her child
hood ; while the peaks of the Blue Ridge, dim
and hazy in the distance, stretched away toward
the South. *
One bright, beautiful morning in October, Alice
made arrangements for spending the day on the
mountain; for she well knew the snows of win
ter would soon prevent access to her favorite
resort.* The weather promised to be everything
she could wish. Indian Summer, that season
which novelists have portrayed, and poets sung,
but which must be seen and felt to be fully ap
preciated, was beautifying the landscape. The
now crimson foliage of the maple, the yellow
leaves of the sycamore, and the deep green of the
cedar, united to form a parti-colored mantle ;
while higher up, the oak, tho pine, the chesnut,
and the hemlock, blended their colors in a gorge
ous canopy.
As Alice rode slowly along the serpentine
path, on one side of which the mountain rose
almost perpendicularly, while on the other it
formed a precipice, over whose brink the brav
est could scarcely look without trembling, she
thought she had never seen the face of nature
so lovely before. Absorbed in the contempla
tion of its many beauties, sho had proceeded
about half way up the mountain, when a gun
was suddenly discharged, by some one conceal
ed in a clump of laurel, growing out of the side
of the mountain, not more than six feet from her.
Her horse, startled by the sudden report, gave a
sidelong spring, trembled for one moment on the
edge of the precipitous descent, then regaining
its footing by a mighty effort, turned, and gallop
ed off down the mountain with fearful speed,
while a fiend in human shape, sprang from his
concealment in tho laurels, exclaiming, “Con
found the horse—l thought he would have gone
over the precipice with her; but he’ll soon break
her neck, and his own too, going down the moun
tain at that rateand lie started along at a
rapid pace, hoping to witness the catastrophe
which he had predicted. Irakis excitement, he
gave no thought to the manner in which he car
ried his gun, one barrel of which he had just
discharged, and tho lock, catching in a little
bush, discharged the remaining load into his
side. Tottering backwards, with a shriek which
Alice never could forget, he fell over the very
precipice which lie had hoped would have pro
ved her destruction.
The moment her horse started down tho moun
tain, Alice, knowing well the danger attending
such a rate of speed, and finding herself unable
to check its headlong course, drew her foot from
the stirrup, and sprang to the gronnd, while at
tho same instant, the second report of the gun
* lor the information of my Southern readers, I will
here state that snow usually begins to fall on Cheat
mountain early in November, and seldom disappears from
its top till late the ensuing Spring.
caused her to look back, in time to see the form
of young Morrison disappear over the edge of
the dreadful abyss. Horror-struck—she essay
ed to hasten to the spot—when she found that
in leaping from her horse, she had dislocated her
ankle, and was unable to walk. With a great
effort, by clinging to the shrubs which grew
along the path, she succeeded in dragging her
self back to the fatal spot. Looking over the
brink of the precipice, she saw the mangled
corpse of her discarded lover, on a rocky ledge
far below. Involuntarily, she drew back, and
covered her eyes with her hands. The delibe
rate design against her life—her almost miracu
lous escape—and the swift and fearful retribu
tion which had overtaken the villain who had
thus plotted against her, caused her to bow in
humble adoration to “ Him who holds our lives
in the hollow of His handwhile she felt that
she might safely trust in Him for deliverance
from the disagreeable situation in which she was
now placed.
She soon found that she had need to exercise
all her faith, for the wind began to sob and
moan, in the recesses of the mountain forest, as
though chanting a dirge over the mortal remains
lying on the rocks below her. Dark, dense
clouds rolled up from the western horizon, and
soon the storm burst in all its fury. Oh 1 how
sublime is a storm among those mountains! No
language can portray its awful grandeur!*
Alice had succeeded in dragging herself to the
partial shelter of an overhanging rock, and there,
as calmly as the pain of her dislocated ankle
would permit, she contemplated the manifesta
tions of Omnipotence around her.
She had remained in this situation about an
hour, when she heard her name shouted from
below, and replying as well as she could to the
shout, she soon had the pleasure of seeing Al
ford Wells standing before her. “Twice my
deliverer,” she murmured, as carefully lifting her
to his own horse, ho supported her there, till he
could resign her at her own door into the arms
of her anxious father.
lie had called at Col. Lee’s soon after Alice
left home that morning, and learning that she
had gone to spend the day on the mountain, ho
remained, conversing with the Colonel, and de
bating m his own mind the propriety of seeking
her, when the sudden bursting of the storm de
cided him; and telling her father of his intention
he hastened in pursuit of her.
