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BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME
OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT
FUND GIVEN IN^ 1891 BY
HENRY WILLIAMS SAGEIARRIED OR SINGLE?IARRIED OR SINGLE?
BT THE AUTIIOR OF
“HOPE LESLIE,” “REDWOOD,” “ HOME,” etc., etc.
“ Seven générations, haply, to this world,
To right it yisibly a Angers breadth,
And mend its rents a little.”
Aurora Leigh.
IN TW O VOLUMES.
YOL. IL
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1857.Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by
ÏÏARPER & BROTHERS
In tbe Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York.MARRIED OR SINGLE!
CHAPTEK I.
“Wbo sees not the bottom, let him not pass the water.”
Miss Herbert went in, on her way to her sister’s, to
Steinberg’s rausic-shop. He was not there. The door was
ajar that communicated with a little inner parlor ; and while
she was tossing over some sheets of musio on the counter,
she heard voices. One was cheerful, and familiar ; the other
low, and “ full of tears.”
“ Letty,” said Lisle, “ I see you are not well—you are
working too hard.”
“ Oh no, indeed I am not ; my work is my life.”
“ Then the children torment you ?”
“No, Archy, they are very good, and they love me, and
I love them.”
“ Then the long and the short of it is, our evening lessons
are too much for you. I shall corne no more.”
“ Oh, Archy, don’t say so.”
“ What is the use, Letty, of wearing yourself out ? You
read German well enough, and you are learning of the Stein-
bergs to speak it charmingly.”
“Well, Archy, do as you think best; it must be a weary
task for you.” The meek are not always blessed !6
MARRIED OR SINGLE ?
“No indeed, dear Letty, it is a pleasure—a very great
pleasure.”
“ Then continue to corne ; do, Archy—I hâve no other
pleasure,” she added, in a more cheerful tone ; but the last
word did not reacli Grace’s ear, for the children at this mo-
ment made an inroad, foliowed by old Steinberg, who passed
into the shop. He was interrupted in his excuses, by Grâce
asking if those were his children ?
“ Mein Gott ! no, Miss Herbert ; my old woman and I are
not Abraham and Sarah. These are my grand-children that
Mr. Lisle, that gentleman in there, God bless him, took
charge of frorn Germany, and has brought us the best little
governess for them. You speak German, will you look in
upon them ?”
While Grâce hesitated, Lisle came into the shop. The
sight of Miss Herbert checked him. He blushed, merely
bowed, and passed on. The blush, only a suffusion caused
by the sudden meeting, recalled Mrs. Milnor’s gossip at
Mrs. Tallis’ réception. Grâce gave no faith to it then,
or now ; but her curiosity was awakened, and her féminine
imagination had woven a tissue out of Letty’s sweet and
sad tones ; so she graciously accepted the old man’s invita-
tion, and followed him. She recognized at the first glance
the pale, pretty girl in half mourning whom she had seen
at the opéra.
“ Excuse,” said old Steinberg, addressing Letty, “ this is
Miss Herbert, just looking in upon the little ones.”
At the sound of this name, Letty’s pale cheek reddened,
and her soft, meek eye met Grace’s. Both gazed inquir-
ingly, and both, feeling the gaze might be offensive, averted
their eyes. Letty shrinking from the potent lady, whom it
seemed presumption to regard as a rival, and Grâce averting
her eye with a feeling that might be thus translated into
words : “ Had that fellow, Belson, the audacity to eye thisMARRIED OR SINGLE?
1
sweet, modest young woman with suspicion ? How savage
was Mrs. Milnor’s gossip !”
“ My friend, Mr. Lisle—or rather your friend,” she said,
“ for I believe he is much more your’s than mine—is your
teacher ?”
“ My teacher !” exclaimed Letty, overpowered by the
grâce of Miss Herbert’s practiced manner ; “ oh ! no ; Mr.
Lisle is not my teacher, not at ail—he only—that is—I mean
he only cornes.”
“ To give you German readings,” said Grâce, smiling, and
anxious to relieve poor Letty’s embarrassment. “ I know
no man one would rather call master in ail ‘ arts and morali-
ties,’ than Mr. Lisle.”
“So, so—just so !” exclaimed old Steinberg, rubbing his
hands ; a but, Miss Herbert, I hâve not told you my little
ones’ names yet.” This duty he eagerly did, and Grâce,
after kindly chatting with them, to their delight, in German,
took her leave. Letty heaved a sigh, as if lifting a load
from her heart. Afterward, the following sentences,
blotted, with tears, were found in her private diary:
“ We hâve different spheres. Theirs is the same—mine
immeasurably below them. But her love is not like mine !
She speaks of him without faltering. The very Sound of his
name touches my heart’s main-spring.
“ Go on, bright, noble, captivating woman ! Fulfill your
destiny and his—and oh, may I be hidden in His merciful
arms, who will forgive his weak and erring child, that she
loved the créature more than the Creator !”
As Grâce emerged from Steinberg’s shop, she met Horace
Copley. He, of course, joined her, and after some common-
place references to the affliction in her sister’s family, he said,
surveying her appreciatingly, “ What becoming mourning
you hâve selected !”
“ My milliner must hâve the crédit of it,” said Grâce,8
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
blushing, “ for I hâve been but once out of the house since
our little boy’s death.” Grace’s blush was due to the
thought that the exception was her visit to Ida Roorbach.
“ I am delighted to meet you just now,” resumed Copley ;
“ I hâve something spécial to say to you.”
“Not yet—oh, not quite yet !” Grâce would hâve said,
but she merely murmured “ Well ?”
u It is well—or will be, I trust,” he replied. Grâce felt a
recoiling as, looking up at Copley, she met one of those in-
quisitorial glances by which he seemed to divine her inmost
thoughts. His face reverted to its ordinary expression, as
incommunicative as the cover of a book. He proceeded coolly,
“This démission of your brother-in-law is a sad atfair.”
Grâce breathed a long breath. “ I mean of course, as a mat-
ter of discrétion—with his family, and in his State of health.
It occurred to me that I might do him a small service in this
exigency. The President is my friend. He owes me a good
turn. I hâve written to the White House, and the answer
is every thing I could wish. Of course, nothing of this
should transpire till we ascertain whether Mr. Esterly will
accept the appointment. There are many applicants for it,
and it is a délicate matter to manage these affairs so as to
give the least possible offence in political quarters. Political
adhérents, like lovers, are not fond of others’ leavings. Will
you speak to your brother-in-law ? I am not in his good
grâces—he is, you know, whimsical—he may not relish ac-
cepting a favor from me, but will be quite willing to owe it
to you—as it would be idle to deny that he does.”
“ Oh, no—to you, and a most seasonable kindness it is.
My brother is not whimsical—he may perhaps be preju-
diced.”
Nothing so common-place, as the old adage of “ killing
two birds with one stone,” probably occurred to Mr. Horace
Copley, but he smiled to the very inmost fold of his heart asMARRIED OR SINGLE?
9
he perceived he had hit one mark. Worldly-wise as he was,
he marred his advantage the very next time he opened his
lips. Truly, “ the devil is subtle, but weaves a coarse web.”
“ I should not perhaps hâve said,” he resumed, “ that Mr.
Esterly is whimsical, but, poor fellow, he is impracticable.
It was an imprudent step to throw up his rectorship. A
man who has a wife and children can not afford to follow out
his spéculative notions—his duties to them are paramount—”
“ To truth ?” Grâce thought, and would hâve said, but
that her attention was suddenly arrested by two men who
stood on the steps of Esterly’s church, and just in the
shadow of its arched entrance. They were talking earnestly,
and seemed watching Grâce and Copley as they turned into
the gâte leading to the parsonage which adjoined the ex-
trême end of the church. Twice the men moved forward,
as if to follow them, and then retreated. In the mean time
Copley rang the door-bell, and the bell not being immediately
answered, Grâce observed that ail the blinds were closed.
“Ah, I remember,” she said, “ they weregoing out oftown
for a day or two.” Just then, a shuffling step was heard in
the entry, and Diana, the old colored cook first opening the
side-blind, and peeping out, unbolted the door, and opening
it, hastily said, “ It’s you, Miss Grâce—Lord o’ macy ! corne
in. Corne in, Mr. Copley—step quick, please sir.”
“ Why, what is the matter, Diana ?” said Grâce ; “ what
has happened ?”
“ISTothing has happened to our folks, it’s only to me and
mine.” Big tears rolled down Diana’s black cheeks ; she
wiped them away with the end of her white turban. Diana’s
coiffure was very unlike the goddess’ whose name she il-
lustrated.
Grâce took a long breath, but her more immedint o fears
relieved, her interest turned to the poor old petted servant
whose alarm and agitation were pitiable. “ Do corne into
1*10
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
the parlor, Miss Grâce,” she said ; “ please foliow, Mr. Cop-
ley.” She turned again to the window, and took a survey
through the lattice. “ The hounds is gone, for the présent,”
she continued, “ but the Lord hâve macy on ns, they’ll corne
back, there’s no saving of her.”
