Newspaper Page Text
170
fear? It* secret is safe, and should it corrode
and poison my life, converting the sweet, p'ire
fountains of feeling within my breast into black
and bitter waters, no conceivable amount of tor
ture could wring from me the fatal truth. lam
strong now to dare thepreseut, almost undaunt
ed enough to defy fete.”
Her deliberations were brief.
“I will go,” added she aloud, after a scarce
perceptible pause. The next moment skq half
regretted her resolve, but her heart fluttered
wildly at the quick flash of joy that for an in
stant illumined Mr. Longwood's face. “ Could
he then 100 interested in her decision ? But was
he not the betrothed of her cousin, who was
dear to her as a sister? ” A sickening sensation
seized her. The flush faded from her cheeks.
The compressed lips wore the hue of death. A
deep silence reigned as the party passed from
the house. Ida’s look was thoughtful, even se
rious. The passing gleam of satisfaction that
dyed Annie's cheeks and quickened her heart
beats, was not unobserved by the beautiful be
ing at her side, on whose gentle spirit it rested
like a dark shadow presaging some coming evil.
She did not realize its full import, but a vague
fear had crept into her heart.
She strove to banish the unwelcome guest by
a show of cheerfulness—to find in the varied
scenery and softening influence of Nature some
pleasing counterpoise to inward disquietude, but
in vain. She was fast relapsing into painful
thought, when she was aroused by a sudden ex
clamation of alarm, and the next moment felt
herself borne along with terrific speed.
Annie's horse, a noble and spirited animal,
startled by a slight noise at the roadside, had
dashed forward with wild impetuosity, while
Ida’s, struck with a sudden fright, was following
in hot pursuit. Both the girls rode well, and
the first shock over, might have regained their
self-command, had not a new and terrible danger
awaited them. A large, deep stream, forming
the boundary of the road over which they were
hurried, rolled its turbid waters in fearful prox
imity directly across their path. On, on, they
sped, with fearful rapidity. Paralyzed with
fear, they saw nothing save the dark tide ready
to cngulph them, —felt only, in that awful hour,
the appalling conviction that to a sure doom
they were swiftly hastening. They neared the
brink. A plunge—another—a moment of dread
suspense, and Mr. Longwood saw them emerge |
from the waters, still seated, and clinging almost I
lifelessly, but with despairing energy, to the
saddlo bows. Already lie had leaped into the
current, and was urging his horse to desperate
exertions. He gained on Ida—was at her side
—passed, but saw not her imploring look in his
efforts to save of bis worship; obey
ing by a blind impulse the muuduto of the heart,
prompt in that solemn hour to assert its suppre
inacy. Reaching Annie, he Hung his arms
around her, for she was faint and powerless from
terror, and bending over, whispered:
11 Courage, Annie, dear Annie. I will •save
thee or die with thee."
Supporting her with one arm, lie mnnagod to
turn her liorso about toward the shore they had
left, as the stream was widening and deepening
beyond, all the time encouraging her by his
words, imploring her to be bravo, to maintain
her scat, and her liorso would carry her Basely
ashore. She heard without the power to obey,
and but for his supporting arm would have fall
en from the saddle, half lifeltM as she was. His
anxiety increased. Could she be reanimated, lie
might yot bo able to rescuo Ida, for Ills watch
ful eye saw that her hold was relaxing; a few
moments more and she would be absorbed in
the waters. Wild witli apprehension, lie ex
claimed :
“ For heaven's sake, Annie, rouse yourself or
Ida is lost 1 ”
The frantic appeal recallod her failing etier
gics.v In an instant sha comprehended alii '
' Jfl' life I'l ehejJa*4 in ngojtzed aeijifg.
quick I she is fell3|j I" ar“ier
wild JL**k- rent tbo aif.
Id/Thad fainted under the accumulated horrors
produced by terror and a sense of desertion.