A little lower down the mountain than where
ho found Alice, he saw her horse, disabled and
I dying, and the fear that she had fallen over the
precipice and perished, drove him almost frautic.
Need we wonder then that his joy at finding
her comparatively safe, unloosed his tongue, or
that after hearing of the dangers through which
she had passed, he plead with irrisistible elo
quence, for the right to be henceforth her con
stant protector.
Toward night the storm ceased, and Col. Lee
and Alfred, accompanied by several stout ne
groes, repaired to the mountain to obtain, if pos
sible, the remains of Morrison. They were obli
ged to force their way over scattered rocks and
fallen trees, and through tangled underwood,
often in places where a single misstep would
have caused them to share the fate of him they
sought, until, after a series of exertions but little
suited to the years of Col. Lee, they succeeded
in reaching the body.
It was shockingly mangled, and had it not
been for some papers found on him, Col. Lee
would have thought it possible for his daughter
to havo been mistaken, in supposing it to be
their former neighbor; but these established his
identity beyond a doubt.
They buried him near the foot of the moun
tain, under a wide spreading maple, which alone
marks the last resting place of one, who, though
qualified both by natural talents and the acquire
ments of education for a high position among
men, fell a victim to his own ungoverned pas
sion. The only intelligence of his fate ever ob
tained by his friends, was conveyed to them by
the following paragraph in a newspaper, sent
them by Col. Lee:
POUND DEAD.
The body of a man, about twenty-five, or thir
ty years of age, shockingly mangled, was found
on the 23rd inst., among the rocks on the wes
tern declivity of Cheat mountain. He had ap
parently fallen over a precipice while hunting.
From papers found upon him, it was ascertained
that his name was Henry L. Morrison, and he is
supposed to have been a resident of one of the
Rastcrn counties of this State.
chapter x.
Would you liko to look in at Col. Lee’s a little
while on New Year’s eve ? Our call must be
short, for we havo a journey before us to-night.
In the neat and tastefully arranged parlor, a
little company is assembled. A young man and
maiden are standing together, with clasped
hands, while a servant of the Most High invokes
his blessing upon them. You need not bo told
that it is Alice Lee and Alfred Wells, that have
just plighted their faith to each other in mar
riage, while the old Colonel looked on with a
moistened eye, as memory led him back to the
time when he had stood thus with the chosen of
his heart. Alice had frankly told Alfred the se
cret which no other ears had ever heard her
utter, of her first love and disappointment, but
he had assured her that he should value her
second love more than ho would the first of any
other woman; and now let us leave them to re
ceive the congratulations of the few acquain
tances assembled to witness the ceremony.
In a spacious and splendidly furnished cham
ber of one of the finest mansions in the city of
Baltimore, lies one whom we have met before—
the wife of George Hastings. She has just been
informed by her physician that she has but a
few minutes to live. With what a shriek of ag
ony did she receive this intelligence. “Die?
die ?” she exclaimed, “ oh! I cannot die I I nev
er thought of dying! Oh! Doctor! can’t you
save me ? I will give you everything I have—
only save my life! Oh! George, can’t something
be done for me? You know howl have loved
the world—how I have lived only for its pleas
ures ! I cannot leaVe it now! I must at least
have time for repentance!” She called for her
infant daughter. Pointing to her, she exclaim
ed—“ If sho lives don’t bring her up to do as I
have done. Teach her not to set her heart upon
the world! Teach her ” A convulsive
shnddering shook her frame. She sprang for
ward upon the bed—then fell back in her hus
band’s arms, a corpse. While the spirit of Peace
and Love was writing in Heaven the uniou of
two kindred hearts—in that gorgeously furnish
ed chamber, the angel of Death had sealed the
record of a lost soul !
After the death of his child, which survived
its mother but a short time, George went to his
plantation in Virginia. Here, for the first time
he heard of Col. Lee’s misfortunes and removal,
but whither he had gone no one knew. Al
though universally esteemed and beloved in the
neighborhood where she had lived, Alice had
no particular friends with whom she chose to
keep up a correspondence; so that all George
* The writer once witnessed a storm there, and knows
how inadequate her pen is for such a description.
±-c