“ Who are they, Diana ?” asked Grâce. “ What are they
after ?”
“ What !—why, Miss Grâce—Vi’let ! True as y ou live !
and her little boy.”
“Violet and little Prince! Is Augustus’ wife a slave,
Diana ?”
“ She is that—we never let on about it—’case, says I to
’Gus, when you set a secret a travelin’, you never knows
how far it will go, nor whose doors it will go into. But
they got wind of it somehow—them that’s mean enough to
turn aginst their own color—and they informed. Vi’let
says there’s been evil eyes round ’em for a month. As God
lives, for every penny them gets for hunting down their
fellow-sufferin’ creters, they shall ’count to him who marks
ail their tears and groans, and flutterin’s. ‘Ashes always
Aies back in the face of them that throws’ em.’ Vi’let says
they had a larum every hour that set their hearts a beatin’
like a drum. Last night Gus’ brought them here, hopin’
Miss Eleanor would open up a way somehow for em’, and
maybe she would, for she’s kind o’ ’raculous at helpin’ folks
in ’stress, but la ! she’s gone, and Mr. Esterly and I am here
alone to fight it out with them fellows. They had just been
here with a sarch-warrant before you came. The Lord
’spired me to put mother and child out on the roof, down
agin the church. They sarched every hole and cranny—up
stairs and down, under the beds, in old barrels, and up the
chimnies, I followin’ round, and tryin’ to look as if I wern’t
afeard of nothin’. But, la sus ! Miss Grâce, I’ve lived too
long in our family to be handy at lyin’ any way. I was ailHAEEIED OE SINGLE?
11
of a nerve and a tremble. At last, says tbe tall one to the
little snub, ‘ John,’ says he, ‘ we may as well gubs it up this
time and as soon as I was redy of ’em, I called in Vi’let
and Prince. Poor gai ! her heart is a breakin’ ail the while,
for she knows it’s only a lull, and she and Prince hâve got
to quit ’Gus, and go back to slavery. Ah, Miss Grâce, that’s
a boy ! that Prince—there’s nothin he don’t know—he can
play a tune on the Jews-harp, and sing, ‘Saints are re-
joicin’, Sinners are a tremblin’ from first to last. Oh, I
had rather give my eyes, and my right arm too, than to lose
kim—but I’ve got to—I’ve got to !” Here the poor créa-
ture was choked with sobs, but her indignation overpower-
ing her grief, “ My curse,” she said, clenching her hands,
and raising them, “ my curse, as long as I can speak it, shall
foliow them folks down to Washington that made the arm
of the law long enough and strong enough to wrench away
our own children, do what we will !”
“ Oh, Di’ !” said Grâce, “ dear old Di’, they shall not take
your children from you ; Violet shall corne home with me, I
will conceal her till I find some way of saving her. I will
sell my last gown rather than let her go from you.”
“ Ah, but, Miss Grâce, they’ll ask too dear ; they ’ve got
no bowels, and so they think nobody else has got ’em.”
“ Never fear, Di’—‘ where there’s a will, there’s a way,’
you know. But how shall we get her to Bond-street ?”
And turning to ask Copley’s advice, she saw he was standing
with his back to her at the end of the room, absorbed
apparently in contemplating a small picture of herself which
he had taken from the wall to get a stronger light upon it.
“ Oh, corne here, Mr. Copley,” she said with a slight tone
of impatience, “ hâve you not heard poor Di’s story ?”
“ Most assuredly, every word of it.”
“ Then can’t you advise, or devise for us ?”
“ No,” he replied, his tone now indicating a cordial in-12
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
terest that enchanted Grâce ; “ but I will execute whatever
your quicker wits devise.”
Grâce snapped her fingers, an apt action with her, denot-
ing the rapid movement of her brain. “I hâve it,” she
exclaimed. “ Diana, is not Violet about my height and size ?”
“ Close on’t, Miss Grâce, close on’t—the same pretty fall
of the shoulders, too, and kind o’ proud set of the head.”
“Very well—it will be dark in half an hour. Violet
shall dress herself in my gown, bonnet, sliawl, scarf, and
veil, and go in my place, arm in arm with Mr. Copley, to
Bond-street. If these men are still lurking about here,
they will be deceived. Will you play your part, Mr.
Copley ?”
“ With most entire satisfaction, provided Mistress Violet’s
arm is a hostage for yours.”
Grâce, in her eagerness to carry her plan into effect did
not apprehend the full import of his words. She gave him
her hand in playful ratification of their compact, and at that
moment Copley did not much err in inferring from the ani-
mation of her face, that she would not shrink from the strict
construction that his most sanguine hope gave to the action.
“Not a word from you, Dian !” said Grâce, “are you not
satisfied ?”
“ La, ma’am, yes,” answered poor Di, looking despera-
tely bedroofed, “ but you’ve forgot Prince ; they’ll hold
Vi’let by her heart-strings if they get Prince.”
Grace’s countenance fell. “ I did forget little Prince,” she
said.
“Leave Prince to me,” said Copley; “I give you my
Word he shall be cared for.”
Diana was content. The colored people hâve a feudal
dependence on the word of “ a real gentleman,” in their ac-
ceptation of the term. She went to summon her daughter-
in-law, who presently came, a graceful, young mulattoMARRIED OR SINGLE?
13
woman. Her beauty, alas ! as well as her youth and
strength, had its money value. Her boy was clinging to
her gown, as Ishmael does to Hagar’s in Da Vinci’s picture.
His fine head and face were nature’s protest against the
State to which he was doomed. At first Violet seemed dis-
satisfied with an arrangement that separated her from him,
but when Dian had reiterated Copley’s assurance, and whis-
pered something of which Grâce heard the words “ rich”
and “ her suitor,” she seemed partly reassured, and went up
stairs with Grâce to préparé for her masquerading.
In the mean time old Dian’s heart expanded as did the
Genii, when the box was opened, he in smoke, she in
words.
“ La, sus ! I wTonder what ’Gus will say when he hears it
ail. He’s gone to Hartford with the brass band. You
know, Mr. Copley, ’Gus beats ail on the tamborine—there’s
nothing he loves so well, ’cept Vi’let and Prince. Why,
Mr. Copley, if our hearts is down in our shoes, he’ll corne in
and take down his tamborine and rise ’em right up. No
wonder ’Gus sets by Vi’let—she’s been raised like a lady.
Are you ’quainted with the Guthries down in Caroliny, Mr.
Copley ?”
461 hâve heard of them.”
“ I s’pose so. They’re one of the first families, and by
Vi’let’s tell, qualitv to the back bone. Vi’let was three
years older than Miss Angelica Guthrie. She was set off to
wait on her—that’s the way down there. They grew up to-
gether inch by inch, and Vi’let says their hearts twined to-
gether just like roots of a potted plant. She says Miss
Angelica was like her name—angel was the biggest part of
her ; she was a feeble little piece ; and sights o’ watching
and tending Vi’let had to do, but she loved her misses ail
the better for that, you know ; and when Miss Angelica
married Massa Tom Crampton, Vi’let went with her in14
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
course. But as handsome as Massa Tom ’peared, Yi’let did
not quite trust him—’case, you see, he was a gay blood, and
somehow sarvents find out the real in their massas afore the
quality does. However, things went pretty straight for a
year. They went down to Charlestown and had a pretty
gay winter, but wben they came back to the plantation,
Yi’let says, Miss Angelica gets feeble, and Massa Tom gets
tired—men can’t help it, you know; ’tis kinder tiresome
when the missesses gets sickly—and he goes off to the races.
She had no children, and Massa Tom took to gambling, and
carrying on, and so forth. Yi’let says they mostly do—the
young youth, ’case they hâve not got nothing else to do.
Yi’let says she knows many good old parents that go down
to the grave. I don’t argify witli Yi’let, but says I to my-
self, they need not—why don’t they give their slaves free,
and make their boys work, and then they would crown their
hoary heads ; as the Bible says, c Buy t’other world with
this, and so win both’—that’s it, Massa Copley. But Yi’let’s
always speaking up for ’em, ’specially the missesses. She
says they are so kind, and gen’rous, and pious. Yi’let’s
heart is as tender as a spring chicken. She says they feel
the curse of slavery more than the slaves do, and more than
the abolitioners do ; and some day they’ll shake it off, for
Yi’let says the day is a comin’ when they can’t stand it no
longer, for their lands are a runnin’ down, and their children
are a runnin’ down, and their consciences are a gnawin’, and
their hearts are a risin’ ; but says I to Yi’let, ‘ Why don’t they
make a beginnin’ ? I want you to ’splain that !’ ”
“ Are there shad in the market yet ?” asked Copley.
The old woman started at this sudden obstruction to her
flow of earnest feeling. After recovering herself, she re-
plied, “ I think there be, sir ; but my young misses is pru-
dent, and never buys ’em at the dearest.”