Cruel Kmestl He loved another and loft her to
die I Death was not terrible now, with her best
hopes crushed out by one fell stroke. The blood
curdled about her heart. Sense and feeling for
sook her, and she fell heavily into the dark
flood. With a quick, resolute motion Mr. Long
wood sprang from his horse and plunged in after
her. The panic-stricken Annie, now unmindful
of her own peril, in solicitude for Ida's safety,
scarce dared to breathe, with such painful ap
preliensiou did she await his reappearance, and
when ho rose with his lovely burden, forcibly
buffeting the current in his slow progress toward
the land, her heart stood still in awed sus
pense.
Meauwhile her horse had touched the bank.
Mechanically she vaulted from the saddle and
sank to the earth, with a half articulate prayer
for the lives of those so dear to her, and pene
trated with a deep sense of gratitude for her
own deliverance.
The next moment, with a cry of joy, she
clasped to her breast the senseless form, placed
by its gallant preserver in her arms, and hast
ened to unite her efforts with him to restore sus
pended animation.
Hapless Ida! She lay upon the green sward,
her beautiful head resting in Annie's lap. So
pale and still, so death-like did she appear, that
her terrified attendants, after exchanging a
glance of dismay, silently redoubled their exer
tions to resuscitate her; still she spoke uot, nor
moved. That loving heart, but an hour before
beating high and warm with life and hope, now
found, in oblivion, refuge from the stunning
blow his hand had dealt. Gazing on her at that
hushed hour, stung witli remorse and writhing
under the mighty load of woe, as Us ponderous
weight was rolled over his soul, he groaned in
very bitterness of spirit.
“I have killed thee, Ida Lawton, when thine
innocence should have shielded thee! God pity
me! lam at once thy betrayer and destroyer.”
His look was wild and bis frame shook with
the violence of his emotions.
“ Annie Moreton I ”
She was startled by the vehement exclama
tion.
“ Love for thee impelled me to this murderous
deed. I would have succored thee, had a thou
sand lives, as precious as hers, been the sacri
fice, or perished, happy in breathing out my last
sigh upon thy bosom—too blest to have held
thee one moment in these arms. Curse me, if
thou wUt; my guilt merits imprecation. But in
her sacred presence hear me swear that the
deadly wrong done her—stupendous as it is—
bears no proportion in its magnitude to the im
mensity of my wild, mad, idolatrous love for
lliee, at once the bane and bliss of ray exist
ence.”
The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love;
The taint of earth, the odour of the skies
Is in it.
Deeply agitated as lie was, bis companion was
hardly less so. She was silent, but trembled
like a culprit, and the bands which were em
ployed in dialing Ida's temples, had nearly faded
to perform their office. Suddenly she looked up,
exclaiming:
mWTMMBM WXMX i® XU
“ Sec I She will live I Thank God! we are
guiltless of her death, and you may yet atone
for your injustice. Be to her all you would have
been, had I not come to mar the integrity of
your attachment, and see me no more.”
“If I have not wronged her irremediably,” he
replied, “if indeed the enormity of my offence
admit of palliation, I shall make the fullest re
paration in my power.” After an embarrassed
pause he added:
“You will pardon my presumption in making
the confession into which accident betrayed me.
Stifling the passion I dared to entertain, you had
never discovered it, had not this unlucky disas
ter divulged it, not only to you, but, I fear, to
Ida also. Poor girl,” he continued, taking her
hand, to which warmth was returning, and
speaking in a tone indescribably sad, “ her gold
en dream is dissolved. She will awake too soon
to a joyless future.”
A tear fell upon his hand. He started and
looked up. “Annie—Miss Moreton—you dis
trust me—l see it—for my treachery to her.”
She lifted her eyes, all dewy and sparkling,
and fixed them full upon his. Did her glance
express tenderness and not abhorrence ? A wild
hope sprang into his heart. She read it in his
beaming eyes. Hers were bent to the oarth in
sudden confusion, and she coloured painfully un
der his piercing gaze. A long pause ensued.