Poor Dian left the room crest-fallen. As she mountedMARRIED OR SINGLE?
15
the stairs to look after Yiolet’s toilet, she muttered, “ S’pose
I did run on like a house a’fire, he need not throw cold
water in ray face ! He’s a terrible fine gentleman, but he an’t
good enough for our folks arter ail.”
Grâce reappeared with her protégée. Copley surveyed
the young mulatto. “ There is an endowment of grâce and
refinement in y our very shawl and hat, Miss Herbert !” he
said.
“ Oh, no,” replied Grâce, “ she is to that manner native.
Now take her under y our ward and watch, and don’t forget
to send a carriage at eight.”
“ Forget !” he exclaimed, and then turning back from the
door, as if at a second thought, he added, “TJnfortunately I
hâve a business engagement, and can not corne with the
carriage.” The “ business engagement” was an appointment
to look over, with Mrs. Tallis, some Paris costumes for a
fancy bail.
Grâce saw by the lighted Street lamp that the men in wait
did not follow, and she rightly inferred that they were
satisfied that the parties who went out were the same who
entered a half-hour before.
“ Well, my dear child, what do you propose to do next ?”
asked Mr. Herbert, to whom Grâce was confiding Yiolet’s
story. “ Mrs. Herbert will find excellent reasons why you
should not make her house a house of refuge.”
“ My dear uncle I shall beware of encroaching on Mrs.
Herbert. She always takes the prudent side, and there are
plenty of ready-made reasons in the world’s economy for
that. I only liesitate to tell you what I hâve resolved to do
—because, Uncle Walter, you are so very saving of my
money ; but you know 4 there is a time to spend as well as a
time to save,’ and surely the 4 time to spend’ will never corne
to me with a more afîecting appeal than at this moment.”16
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ But, my dear child !”
“ Hear me out, unele. I can, in no way, but by paying
their price, shield this poor mother and her boy from the
law that forces them back to slavery. I am glad, at any
cost, to bear my testimony against it.”
“ But Grâce, eonsider, my child—you can not afford to
bear your testimony in this way. You hâve but just enough
for your own wants ; remember you are always a little in
advance of your income. They may demand $1,500 for the
mother and child ; Violet is a handsome créature, and
beauty, you know, enhances the price of this kind of
goods.”
Her uncle’s suggestion filled Grace’s eyes with tears, and
made her cheeks glow. “ Oh, my country ! my country !”
she exclaimed, “ how long are you to suffer this shame ?”
Grace’s mind was imbued with an heroic love of country, a
sentiment not common in these days of small and importu-
nate egotisms. u Don’t let us talk any more about it, Unele
Walter,” she resumed ; “I must hâve my way this time.
Eleanor is teaching me that tliere is more than one mode
of securing independence.”
“ Do as you will, my child—do as you will. I verily be-
lieve you might persuade me to throw ail the little money
we both hâve into the dock, and go round the streets with
you grinding a hand-organ. You and Eleanor will never
catch the épidémie of the country—Thank God !” he added,
devoutly.
It was further on in the saine evening when Miss Anne
Carlton’s maid wras divesting her mistress of a dress (which
lier mother averred had been c admired beyond every thing,’
at a small party wThere that lady had been the star of the
evening) that mother and daughter were discussing Grace’s
séquestration of Violet. “ Really, mamma,” said Miss AnneMARRIED OR SINGLE?
17
Carlton, 44 Grâce imposes on y ou. I can not think what
right she has to make our house a hicling-place for runaway
slaves !” She caught the reflection of her handsome face in
the glass, and interjected a sentence, seemingly foreign to
the preceding, and in a quite different tone : “ Do you know,
mamma, that Sabina Reeve says she has not the smallest
idea Copley means any thing by his dévotion to Grâce ; she
says it is a way he has of amusing himself.”
44 Time will show,” replied the non-committal mother.
44 But, about that slave-girl, mamma. Does Grâce expeot
you to submit to the police searching our house for stolen
goods ? How perfectly horrid !”
44 Grâce is trying !” said the mother. 44 But you know,
Anne, I wish to avoid any différence with her, and I think I
hâve managed pretty well so far—thanks to my knowledge
of human nature.” One could not help wondering whether
Mrs. Herbert was conscious of partaking this human nature,
which she deemed so plastic in her hands !	441 do particu-
larly wish,” she continued, 44 to avoid involving myself in
this inconvénient subject of slavery. No one disapproves of
slavery in the abstract more than I do. I fear it is wrong ;
and I know enough of political economy to know that it is
the most expensive mode of labor.”
44 Oh, mamma, do let political economy alone to-night.”
44 My dear ! you are getting as nervous as Walter Herbert.
He eut me short, just as I was begininng to give him my
views. You may rest assured, Anne* that I do not approve
of any interférence with the laws. Women’s duty is clear
on that point. I am, therefore, not pleased with Grace’s
proceeding, and above ail, with her bringing the runaway
here. But you know I stand on délicate ground. Her
father, by his will, gave her an absolute right to the apart-
ments she occupies.”
44 Yes, and Mr. Herbert to his, and absurd it was!”18
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“Dear Anne, do not speak disrespectfully of your moth-
er’s husband ; few wills are made without some errors of
judgment. But, to the point : so long as Miss Herbert
keeps tbe girl in her own apartment, I shall not interfère.
If tbe house is to be searched, I shall submit—with a protest.”
“ And so you would submit, if Grâce Herbert turned us
both out of doors. Some people always rule, and others
always give up !” and the young lady, having concluded
with this meek aphorism, retired with the conviction that
she and her mother were among the down-trodden.
The next morning every ring at Mrs. Herbert’s door
seemed to each member of her family to announce the dread
visit of the officers of justice. They did not corne, but at
12 o’clock there did corne a pacquet, addressed to “Miss
Herbert,” in Copley’s hand. It contained “ free papers” for
Violet and her boy, with a receipt to Mr. Copley for $1400,
from the agent of Violet’s owner. Copley’s star was in the
ascendant. He had stamped on Grace’s feelings, at the mo-
ment of their softening, his own image, beaming with sym-
pathy, generosity and benevolence.
The unusually happy frame of Grace’s mind was some-
what impaired by the receipt of the following curt answer
to the note to her brother-in-law, in which she had commu-
nicated what she termed, “ Mr. Copley’s timely and kind in-
tervention in his behalf
“ My Dear Sister :—
“ Accept my thanks for an offer, which of course I owe
directly or indirectly to you. The appointment proposed
neither comports with my sense of duty, my qualifications,
or my inclinations.
“ Yours aûectionately,	F. Esterly.MARRIED OR SINGLE?
19
44 P. S. Of course, you will make suitable acknowledg-
ments to H. C.”
44 Yery gracious ! my dear brother-in-law,” thought Grâce,
as she refolded the letter, feeling an implication with her
lover as an injured party, when she perceived that Eleanor
had filled the inner pages of the sheet. 46 Ah, sweet sister,”
thought she, 44 you will make ail smooth—you wrere made to
pick the thorns out of life.”
44 Pon’t set it down against Frank, dear sister,” said the
letter, 44 that his answer is a little crusty. You know how
tliese bilious attacks of his turn ali sweet juices to acid for
the time. The harassing trials attending his résignation,
followed too close upon our boy’s death, and quite knocked
him up. It seems to me that the afflictions God appoints
are sanctifying, while those of men’s infliction stir up the
evil in our nature. Frank has sufîered terribly from the
uncharitable denunciations of some of his brethren. It is
through their intervention that he has failed of his élection to
the presidency of------ College. I rather rejoice in this
failure, as giving my husband the opportunity for entire
rest. Teach he will, for to this service he holds himself
pledged by his clérical vow.
441 am sure that his perplexities will excuse to you, my
dear sister, his discourtesy to Mr. Copley. Pray make the
best of it to him. Give him my grateful acknowledgments ;
and, dear Grâce, do let your friend know how much I felt
his kindness to little Herbert. Apologize for my not writ-
ing a note to him. I hâve been so absorbed in nursing and
cheering my husband, that I hâve neglected minor duties.
44 Dear sister, I did not know, till trial and, in some sort,
disappointment, came, the full blessedness of the marriage
tie. Not in the days of 4young love,’ not in our hours of
ease, but now, when the strain of life has corne, do we20
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
realize the worth of oui* bonds ; storms and adverse winds
prove the ship. May your marnage, dear sister, whenever
it cornes, be as happy as ours !” Grâce paused, read over
the last paragraph, smiled—sighed—and then finished the
letter. “ Pray, Grâce, look in upon Cousin Effie, and see
that she does not over-fatigue herself with little Hel. Tell
dear old Di’ we hope to be at home next week. My dearest
love to TTncle Walter, and kind remembrance to Mrs. Her-
bert ; and please tell Anne, that if I go to B. I will execute
her commission with pleasure.	E. E.”
“ Oh, dear, perfect sister !” exclaimed Grâce, “ your heart
compassés sea and land—even takes in Anne Carlton ! Well,
there can be but one normal character in a family—and but
one normal marriage !”CHAPTER II.
---------------“ beyond reach
His children can not wander
Of the sweep of his white raiment.”
On the banks of the Hudson river, on one of the old
roads not yet absorbed into a broad and numbered avenue,
was a farm-house on a property called “ Blossom Farm.”
The house stood under a bluff overlooking the river and the
Palisades. It was completely screened, winter and summer,
by tall old pines. The road that ran between it and the
river, scarcely more than a bridle path, was particularly at-
tractive for horsemen who liked lonely and romantic rides.
There, in a well-aired apartment of the house, bolstered by
piles of pillows, lay a young woman in the last stage of con-
sumption, as her emaciated frame, her hectic cheek, her
glowing eye, her moist temples and her whistling breath too
surely indicated. Her fair long tresses were turned off her
face and lay over the pillow with that lifeless languor which
marks even the hair in this disease. Her small transparent
hands were tightly clasped, betraying the effort to which her
spirit was strained. Her faithful little spaniel lay at her feet,
looking up wistfully, moving at her slightest movement, and
wagging his tail at every sound of her husky feeble voice—
that voice lately so sweet and clear. Miss Travers stood
behind her, dropping heavy tears on her pillow, and bathing22
MÀRRIED OR SINGLE?
her temples, while a middle-aged woman knelt beside lier,
her whole frame quivering with émotion, and her face crim-
’soned and convulsed with grief. “ Why, in the world, my
poor child,” she said (it was Jessie’s mother), “ did you
not tell his mother ? Did the villain bùy your silence ?”
“ No, mother. But when I felt what it was to be miséra-
ble—oh, most misérable—I could not bear to make another
so—he was her only child.”
“And you—you were mine ! Oh God, rain down curses
on him !”
“ Oh, mother, don’t say that. You promised to be still
and hear me. I can not speak if you say such words—don’t,
mother dear.”
“ I will try not, my darling,” said the poor woman eagerly,
and she pressed her hand firmly over her mouth.
“He sent me to the city,” resumed Jessie, “to a decent-
looking place ; he gave me plenty of money, and every way
provided for me. Oh, how I lived on his promise to corne
and see me—he never came—I thank God now, but then I
did not feel so. I saw only a woman and a servant that
tended on me. I soon found out they were the worst of
people.”
“ Oh, my innocent child !”
“ Hush, dear mother. I w rote again to you—was it that
letter you got ?”
“ It was, thank God.”
“ I can’t remember how many weeks I was there, it seemed
forever. I had cried till I had no more tears left ; but I
sobbed, and sobbed night and day, I had got so into the
wTay of it. One horrid night the house seemed full ; there
was rioting, and drunkenness, and thundering knocks at my
locked door. I was in such terror. The next day I stole
away, and went to Miss Martha Young’s. She was dead.
Oh, when I found it so, I was so sick and faint. But, mo-MAEEIED OE SINGLE ?
23
ther, God did not forsake me. A kind Irish woman took
me into her own little room, and got such plenty of work
for me, that I earned more than I spent. I made my baby-
things ; they were so pretty !” A smile gleamed over Jes-
sie’s face at this one pleasant memory. “ I loved to look at
them ; I could not help it—I hope it was not wrong ; I
knew I was disgraced, but I did not feel wicked, mother.
It seemed to me that my Father in heaven looked down on
me in pity, not in anger. I had burned up the bank-notes
Mr. Copley gave me. I had cast away ail the fine things he
decked me with. I had tried to do ail the right I could,
and I was patient and somehow at peace. It was last May
my baby was born—the baby that I had so longed to
hold in my arms ! to feel its breath on my cheek, and its
little lips on mine, but, oh mother, it was dead—it was
decid ! I never saw it !” The poor girl’s voice here sank
away and a shiver passed over her, but after an interval of
ten minutes, and taking some restoratives, she was able
again to speak. “ It was better so, I suppose ; I had on
right to the sweet feelings of a mother. I was very, very
ill, and that good soûl staid from her day’s work to nurse
me, A cough came on, and I went down, down, down,
month after month, worse and worse. About a month ago,
it may be two, my mind began to wander, and one night, I
think, I got up in my sleep—I don’t know—it was ail con-
fused—” She rose in the bed, and rested on her elbow, and
seemed piercing into the intrieate obscurities of her memory,
but it was in vain ; she shook her head and sank back. “ It
seemed to me I met him—I can not say if I did. I can not
separate what was real from what was a dream. My mind
was so bewildered—could it hâve been a dream ? I remem-
ber it ail so well. The streets were still and empty, and I
walked on and on—I was so tired. I looked up to the stars,
and they looked cold and far away, and I tried to pray, and24
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
God seemed far away too. Then I heard footsteps—I stood
trader a lamp. Mr. Copley came close to me—he was walk-
ing with a tall lady. It could not bave been a dream, and
yet when I laid my hand on him, and stopped him, and spoke
to him, be seemed not to know me—just as people do seem
in a dream—and be sbook me off, and I fell on tbe pavement,
and then I don’t remember any more till I waked in tbe
hospital on Blackwell’s Island. You know, dear Miss
Travers, what tbat place is ? It’s tbe place, mother, wbere
tbey send wretcbed women from wretcbed places. I was
mistaken for one of tbem ! Ob, dear ! dear ! dear !”
“ You, Jessie, my cbild ! and you ask me not to curse
him ?”
“ You must not, mother. I am just gone, and I want to
hear blessing and not cursing. Mother, say tbat blessed
prayer with me I used to say at home, when I knelt down
before you. I hâve prayed it many a time when it seemed
to fold me round like wings and lift me above my sin and
my sorrows. Pray it with me, dear mother, and you won’t
feel like cursing.”
Mother and child repeated together that divine pétition,
whose few words expand to every want of humanity. The
mother’s voice was soft and steady. Jessie’s such as one
might imagine a spirit’s to be, hovering at tbe opening gâte
of immortality. When it was finished, she drew her mother
down to her bosom, gave her a long protracted kiss, and
murmured, so low tbat Miss Travers bent her head to the
pillow to hear her, “ Now ail my trouble is over, mother.
God bas forgiven us botli. We shall meet in heaven.” She
gasped for breath. Miss Travers gave her a cordial, and
wiped away the cold dews on her forehead. After a little
while her breath was less obstructed ; nature roused its last
energies, and she proceeded : “You want to know ail,
mother ; there’s not much more to tell. I was three weeksMARRIED OR SINGLE?
25
in the hospital. Oh, what racking pains of body, and pangs
of conscience, and far worse, what hardened wickedness I
saw there ! For the most part they were victims of vanitv
and love of dress. I thought good women should gather
up friendless children, and teach weak ignorant girls what
snares fine clothes and flattery may be to them. But God’s
witnesses were there too—a good doctor, and a kind matron ;
and there came there every week, a woman—one of God’s
messengers she surely was—she looks after ail forsaken and
forgotten ones—love and hope shone in her face. The sun
broke on my black night when she took my hand and kissed
me, and told me to be of good cheer. She it was that
brought me to this quiet place, and brought Miss Travers to
me.”
Ail that we hâve here written down in continuons sen-
tences, was broken into fragments by faintness, gasping, and
sometimes utter loss of breath. Now her eye was becoming
glazed, and her utterance so painful that Miss Travers said,
“ Don’t try to speak any more, dear child, it is too hard.”
ct Only one word more—mother, say you forgive him.”
“ I do—I do forgive him—God forgive us ail !”
A heavenly smile lighted Jessie’s face.
“ Just like the first smile I ever saw on my baby’s lips !”
exclaimed the mother.
“ Thanks,” whispered Jessie, her feeble hand groping for
Miss Travers ; “ poor little Beau, good-bye—kiss me, mo-
ther—how dark it’s getting ! Good-night—good-night !”
The low whisper ceased, the breathing became fainter and
fainter. In one hour more Jessie’s heart ceased to beat.
Miss Travers sank on her knees in silent prayer. The
mother seemed totally changed. God had spoken to the
waves of résistance and resentment, “ Peace—be still !”
and they were still. She sat down on the bedside, and
VOL. II.	226
MARRIE!) OR SINGLE?
calmly putting aside the pillows, laid Jessie’s head on her
bosom, and folded her arms around her, saying in a subdued
tone, “ My own little girl in my arms again !”
Here, in the deep shadows of obscurity, lay tliis victim of
a man of the world, degraded—not corrupted—a beautiful
fiower ruthlessly crushed, God’s gracious gifts thrown away,
and the good purposes of his providence contravened. Here,
her life taken away, her pure name blighted, never to be
spoken, but with scorn or sighs ; here she lay—dead—on
the bosom of a broken-hearted mother !