He sighed deeply and rose from his kneeling po
sition on the turf, as Ida moved and opened her
Where am I ? What has happened ? ” she
asked, half rising and gazing wildly around.
Consciousness and memory returned. She sank
back and buried her face in her hands. Mr.
Longwood spoke, addressing Annie:
“We are scarce a mile from town. If you and
Ida be not afraid to remain here alone a Bhort
time, I will apprize Mr. Lawton of the accident
and return soon with a carriage to convey you
home.”
Ilis horse was grazing near. He mounted and
rode rapidly away. Ida’s voice first broke the
ensuing silence.
“ Annie,” —her tones were low and husky—
“ can you love him? "
“ Dear cousin, forbear to question me. He is
yours.”
“Knough," answered Ida, and she spoke no
more.
CHAPTER VI.
GUI fear not in a world like this,
And thou slmlt know ere long.
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.
[Lo.noitu.ow.
Ohl magic of love! uncnibcllished by yon
11ns the garden a blush or the herbage a hue?
Or blooms there a prospect in nature or art
Like the vista that shines through the eye to the heart?
[Moors.
“Father,” said Ida, a week after the occur
rences related in the foregoing chapter had trans
pired, “did you deliver my message to Mr.
Longwood ? ”
" Yes, my dear, he will he here presently,
looking at his watch, “ but you are yet too fecblo
to bear this exciting interview. Your hands
are cold and you are already trembling in anti
cipation."
“ I shall feel better when it is over, father.
Come what may, I cau hardly feel worse. Per
haps in performing a ueodful duty I shall find
somo degree of composure. All the long days
and nights I lay Bick, with my brain on fire and
my heart bursting, so cruel were my sufferings,
I have scarce slept since that fetal day. Its
memory, alasl for me I its scathing memory is
ever burning into my heart aud drying up its
life Btreams. My love-bark, full freighted with
hopes now withered, joys forever dead, lies
stranded and ityg-uins —its haven bukfevoud.
The past—ouef & raphurowirjtrfffci of
bliss, contrast*^. piinfulty with the IBtlire, de
spoiled of every charm, a hopeless blank, with
the sickening dread, the intolerable anguish, the
appalling reality of the present.”
Oh! would It wore my lot
To be forgetful, as I am forgot.
Her lip quivered, and falling into Mr. Lawton's
outstretched arms, she wept convulsively upon
his bosom. His tears fell upon her shining
ringlets.
“ Forget him, my daughter, “ lie is unworthy
of you."
“Nay, father,” she quickly replied, raising
herself’nud wiping away the briny drops which
had already relieved her surcharged heart, “nay,
father, you wrong him, for he never injured me
designedly. His regard for mo was sincere, yet
far too feeble to stem the resistless tide of an
overpowering passion for another. My heart
tells me his love for her is like mine for him —
fathomless, measureless. Had he ever loved me
as he now loves her, he had not been faithless,
nor I undone."
The deep pathos in the sad, sweet tonesjarred
painfully on the father's heart.
“ My poor darling,” was her only reply. After
a long and painful pause ne asked:
“ Does Annie return this attachment ? ”
Ida was about to reply, when a servant open
ed the door and announced Mr. Longwood.
“Let him come in here,” said Ida. “Leave
me father; I would soehim alone.”
She spoke calmly and her manner was lirm,
almost proud. With surprising composure she
rose to receive her quondam lover, who, visibly
disconcerted, paused a moment irresolute, too
painfully conscious of his trying position. She
pointed to a seat beside her, but, unmindful of
the actiou, he took her hand and inquired so
tenderly about her health that her little strength
had nearly deserted her.
lfer altered appearance sent a pang through
his heart. Her elieek was pale, her eye heavy;
every lineament of that beautiful face was
stamped with suffering. His inconstancy had
doiie this. He almost staggered to a seat.
“ Ida, forgive me,” burst from liis trembling
lips, “if indeed a wretch like I may suo for par
don.”