Where was he who was to answer for her fate ? Lapped
in luxury—seeking a fresh pleasure for every passing hour—
received among “ respectable men,” who Jcnew his course of
life, as if untainted, and—God help us !—by mothers as a fit
associate, a coveted husband for their daughters, for he be-
longed to the “ best society,” he was “ high-bred,” and
“ very élégant,” and “ so fascinating”—we quote, not invent
the current phrases—and “ he had thirty thousand a year !”
This is the stale old world complaisance repeated here.
Pass the threshold to another life—“ A ministering angel
shall my sister be when thou liest howling.”*
HORACE COPLEY TO SAM BELSON.
“ Dear Sam,
“ I hâve been passing the evening alone with my mother.
I do that dutiful act now and then. My mother is regularly
pious, straight-laced, but she discreetly avoids meddling
wTith my affairs. I fancied she had her suspicions after
Jessie’s sudden demise, but she said nothing—wise in her
génération is my mother. ‘Apropcs des bottes,’ I met
* Sec "cto at tho end of this chapter.MARKIED OR SINGLE?
27
tliat girl Jessy in the Street not long ago—she is shockingly
changecl—gone like the rest of them. She stopped me, and
spoke to me, and who of ail the world do you think was with
me !—G. H. By Jupiter, Sam, I thought my game was up
—but bless these fine young ladies !—bless their voluntary
and involuntary blindness ! To return to my tête-à-tête
with my mother. After a preliminary fidgeting she began .
4I hâve long wished, my son, to speak to you on an inte-
resting subject. The town, you know, Horace, is giving
you to Miss Herbert.’ I bowed and looked, Pli answer for
it, as blank as white paper. 41 hâve no objection to make,’
she continued (that is, revered mother, you will not oppose
a will you can’t control) 41 must confess I should hâve pre-
ferred another sélection. Your dear father in his life-time
tried hard to purchase the beautiful Carlton property next
ours, and when I think of what I know to hâve been his
wish, of course it seems to me a pity that you do not prefer
Miss Anne Carlton, who is quite as handsome and as supe-
rior as Miss Herbert, and more—(I wondered what my
mother stumbled at), and more—docile—more like to make
a pliant wife. But of course it is for you to décidé—it is
nothing to me in a worldly point of view.’—Humbug, Sam,
she would give her right hand to see me married to Anne—
and her 4 beautiful property.’ 4 It is a trial,’ she continued,
4 when an only son cornes to marry; daughters-in-law are
not daughters, but mothers are always mothers.’ She wiped
her eyes, perhaps tears from them, for it is a tremendous
struggle to ungrapple her hopes from the Carlton estate. I
assured my venerable parent that I felt deeply grateful for
her generosity, but I only nibbled at the bait ;—it is too soon
to pour my confidence into the maternai bosom. The bal-
ances are still quivering. They shall not turn against me.
I know, Sam, you think me a fool for this dogged pursuit,
when, as you say, there are scores of pretty women—Anne28
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
Carltons—that I might marry for the asking, or, better still,
hâve without the cost, and risks, and tedium of marnage ; or,
I may enjoy the swing of youth, you tell me, and at forty,
fifty, or sixty buy a pretty young wife. Wives hâve their
price in our pure young republic, and if not quite as cheap
as in a Turkish market, they are as surely to be bought. But,
my boy, I can not give up the chase now'. Like other men,
perhaps I ‘ prize the thing ungained more than it is.’ Six
years since I made a bet with you and recorded it, that I
would marry Grâce Herbert. When I was a boy, if I set
my wishes on a particular apple, on a particular tree, I
would break my neck but I got it. My temper is not yet
changed !
“ She cares not a fig for my fortune, or my position—this
gratifies my pride ; for, if she marries me, it will be for what
I ara, or what she fancies I am, Laugh at my vanity, if you
will, I hâve it in common with the world ; it is the universal
motive-passion ; it impels the florist to produce the prize
rose, and leads the martyr to the stake ; we are ail on one
level there.
“ I hâve made lucky hits of late. The Esterlys hâve lost
one of their progeny, and while they were in the ferment of
hopes and fears, I rained down toys and flowers upon them.
Trilles light as air tell, when the heart is soft. I wrote a
masterly note, and sent it, with a bouquet, to solace Miss H.
when she came home from her nephew’s funeral. It was
non-committal, and yet significant enough. I could turn
Augusta Tallis’ head off her shoulders, with half the pains
I took to compose that note.
“ But my master-stroke, my coup-de-grace, was this very
morning. There has been a hue and cry after a mulatto
runaway slave, a devilish fine créature, connected with an
old family servant of the Esterlys. Miss H., as one might
predicate of her, partakes the furor for fugitive slaves inMARRIED OR SINGLE?
29
general, and for this one she had a particular interest. I
seized the occasion, and ransomed the woman and lier boy,
paying to the tune of $1,400 ! !
“I see but one breaker ahead—that cousin of mine, Julia
Travers, saint and vestal; would she were trimming her
own fires, instead of watching mine ! Setting aside féminine
decency, she had the boldness, not long ago, to speak to
me of that little fille-de-joie, Jessie, who has turned up some-
where in Miss Julia’s harvest-field, and c délia quaile é bella il
taceref and so I told my cousin in pretty plain English, and
we parted—daggers drawn.
“ Rolla is at the door, I am going out for a gallop—au
revoir—”
“11, p.m.—I think it was the devil, or a spell like that
which is said to bring a murderer back to the précisé scene
of his crime, that made me turn Rolla’s head out of the
avenue into an obscure road, which you may remember,
where, on turning an angle by a copse of pines, you corne
upon an old farm-house. As I came round the corner, Rolla
was in full headway. I saw a hearse standing before the
farm-house door, and two or three officiais about it. I think
from a premonitory impulse to escape the place, I must hâve
given a sudden jerk to Rolla’s bit ; he never before served
me such a knave’s trick—he stumbled, and threw me over
his head ; mine struck the ground. I was stunned, and taken
into the farm-house unconscious. When I came to my
senses, I was stretched on a sofa, and my cousin Julia was
bathing my temples. My perceptions were dim, but I think
there was another person beside my cousin in the room, for
I hâve an impression of a ghostly pale face, and a long
mourning veil floating through a door into a back-parlor,
and of my cousin leaving my side to close the door. She
gave me a glass of wine—her hand shook ; so, I think, did30
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
mine. After a while she said, c Your color is retnrning—are
you better ?’
44 c Yes, quite well.’
“c Your horse is at the door ; are you able to remount him?’
44 Her voice was steady, and her manner not unkind. I
can not tell why I was irritated. Are there unseen démons
that beset us ? I felt as if I were in a place of torment, and
she there to scourge me. I replied, 4 Yes, perfectly able,’
and threw from me a handkerchief steeped in some infernal
stuff which she had laid on my forehead. As I rose to my
feet—the room turned dark ; I reeled, and caught by the
fîrst thing I could reach. The confusion passed like a driv-
ing cloud, and directly, with the full power and acuteness of
my senses, I perceived that my hand had seized the open lid
of a coffîn, and under my eye was the face of that girl—
Jessie. Good God î Her image, as she was a little more than
a year ago, rose before me ; the bloom and roundness ; the
rich and shining tresses that her little childish fingers played
with, as in her confusion she parried my love-making ; those
bright dewy lips, now blue—blue, and cold—bah! they
haunt me. I was weakened by my fall, and this shocking
sight smote me : my nerves were shaken—my blood curdled
at my heart. I sliould hâve been prepared for this sorry
sight by the looks of the girl when I met her in the Street,
but I was not ; I was unmanned. I paced up and down the
room, and again I stood over the dead girl. Just at that
moment the door opened, and in sprang another acquaintance
of mine, Jessie’s only friend, a little spaniel that had corne
with her from her English home ; she called him Beau. I
had fed and petted him ; he flew up to me, fawned on me,
and licked my hands. Sam, I confess it, I felt at the moment
as if it would be sacrilege to touch him. He turned from
me, and leaped to the coffin, and lay there as still as the clod
within it. I was weak as a child. I wrung my hands—IMA.RRIED OR SINGLE?
31
cried like a boy! I saw a tear in the hollow of Jessie’s
cheek ; I started, and looked to my cousin. 4 Her mother
dropped it there,’ she said.
“ 4 Her mother ! Has she a mother ?’ I asked.
“4 Yes, a broken-hearted mother. Oh, Horace ! who can
say where a great wrong shall stop ? Dear little Jessie’s
sorrows are ended. She forgave ail, and I doubt not is for-
given. Do not let her dying prayer for you be lost ! There
is mercy for the sinner ; though his sins be as scarlet, they
shall become white as wool.’ She went on multiplying trite
quotations. Her exhortation was a thought too long; it
brought me back to the old track. Had she left me to the
scourging of that horrid sight—to the rebuke of that fond
little animal, I might hâve passed by remorse to penitence,
and perchance corne out upon the highway of reformation,
but I was not to be bridled and ridden by a canting girl,
so I broke away, mounted Rolla, and came home. I swal-
lowed a glass of brandy, and went to the opéra, but I heard
nothing but the ringing in my ears, saw notliing, but that
coffin, and the wreck within it. I rushed into the Street,
and found myself before Miss Herbert’s door. Miss Herbert
heard me as I entered, and came into the hall to thank me
for my part in the fugitive-slave affair. She sent a flood of
healing from her starry eyes into my souk When we came
into the drawing-room, her step-mother—old women are
always asking about one’s health—remarked my paleness,
and inquired if I were ill, and followed up her inquiry
with an exclamation at a patch on my forehead which I be-
lieved my hair covered. I stammered, and fînally confessed
that my horse had thrown me.
44 4 Your horse stumbled !’ exclaimed old Herbert, who
never lets an opportunity pass of annoying me ; ‘I think I
heard you boast that a horse well broken like your’s neyer
stumbled.’32
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“‘Rolla bowed to destiny, Uncle Walter,’said Grâce;
c pride must hâve its fall ! But I hope you are not much
hurt,’ she added, turning on me a look full of earnest inter-
est. Uncle Walter, Rolla, may go to the de vil—that look
pays ail. Lisle was there. That old loafer, Walter Herbert,
affects him greatly. I meet him hobbling along at the
young man’s side every day. I believe in my soûl, the old
fool would rather give his niece to him than to me ! I am
not jealous of him, Sam, but we are antagonistic. He looks
at me with a cold contempt that irritâtes me.
“ Good-night—the clock strikes two—I am tired, out and
out, but there is no sleep in me—phantoms haunt me. Twice
I hâve rushed into the Street, and walked round the square.
I can not get beyond that coffin ! that dead girl ! I am not
worse than other men, nor old, nor sick—why should these
phantoms pursue me ? Good-night.	H. C.”
The good man méditâtes and prays in the silent watches
of the night, and “ the peace that passeth understanding”
takes possession of him. But to ail, save the good, what
are these “ silent watehes,” when nature with its thousand
assuaging voices is stilled, when the clamors of the world
are hushed, the flatteries of friends are forgotten, the offi-
ciousness of incessant vanity is subdued, and even the sooth-
ing whisperings of self-love hâve died away ? Crimes, sor-
rows, levities—that which “ has been done that ought not to
hâve been done,” and “ that which has been left undone”—
haunt the memory. The soûl is alone in the sun-light of
truth, before the tribunal of conscience ! before God !
The veriest wretch of our city, unfed, unhoused, needed
not to envy Horace Copley, the rich, the exquisite, the “ fas-
cinating” Horace Copley, during the silent w’atches of that
night.
No besieging general ever more anxiously calculated theMARRIED OR SINGLE?
33
chances of succees, and provided against intervening and
opposing forces, than did Copley. The nearer he approached
the hour of victory, the more eager and vigilant he became.
He had now to manage his cousin Julia, and to that end
he elaborately penned the following epistle :
“ My Dear Cousin Julia :—
“ After the melo-dramatic scene which we shared yes-
terday, I feel bound to make an appeal to you, not wholly to
justify myself, but to State some extenuating circumstances.
This is not a fitting subject to discuss with a young lady,
but it is thrust upon me, and you must pardon me. A ré-
currence to the circumstances of my early life will perhaps
distill from your kind heart some drops of pity for me. Re-
member, that I was left at nineteen, when the appetites are
keenest, and the love of pleasure uncontrollable, heir of a
large fortune, and master of myself. My father, it is too
well known, had not been over-strict in his life. With his
example, I inherited his constitution. Pardon me, Julia ;
you are a sensible woman, and will allow their due weight
to the grounds of my defence.' At nineteen, then, I began
my career ; I had intimâtes older than myself, who were
deep in the world. I plunged in with them, and I hâve no
great satisfaction in the retrospect of the two years that fol-
lowed.
“ At that period, viz., when I was twenty-one, ‘ a change
came o’er the spirit of my dream’—the love of my child-
hood for Grâce Herbert revived, with ail the force of man-
hood, and from that hour, with more or less hope, I hâve
loved and foliowed her. From that period I hâve been get-
ting rid of my old companions, and habits, and, on my soûl,
they hâve now no charm for me, or influence over me.
“‘And y et,’ you will say,‘this poor girl’s tragedy has
been enacted within the last year !’ True, my dear cousin,
2*34
TVfA'R’RTF.D QB SINGLE?
true ! But I could not turn anchorite at once. Miss Her-
bert had been unusually cold to me ; and disheartened, I
shut myself up at Elm Grove. My mother brought this
pretty young person there, and imprudently left us alone
together. I can not enter into details to you; but, for
beaven’s sake, dear Julia, let by-gones be by-gones. Your
imagination is naturally excited by the illness and death of
this young person—God knows, no fault of mine—but look
• at the facts I hâve stated reasonably. I did ail in my.power
to atone for my fault ; I sent the girl to the care of a person
in whom I had implicit confidence, and, as perhaps she told
you, provided ample means for every exigency.
“ But, my dear cousin, as it is impossible we should view
this subject quite in the same light, let me turn to another,
on which we must hâve one judgment. I hâve but one
chance for happiness, perhaps for virtue, for I am not
stronger than other men, and disappointment might throw
me back into the Whirlpool which I hâve escaped by the
force of a pure and constant passion. You know, by your
own expérience, the omnipotence of such a love. You will
not assume the responsibility of depriving me of its motives
and security ? The future opens two paths to me—one of
married love and honorable aspiration, the other, the c facilis
descensus which I shall take, dépends on you.
“ You love my mother ? Her heart is garnered up in my
unworthy self. With me alone rests the transmission of the
husband’s name whom she loved and honored, despite his
faults—who, among poor mortals, has not faults ? You would
compass sea and land to save my life for my mother’s sake ;
will you not do something to preserve that which is far
dearer to her, the honor of my life ?
“ I know you hâve a stern, permit me to say, a fanatical
sense of duty, which might impel you to disclose this story of
the poor girl, with your partly false impressions of it, to MissMARRIED OR SINGLE?
35
Herbert. If you do, it is easy to foresee the effect upon her
wounded pride, may I not add, her wounded affection ?
Dare you take this responsibility ? I ask this question
solemnly, my dear cousin, not in a spirit of défiance. Julia,
when you kneel at the marriage altar, will it not be a bitter
thought to you, that you hâve fenced me from it forever ?
for as true as there is a heaven above, I never again can
entertain an honorable love.
“ You may imagine what is the force of feeling that over-
comes my habituai reserve, and leads me to throw my open
heart, quivering, at your feet—do not crush the life out
of it.
“ May the God you so faithfully serve direct you !
“ Yours devotedly,	H. C.”
Miss Travers, with a deep conviction of her cousin’s base-
ness, and a clear perception of her duty to her friend, had
her hat and cloak on, with the purpose of going to Miss
Herbert to make a full disclosure, when this letter was
brought in. She read it through, at first simply with indig-
nation at its false views and false assumptions. She read it
a second time, and felt there was some truth, mingled with
its subtle sophisms ; a third time, and she shrunk from level-
ing a blow that must strike down her aunt ; a fourth, and,
throwing off her hat and cloak, she exclaimed aloud, “No,
I dare not take this responsibility ; perhaps it is by marrying
my cousin that poor Grâce is to work out his salvation and
her own !”
How few there are that comprehend the responsibility of
declining a responsibility !
Copley received a short, cold note from his cousin, promis-
ing secresy, and unfolding the letter he had written to Bel-
son, he added this postscript :36
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ I hâve Julia’s promise of secresy, and the devil himself
can’t tempt her to break it ! The game is won ! Dear,
sweet cousin Julia ! y ou are just as consistent as the rest of
the world—saints and sinners !”
NOTE.
If this sad story serve to expose a prevailing sin, let it hâve the full
weight due to an “ o’er true taie.” Its leading facts are true. Some of the
most touching expressions were taken down from the lips of a dying girl,
one of the many who are every year in our Christian city corrupted in
their youth, and turned aside from the benign purposes of Providence, their
feir field of life choked with poisonous weeds, and untimely driven to that
bar, where, if mercy is meted to them, justice will be dealt to their de-
stroyers.CHAPTER III.
u Ye ken when folks are paired, Birdie !
Ye ken when folks are paired ;
Life ’s fair an foui and freakish weather,
An light an lumbering loads thegither,
Maun a’ be shared.”
The Esterlys, returned to their home, are at breakfast in
the sunny room where ail the home-breakfasts of their mar-
rîed life had been eaten. The beginning of each day has a
flavor of youth. Each morning, as in Paradise, “ heaven
wakes with ail his eyes ;” and what happier scene do they
fall upon than a family assembling in love, grateful for possi-
ble périls escaped, and speaking the “ good-morning” in
tones of affection, hope, and courage ? Of ail the family
rites, the breakfast is the cheerfulest to the sound in body
and mind—to the unsound, its sweet uses are turned to
bitterness.