“Ido,” she answered. “God forbid that I
reproach you. Do not mourn thus. My tried
heart will learn submission to the will of Him
whose decrees, if calamities, are merciful too,
and just. Is the wound I have received, cure
less, it was not inflicted willingly. Is my cup
of bitterness full, it shall be sweetened by the
consciousness that you are all my fancy painted
you. But I sent for you, not to speak of myself;
but of—of her. Take her Ernest, and be
happy.”
“Noble girl I Think you I can add turpitude
to injury ? That, after basely outraging your most
sacred feelings, I could thus, with deliberate
purpose, consummate my iniquity ? I shall not
insult you by asking you to ratify the compact
my perfidy has annulled, but I • would beg you
to believe my assertion, and I call Heaven to
witness its sincerity, that I will not take advan
tage of your generosity—l will not sue for vour
cousin’s love.”
She was profoundly touched.
“I am deeply sensible of your wish to spare
my feelings," she said, “but if Annie loves you,
as I think she does, she must not be sacrificed to
your too morbid sense of honour. After having
\
been assured of her preference, perhaps you will
be willing to forego your resolve."
He shook his hflai
“ If I have no* misjudged her, she will ap
plaud my desigt\” was his answer. “At all
events my purposf is unalterable.”
When he had ufiren his departure, Ida sought
her cousin.
“ Annie, tell ms truly, do you love Mr. Long
wood? You may speak without the fear <sf pain
ing me. cousin,” observing that Annfe hesitated.
“ There is no longer any tie between us.”
“ Ida,” and wl£# Annie spoke, the quick blood
mounted] to her temples. “ I have loved him
from the* first —him, your betrothed—hopeless
ly, wickedly, it may be, but not the less truly
and entirely.”
“ He is free, The barrier to your love
no longer exists.”
“ That may be> cousin, but my happiness shall
not be purchased fit the price of yours. Could
he honourably offer me now the paramount good
in life—himself, I should disdain to accept nueh
felicity, if thereby- one iota be added to your
suffering. Say $o more, cousin,” she continued,
seeing that Ida was ready to expostulate.
“jYour remonstrauce is useless and can only
distress me, as I am wholly immovable for the
present and shall continue inexorable to all ap
peals, until you are quite well and happy as of
yore, though thayjffie be months or years hence.
You must lie ffewfi nOw, for you are fatigued
from over-exertion.”
She was indeed almost exhausted by the ef
fort she had made. Through all the dreary hours
of that day, and many more, prostrated by grief
and illness, white as the delicate ruffles that
circled her throat, she lay, with her eyes closed
in silence and despair. The blight which had
fallen on her young heart, threatened her life
also. Day by day she struggled for resignation,
and sought with her last remnant of strength to
combat what she esfcjemed a weakness. llow
vain seemed the task: Ever and again the old
love surged through her heart, and swept away
every landmark of progress. Still she strove,
but it was many weary months ere her wound
ed spirit found even the healing balm of con
tentment.
* * * * *
Two years are tmfcbcred with the past, and
Annie is once more A her uncle’s, when the fol
lowing conversation between Mr. Lawton and
his daughter occurred |
“ I see you are resolved, Ida, to test Mr. Lang
ly's perseverance, as well as his love.”
The old sweet smile illumines her face, as she
replies.
“Say, rather, my own feelings, evdry phase of
which I have watched with untiring assiduity,
waiting for indubitable ovidence to satisfy my
self that I do not ast witli precipitation.”
“And when do you purpose to remove this
psychological difficulty ? ”
“It is one no longer. Mr. Laugly writes me
he will bo here to-morrow, when, with your ap
probation, I design to recompense his fidelity.”
“Then you love him, my daughter, and the
dark shadow so long clouding your life, will dis
appear in the sunajfce ofcouiiug happiness.”