Eleanor, owing to the pressure of family work, had tied
the baby in a high chair at the table, and she, excited by the
unwonted indulgence, was rattling tea-spoons and napkin-
rings, and babbling her glee in a baby-patois, only intelligi-
ble to baby-lovers.
“ Why, I déclaré, what a pretty noise she makes, the
darling !” said Cousin Effie ; “ she’s telling a story, is n’t she,
ail about the napkin-rings coming to see the tea-spoons ? but
Bob sings the loudest, don’t he, baby ?” Bob was the ca-
nary, whose cage was hung by the window, drawn down to38
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
admit the soft April air, and who, as is the nature of that
genus, was excited by the social clatter to do his utmost at
his noisy music.
“ Eleanor,” said her husband, in a querulous tone, “ I trust
y ou will find some place to stow away that bird out of hear-
ing, when we get to Harlem.”
“ Why, papa !” exclaimed May, “ Erby’s bird !”
The table was hushed, till good Cousin Effie said, in a
healing voice, “ Father forgot Erby.”
“ Did you forget Erby ?” whispered May, as if her father
should vindicate himself from ever forgetting the missing
boy.
But Esterly made no reply, unless the sudden direction
of his moistened eye toward the canary might be one. In
another moment the wretched bodily sensations triumphed,
as they will in their hour of mastery, over affection, senti-
ment, every thing that belongs to the spiritual nature.
“ What is this villainous taste in this bread, Eleanor ? You
really should attend to my bread,” he said.
“ I am sorry you do not relish it, Frank,” replied his wife.
u Relish it ! Why it’s a compound of acid and bitter.
You that can eat Di’s buckwheats, may talk about relishing !
What are you laughing at, May ?”
“ Why, papa, that’s the very same loaf you said was so
good last evening, at tea.”
“ Ho, May; that was Cristy’s bread.”
“ Ho, papa ; you are mistaken. Mamma came ail the way
back from Broadway, when she was going to Aunt Grace’s,
to tell Di’ to put it aside for you.”
“ That may be ; but it’s not the same.”
“ I think it is, sir ; mamma marked it with a cross.” May
turned over the loaf, gtfid, pointing to the cross, looked up
to her father with a smile that would hâve driven out a
légion of devils, having any other name than dyspepsia.MARRIED OR SINGLE?
39
Esterly made no answer, but putting aside his untasted
tea, went oflf to his study.
“ Poor Frank ! he always was so from a child,” said Cousin
Effie ; “ he is always out of sorts when he is not we.ll. Dear,”
to Eleanor, “ don’t you think a little milk porridge, with
just the least dash of lime-water, would help his stomach?”
“No, thank you, Cousin Effie, he does not like messes.”
“ Oh he hâtes them, Cousin Effie,” said May.
“ Does he, dear ? Men a’most always do—they are pecu-
liar to nurse. But, may be he’ll take a glass of cammomile
with soda. I hâve given it to him many a time when he was
of May’s âge.”
4That possibly is partly the reason,’ thought Eleanor,
“ why his bread tastes bitter now ;” but, thanking Cousin
Effie, she declined the prescription, saying she feared Frank’s
malady was now beyond a cammomile cure. The door-bell
rang. “Go, my little waiter, and open the door,” said
Eleanor to May ; “ Bridget is busy, and we must save old
Di’ ali the steps we can.” Eleanor, on reducing her expend-
itures, had dismissed her man-servant.
“ You save every body but yourself, dear,” said Cousin
Effie who, though accounted ail through life “ a dull little
body,” had an instinct to perceive and feel a démonstration
of humanity.
May, charmed with her new office, came bouncing in with
a note. It was from Mrs. Selby, the lady who had rented
Eleanor’s house and furniture. She was to take possession
on Friday. It was now Wednesday morning. The note
ran thus :
“ My Dear Mrs. Esterly :—
“ I came to town last evening, to be ready to take pos-
session on Friday. I fînd it ver y uncomfortable at the Astor
House with my children. If you can give me possession to-40
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
morrow, you will very much oblige me. As it is but one
day in anticipation, and you move so little’ furniture, I
imagine it can not much inconvenience you. Please return
by bearer a favorable answer.
“ Yours with respect,	S. S.
“ P.S. Mr. Selby and I are going to the opéra to-morrow
evening, and being a mother, you will feel how much more
I shall enjoy myself if I leave my children in my own house
instead of in a hôtel.”
Eleanor smiled at a selfîshness so common in a world
where one’s own convenience is lead in one scale, and one’s
neighbor’s a feather in the other.
“ What are you smiling at, dear ?” asked Cousin Effie ;
“ something pleasant in your note ?”
Eleanor told its purport—Cousin Effie caught but one
idea from it “ It would be awful,” she said, 46 if any thing
should happen to those dear little children—hôtels are so apt
to catch fire !”
Eleanor did not permit her amiability to degenerate into
weakness, and she had taken her pen to Write a laconic
refusai, but at the suggestion of soft-hearted cousin Effie,
she considered how she could put two days’ work into one,
and while she hesitated, her husband opened the door and
said, “ Eleanor, can you possibly copy that article for me ?”
“ Oh yes, Frank ; you know I asked you to let me do it.”
The fate of Mrs. Selby’s request was decided. Eleanor
wrote a refusai, qualifying it with the offer of her spare
room for the nurse and children.
“Nowl should never hâve thought of that !” exclaimed
Cousin Effie ; “ ’tis a great help to hâve a superior mind.”
“ A far greater to hâve a superior heart, Cousin Effie.”
Eleanor’s sweet look at Cousin Effie, as she said this, madeMA-R-RT^T) OR SINGLE?
41
it inévitable for the honest little woman to take the remark
home, and she said with a blushing deprecation, “ Well, I
can feel, but I never know how to say or do any thing.”
“ Dear Cousin Effie, do you call it doing nothing to take
my big babv off my hands till 12 o’elock ?”
“ Oh, that’s only what I love to do.”
“ And can do so well, Cousin Effie, that we shall never
again know how to live without you.”
“ The dear little creater !” exclaimed Effie, as Eleanor
went off to her task with alacrity, “ who but she would
ever think such a poor old body as I any thing but a burden ?
What a wife for poor Frank ! She takes ail the stumbling-
stones and bramble-bushes out of every body’s path !”
“ My mother ?” asked May. While Cousin Effie was think-
ing how she should literalize her figurative language for
May’s compréhension—not seeing how very short the
descent was from her own level to the child’s—the door
was opened, and Mr. Walter Herbert appeared. May leaped
into his arms, and Cousin Effie, begging to be excused, with-
drew.
“ Where is your mother, May ?” asked Mr. Herbert. •
“Writing for my father, and she said she must not be
called for any body—but you are some body,Uncle Walter,
and I may call her for you.”
“ No, no, May—I am no body—and no one cares for
me !”
“ Uncle Walter, I am sure I do, and my Aunt Grâce
does.”
“ Your Aunt'Grâce has other fish to fry.”
“ Aunt Grâce fry fish ! How funny you are, Uncle
Walter.”
Uncle Walter did not look “funny,” but pensive and
abstracted. He was recoiling from dangers that now
seemed to him close at hand. He had asked Grâce to corne42
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
to her sister’s with him. She declined, pleading an engage-
ment. During his solitary walk he had met her with Cop-
ley. May, with the instinct of a loving child, felt, without
knowing wherefore, that he needed to be comforted. She
put up her bright lips and kissed him, caressed his cheek,
and said, “ Ah, now, Uncle Walter, corne and live with us
in our nice little house at Harlem ; if you and Aunt Grâce
corne it will be jolly ! Oh, it’s such a pretty little house ;
not ugly old brick like this, but wood painted white ; and
not such big rooms as these, but the cunningest little rooms,
just a little bigger than mamma’s dressing-room. It’s so
much pleasanter, Cousin Effie says, not to hâve rooms clut-
tered up with furniture and things that we children must
not toùch—only a few things that we must hâve, you know,
Uncle Walter.”
“ But my darling, people differ as to what they must
hâve.”
“ Let them ; you and I know, Uncle Walter, and mam-
ma has ail those things—a sofa for you to take a nap on
when you are tired, and chairs, and a little table to sew by,
and a big table to eat on. And we shall hâve one room
entirely empty, where you, and I, and Grâce can play blind-
fold, and not hurt ourselves, and break things. And there’s
a closet big enough for my baby-house, and a nice sunny
kitchen, where poor old Di’ won’t get her rheumatisms,
mamma says ; and oh, best of ail ! there’s a pear-tree in our
yard where we can hang up Bob’s cage; and ever—ever so
much blue sky over us ! Will you corne with us, Uncle
Walter ?”
The child’s estimâtes of the necessaries of life were cer-
tainly very different from those of the world’s in general—
but, except ye become as one of these, ye can not enter into
that kingdom of heaven which is in a heart of love and
simnlicity.MARRIED OR SINGLE?