“ Not perhaps with the freshness and ardour
of my first love, bnfwith a fullness, depth, and
repose of feeling, tint leaves me naught else to
desire, and brings with It a placid but perfect
joy.” , »
“ Hoavon be praislaj .toy love, that your trials
aro ended. And pool *tmie, too, will be happy,
now that you are so.”a •
“My heart lias ble*"br Annie, father. Noth
ing but trust in God 1 \ith in her lover could
have sustained her
entreaties that she * d*" o '? *ae to interfere
aud adjust this imforfF u -“'natter, soever re
turned Krtiait, dear Ida, »nd if
, i lia*oves raerflra ”
1 "But Ida, dear, ho whows that you no longer
care for him, and if liy low* Annie, why not tell
her so and have done with it?"
“ 1 think I have fathamed his motives,” replied
she, " and can explain the cause of his silence.
He has secretly vowed to expiate what he deems
the al! but unpardonable crime of infidelity, by
doing penance until I shall have found some
luckless wight, williug to taks me 1 for better for
worse,’ who wields over my hoart an influence
not less potent than was his sway in the days
now gone. I represented to him, not long since,
the injustice he was doing Annie, and charged
him with vanity in supposing 1 yet retained for
him any degree of regard: whereupon he laughed
and said, I was certainly no monument of con
stancy, but added seriously that he intended to
tell Annie how much lie loved her, one of these
days.”
“ Then there is to be a double wedding soon.
Where is Annie? I must congratulate her. Re
member, Ida, that you are both to have carte
blanche in selecting your diamonds for the occa
sion,” and the kind-hearted father and uncle left
the room, happier than he had been in many
years.
*****
“Mr. Longwood lias asked for Miss More
ton.”
The book Annie is reading, falls from her hand
at the announcement, and she starts up in quick
trepidation. For two long years—an age in the
calendar of the heart —she has not seen him, and
now has arrived the crisis of her fate. No won
der that her heart beats rapidly, and a sudden
tremour seizes her as she essays to open the
door. He meets her on the threshold, and seems
impelled by an almost resistless impulse to clasp
her to his heart, but restraining the action he
snatches her hand and presses it repeatedly to
hia lips.
“ She lovetli another, Annie, and I may speak
to thee now. Tell me, dear girl, wilt thou be
mine ? Wilt thou make me so happy that heav
en nor earth can add one drop to the full meas
ure of my bliss ? Speak to me, Annie, dear An
nie. Let me hear thee say thou lovest me.”
“ Ernest,” she murmured, but so low that he
bends his ear to catch the sound, “ dear Ernest,
I love thee. Now and ever I am thine, all
thine.”
Louis Barbier, sumamed L’Abbe de la Re
vicre, Bishop of Langres, died in 1670. From
the son of a tailor he rose to be a Profes
sor in the College of Plessis; then, almoner of
Gaston, Duke of Orleans, and, afterwards, Bish
op of Langres. He received the episcopate from
Mazarin, as a reward for revealing the secrets
of his master. He was even on the point of
obtaining the hat of Cardinal; but the nomina
tion was not confirmed. It was his desire to
have an epitaph written for him, and he left one
hundred crowns for this purpose. The follow
ing was written by La Monnoye:
Cl-git an tres erand personnage,
Qui fur d'nn illustre Itcnage,
Qnl poModa mille vertns,
Qui nc trompa jamais, et qui frit toujours sago.
J* n'en dirai pas davantage:
Cest trop mentir pour cent ecus •
Here lies a noble personage,
Os most illustrious lineage,
A man of thousand virtues, loved as such;
He was most true, sincere, and sage:—
But—to say more I can't engage.
For, for a hundred crowns, I've Ued too much.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
TO KAY MYRTLE.
Thou hast a lovely name—May—
’ Tis redolent of sweet*;
It brings to mind some bright spring day,
With buds and birds and foreat* g*y;\
And dew-drops on the slender spray,
That glisten in the morning ray.
And sparkle as long as eparkla they may:
And bower* where loveia lore to etrav,
And where in pretty amoroo* pl»y,
Eye, eye—and lip, lip meets.
Thou hapt a lovely kindred —May—
The synonyme of love;
For Myrtle aye was dedicate.
To tho ely god, who, In hia hate,
Bring* down from heaven (ah! perverse fate).
The poison'd shaft—and, all elate,
Pierces I when, behold! the atat*
Os the poor victim —It i* that
Which gods affect above.
Oh! may'at thou ever dream—Mey-
Os flower* and love and apring;
Os beaming stare and skies all fair;
Os morning* bright and snnahine clear;
Os bird* that carol to thine ear;
Os friends who ever speak thee dear;
Os home and those who lore thee there;
Os thou who wish thee ever near;
Os those whoso absence calls the tear;
Os high aspirings—bright career:
Os hand* all warm—hearts all sincere:
Os such—May—ever sing. Drx.
MM-
THE POVEETY CUEE.
Mrs. Durand was an invalid. For many years
she had been a victim to a complicated and baf
fling disease, which, for want of a better name,
was christened by her physicians and friends,
"nervous debility.'V
The slightest excitement or exertion left her
utterly prostrated and weary, and every nerve
and muscle in her system kept her painfully
conscious of their existence. The luxuries that
surrounded her, were only to her a realization
of the fable of the cup of Tantalus. True, she
had an elegant carriage, fine horses, and many
servants, but the fatigue of riding out was far
greater than the pleasure of a drive, and she
rarely attempted. She had a library, but books
she bad not cared much for; and if she had
loved reading, her eyes were so weak as to put
that amusement out of the question. An exten
sive and choicely kept observatory was a part
of Mr. Durand’s cstablishment, ( but the odours
' of the flowers made his invalid wife faint and
sick; she bad no taste for fancy work—that
busy idleness which saves so many women from
ennui. Embroidery, crotchet, knitting and net
ting, she had tried in vain, and each tired her
and made her head ache. Her three children
generally made her a visit once a day; but it
would be difficult to decide which enjoyed it
least, or was more pleased to have it over—the
boys or their mother. The children were glad
to escape from the hushed, gloomy chamber,
where everything that they did‘seemed to be
out of place and wrong, sj constantly were they
checked for being boisterous and troublesome;
and Mrs. Durand experienced a sensation of re
lief when she kissed them all, and saw them
safely marshaled out of the room by their nurse
—for she had no comfortable consciousness that
she had done her duty, and that site had seen
tho last of them for one day at least.
After this morning visit she bad nothing to
do but lean her aching head wearily back on
the pillowed easy chair until her physician’s
coming aroused her from herlistlessness for a
%w moments/ This tall, an! the still briefer
one from her husband, just before dinner, were
all that varied the monotony of her life.
Mr. Durand was a kind man, and reasonably
fond of his wife; he had spared no pains or ex
pense to restore her to health; he had made no
objection to her trial of the pathies —allopathy,
homoepathy, hydropathy—and had only shrug
ged his shoulders when, as a last resort, healing
mediums were called to the rescue. He had grat
ified her every whim; had taken her to every
variety of climate; without a word of remon
strance, had visited all the springs far and near,
in search of that health which was nowhere to
be found, until at last, after going round the
whole circde of remedies in vain, it had been Mrs.
Durand's own proposal to remain at home under
the care of her own family physician.
Meanwhile, as his wife's malady, though in
curable, seemed not at all likely to prove fatal
Mr. Durand’s anxiety, which at first had been
extreme, gradually died away. It grew to be a
matter of course that Maria should be sick, and
his daily call and these stereotyped dialogues
became equally habitual.
“Well, how do you feel to-day, Maria?”
“No better,” with a sigh. “My head is as
bad as ever.”
"Sorry to hear it”
A pause—then a glance at his watch. “It is
now dinner time. Good Dight, Maria. I wish
you could sit at the table with me.”
This conversation, almost without a variation,
had been repeated day after day, until it was as
mucli a part of Mr. Durand’s life as his dinner
and tho cigar, the evening’s paper, aßd the quiet
rubber of whist with a few cronies that follow
ed it.
The londly evenings Mrs. Durand spent as she
did, her lonely day’s reclining on a chair or on
a lounge—her thin, white hands, shdaed by ex
quisites and costly lace, folded and lying idle in
her lap, while with half shut eyes she gave her
self up to sad reveries.'
It seemed almost like a dream to her to look
back, as she often did, to the time when, a rosy, ■
plump and joyous country maiden, she had raked
hay, made butter and cheese, washed dishes,
and even scrubbed the white floor of her aunt’s
neat kitchen. Her small white hands, now so
soft and white, had been red and hard once;
her transparent cheek had been sun-burnt and
brown, but her rustic beauty bad won the heart
of the rich merchant, whom business brought for
a few weeks to the neighbourhood of Mapleton,
and not many months later sbe became his wife.
City life was entirely new to Maria Durand, and,
for a few seasons she enjoyed it to the full.—
Parties, the opera, and all sorts of gayeties suc
ceeded each other, until suddenly her health
failed. And now, so young, while life held out
to her a cup overflowing with a delicious and
intoxicating draught, one cup of bitterness had
spoiled it all. It was hard, indeed, and poor
Maria Durand shed many scalding tears, as in
the solitude of her own room she contrasted the
present with the past.
She had plenty of time for such reflections, for
the calls of her many friends, and the inquiries
for the health of “Mrs. Durand" had grown
less and less frequent, until they had almost en
tirely ceased, and she who had been at one time
a reigning belle—admired, flattered and envied
—was now forgotten.
The circle in which Mrs. Durand had moved
was not unusually heartless; but sickness is a
test which never fails to distinguish the counter
feit from the generous friendship, and it must
be confessed that few human beings bare a foun
tain of sympathy which will sustain a drain of
four or five years in one direction, without at
times running dry.
As if conscious of this, invalids are very apt
to make up for the deficiencies of others by be
stowing all their own sympathies on themselves,
absorbed in their own sufferings, they forget all
others. Mrs. Durand was no exception to this
general rule, or she would have observed that
her husband was growing pale, thin, wrinkled
and care-worn. He was strangely absent-mind
ed—he came up to her room after dinner several
times, and sat there silent and moody; if she ad
dressed him, he replied at random, and she made
no attempt at conversation.
She was lying on her couch one evening, when
Mr. Durand entered the room. She did not look
up, she' hardly spoke—for she had felt unusually
ill all day, and her head was still throbbing
painfully. Her husband approached and stood
by her side.
' “Maria,’’ said he, “I should like to talk with
you a little, if you are able to bear it."
Something in his voice startled her: she look
ed np, and for the first time saw how haggard
and changed he had grown.
“What is it?’’ she cried, starting up. “How
fearfully pale you look. The children ?”
“Are perfectly well,” he replied.
“ Has anything happened to you, Robert ?''
she asked.
“Maria,” he sajd, hardly heeding her words,
“I am ruined—bankrupt.”
He buried hisfaoe in his hands, and his whole
frame shook with emotion. In an instant his
wife's arms were around his neck, her kisses on
his brow, and her voice whispered words of
comfort.
i “But you, dear Maria,” he said, “feeble as
. you are, what is to become of you ? I could
bear it myself but to think of you and the chil
dren—it almost unmans me.”
“Is all lost?” she added.
“ I fear so. My honour, thank God, will re
, main unstained; but nothing will be left after
r tbe payment of debts.”
t “And how did it happen?”
, Her husband briefly told her of his mislor
j tunes —they were mainly owing to losses at sea,
r for he was largely engaged in navigation; be re
r hearsed liis struggles, and told of his sleepless
s nights and anxious days, and Maria listened with
5 moistened eyes and parted lips.
1 “ My own dear husband,” she said, at last,
t kissing him fondly, “and what are root plans
. for the future?”
t “I have made none as yet. I have been over
, whelmed in the present trouble. The future
( looks dark, indeed. When I think of you in ill
t health, requiring every comfort, and yet foel that
, I shall be unable to supply your wants —"
He stopped, for his voice was choked with
r emotion.
! “Do not speak so sadly, Robert. Tho future
t to me does not look so dark. You made your
t own fortune—you can do it again: and as for
5 me, if I have lived a life of luxury for many
j years, Ido not forget that I was once a poor
lassie, and lived very happy without tbe many
) appliances of wealth that you have bestowed on
r me. Dear Robert, let us submit with a*good
. grace to our present troubles.”
1 Mr. Durand shook his head sadly. “You
, speak lightly of giving up the luxuries, forget
, ting they have grown to be necessaries to you.
t If you were strong and well, it would be differ
, ent, even then it would be hard to exchange
this house for one suited to our income, or rath
j er lack of income, and instead of having servants
3 to do our bidding, to wait not only upon jmur
-3 self, but ou others.” ”
t I “It is \ctjL plena*nt- to be waited on, I »d*s
r Ini’," said Mrs. Durand, “but I can do without
j it; and I have not forgotten to sweep and make
up beds. Try me, and you shall see that lam
r as good as your French artiste. Wc will be hap
- Py yet, Robert. Riches are comfortable, but
) poverty shall not made us miserable.”
Cheered in spite of himself by bis wife's spirit,
1 Mr. Durand began to talk of the future, and the
j evening, which began so gloomy, ended quite
. pleasantly.
j Robert Durand felt like a new man; bis wife's
. sympathy lightened the load which had well
nigh crushed him, and he set about the setile
j ment of his business with fresh courage.
> From the wreck of his fallen fortune, he came
out with a large stock of self-respect—for no
r man could charge him with dishonourable con
duct—and a very small stock of capital with
. which to commence tbe world anew.
Mrs. Durand, meantime, was not idle. It was
J her part to see to the settlement of the domestic
, affairs, and though head and limb ached, yet she
i never complained. But to her surprise her
3 sleepless nights vanished—what opiates had
failed to do, the magic of fatigue accomplished;
and when at last the family were settled in a
3 small but comfortable house, though she was
very tired she yet felt that she was really better
than she had been for a long time.
s As months passed, her appetite, which had
, been capricious and variable, became natural and
healty; dyspepsia slowly yielded its hold upon
her, her thin features became rounded, her figure
j gained plumpness, and at last a faint colour
r tinged her cheeks. In one short year the inva
t lid, Mrs. Durand, was transformed into a fresh
. looking matron.
With her health her spirits returned, and the
, childreu astonished her one day by telling her
| that “ they loved her a great deal better than
. they used to, because she was so nice,” which
, adjective, whes she pressed for its interpretation,
was further explained to mean “ that she didn't
tell them to keep still all the time, and that she
baked them nice cake, and she told them stories,
and she looked a great deal prettier.”
This latter compliment, Mr. Durand, who had
been a listener to the conversation, emphatically
pronounced true enough. “And she is as good
as she is pretty, little folks,” he added, passing
his arm around her waist.
Mrs. Durafld looked up with a smile.
“ Wc are not so very miserable after all,” she
said, slily. Her husband’s only reply was a
closer embrace.
Years bad passed, and Mr. Durand again was
a rich man \ once more his wife was mistress of
a fine establishment —once more she attended
and gave parties. But now she sat among the
older people and looked on to see her girls and
boys enjoy, with all the zest of youth, the music
and danciug.
She was still a healthy, comely matron, whose
i sparkling eyes, blooming cheeks, luxuriant hair,
many a young woman envied.
She was sitting one evening at a party with a
knot of her friends, wheD a pale young creature
. joined them.
, She looked so listless, so feeble and miserable,
that Maria's thoughts at once reverted to her own
\ past—for Mrs. Tyler seemed a perfect counter
, part of wbat she had been at her age. So ab
sorbed was she in her own thoughts that she
hardly heeded the conversation around her, till
the mention of her own name startled her.
“I was telling Mrs. Tyler,” continued Mrs.
liorimar, “ that she reminded me of you when
, you were so ill many years ago. It was the