43
Uncle Walter was responsive—May eheated him of his
moodiness—and half an hour afterward Mrs. Herbert and
Miss Carlton found him on the floor building castles with
the child, with her blocks, and laughing with her over their
downfall.
u Good-morning, May,” said Mrs. Herbert.
“ Good-morning, ma’am—keep a building, IJncle Walter
—mamma is very much engaged, ma’am, and so are Uncle
Walter and I.”
“ Hoity toity miss !” said Anne Carlton, “ where did you
learn your manners ?”
“ Pshaw, Anne !” said Mrs. Herbert, “ children must be
children. I heard at the door, my dear, that your mamma
was engaged, but we came in to see the baby, and to take
you home to pass the day.”
“ Is Aunt Grâce at home ?”
“ Ho.”
“ Then I’il stay here, if you please, ma’am, and I’il go and
ask Cousin Effie to bring down baby.”
“ Oh, Mr. Herbert !” said Anne Carlton, as May ran off to
the nursery, “ how can you help spoil that child ? She is the
rudest little thing I ever saw.”
“ Hot rude, Miss Anne ; you know the old adage—c chil-
dren and fools will speak the truth.’ ”
“ I' know they will if they are not taught better,” said
Miss Anne;
Uncle Walter whistled. How that whistle of Walter
Herbert’s was a commentary Mrs. Herbert never could bear
in silence. “You don’t understand Anne, brother,” she
said ; “ she—” and she was going on to paraphrase ail the
truth ont of Anne’s remark, when, to Mr. Herbert’s great
relief, she was interrupted by the entrance of Cousin Effie
and the baby.
Cousin Effie, after making her rustic salutation to the44
MAKRIED OR SINGLE?
ladies, was lost in the delight of showing off the baby in ail
the beauty and pride of babyhood as sbe was. She did not
even see the splendid Brussels lace on Mrs. Herbert’s new
mantilla, nor if she had, would she hâve known it from the
vulgarest net. She did not notice Miss Anne’s beautiful
French millinery. Effie was absorbed in displaying baby’s
sweet dimples, her curls, her mottled arms, her plump
little hands, and her dear rosy neck; the baby jingled
her coral bells, and crowed in response to Effie’s crooning
and May’s screams of delight at her showing-off. Suddenly,
by one of those impulses incident to babies, she dropped her
coral bells, made a spring at Miss Anne, and clutched the
roses in her bonnet. Anne shrieked, the baby screamed,
and Effie, murmuring, “ Dear little innocent creater !” and
pressing her to her bosom,made her escape from the turmoil
to the nursery.
“ Are they ruined, mamma ?” asked Anne with a tragic
vehemence.
“ Done for, Miss Anne,” interposed Walter Herbert,
while the mother was mentally elaborating a paraphrase of
the same fact. “ An irréparable calamity, is it not ?”
“ Yes, it is, Mr. Herbert, though I suppose you are laugh-
ing in your sleeve when you say so. I don’t know what
babies are born for.”
“ I sometimes wonder too, Miss Anne, when I see to what
women they grow up.”
“ Corne, corne, dear Anne,” said her mother, “ we are
wasting time—(what else do the Anne Carltons ever do with
time ?)—brother, we are going round to see Horace Copley’s
house. Bandeli is doing the frescoes. The salon-à-manger is
to be decorated after one in a celebrated villa on Como.
You will like to see a place where you hâve a prospect of
enjoying many a good dinner—do corne, brother.”
There was malice in the twinkle of Mrs. Herbert’s eycMARRIED OR SINGLE?
45
as she said this. Uncle Walter replied gruffly, “Thank
you—no !”
“ Oh, I am sure it will please you ; the house is palatial ;
splendid drawing-rooms, a suite of private apartments for
the master, another for the mistress—we’ll suppose Grâce,
for so the world does say, now—a magnificent library, a bil-
liard-room, a callisthenic apartment—in short, every thing
that heart of man or woman can desire.”
During this harangue Miss Carlton stood tapping the
floor impatiently with her pretty French boot, and fidgeting
with her faultless Paris gloves. “ I hâve been twice over
the house,” continued the incessant woman ; “ it’s nearly
perfect ; but I could make one or two suggestions to the
fortunate intended, Grâce,” she concluded, casting a side-
glance, half impertinent and half silly, at Mr. Herbert.
“ Don’t make them, madam—don’t speak to Grâce—don’t
speak to me of that house, or any thing relating to it.”
Uncle Walter’s brow had been gathering the clouds that
now burst. He could not help it.
Mrs. Herbert retreated, and as the Street door closed
upon them, she said with a gasp, as if a bucket of water
had been thrown in her face, “ Brother Walter is dreadful
to-day.”
“ Did you ever see such affectation ?” exclaimed Anne ;
“ as if he would not give his right hand to see Grâce mistress
of that house !”
And Walter Herbert, leffc free to express what he felt,
caught May in his arms, “You are right, my darling, you
are right,” he said, “ would we were ail in that little white
wooden house in Harlem !”
May said nothing, but she understood Walter Herbert far
better than those “ world’s women” did. She took out her
little handkerchief and wiped the tears from his cheek,46
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
kissed him, and whispered, “ I hâte to see you cry, Uncie
Walter ; people that’s old should not cry—don’t.”
“I won’t, May, my little comforter, I won’t.” He set
the child down and went his way.
It was near 12 o’clock when Esterly returned from a gal-
lop to Harlem, whither Eleanor had sent him on some
errands, as she said, to the new place, but mainly in the
secret hope of refreshing her husband with a ride. How
sweet and sure are nature’s restoring agencies. He came in
with a light quick step, heightened color, and brightened
eye. “ Eleanor !” he exclaimed in a voice cheerful and
tender, “ still slaving for me ?”
“ Oh, no, Frank !” she said, holding up the manuscript,
“ I hâve just done my work : see if I hâve done it well.”
He turned the leaves—“ Perfectly ; your hand-writing,
Eleanor, is as clear as your head.” He fell on his knees, put
his arm around her, and laid his head on his wife’s bosom—
“ Eleanor, I was a brute this morning ; no—not I, but my
brutish nature mastered me, and it does so often, and I am
then so querulous, cross, unreasonable, unchristian, even
your sweet patience irritâtes me, my children’s voices are
discords, the world is one huge incubus oppressing me ; then
cornes penitence bitter, but wholesome—and then, dear
Nel, the flood-tide of love, sweeping out of my life every
thing harsh and hurtful. Tell me, how is it, dear child, tbat
you never get out of patience with me, never Août me,
never, by any chance, speak a cross word to me.”
“ Perhaps you would not be flattered, Frank, if I told
you the simple truth,” replied Eleanor, turning his waving
locks from off his white temples, and smiling sweetly, as she
looked in his face, beaming with tenderness.
“ The simple truth, my child ? You can’t speak any thing
else.”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
47
“Well then, Frank, when you are ont of humor, I feel
just as I do when baby is cross with teething. It is her
inévitable misery and my business to help her, to divert and
soothe her as well as I can.”
“ That is not flattering to my manhood, Nelly,” said Es-
terly with a very dim smile.
“ The bargain was ‘ simple truth,’ not flattery, Frank, and
it is as simple truth when I tell you that these little trials are
mere exhalations from the ground, that melt away in the
dear sunshine of our love ; that you are my teacher, my
master, my daily bread.”
“ Ma’am !” called out Bridget, hastily knocking at the
door, and half opening it, “ the carman is waiting.”
The husband and wife started to their feet like lovers sur-
prised at a tête-à-tête, and like lovers, as they were, they
kissed and parted, each going with a lightened heart to the
burdens of the day.
With more of such Christian unions as that of the Esterlys,
there would be fewer divorces for “ incompatibility,” and a
long lull to the stormy question of “ women’s rights.”CHAPTER IV.
“ Let her here a shelter find,
Shield the shom lamb from the wind.”
If our reader s hâve not forgotten our humble little friend,
Letty, they will be glad to know that if she had not con-
quered her love, she had mastered herself. No thought,
bidden or unbidden, no vagrant fancy now blended her
future with Lisle’s. He had become her earthly providence,
and she carried out, in a human relation, the extravagance
of those fanatics who make self-annihilation a test of relig-
ious safety ; who say one is only fit to be saved when one is
willing to be lost. Letty’s love for Archibald, and her de-
sire to requite his generosity to her, produced a resuit that
genius might hâve failed to attain. It was her hour of study
at the piano, when she was startled by the nasal voice of a
Etranger, who, entering her parlor, said, “ Miss Letty Alsop,
I believe ?”
“Yes,” said Letty, rising, and setting a chair for the
visitor ; “ do y ou wish to see Madam Steinberg ?”
“ No ; it’s you I came to see, Letty. I call you Letty,
for I always heard of you by that name.” One who has
chanced to see the fluttering of a dove who, lighting in a
poultry-yard, encounters a mature Shanghai hen, may imagine
the relative appearance of the parties en seene. “ I conclude
you don’t know me,” continued the Shanghai ; “ but I am
the one you wrote letters to for y our Aunt Lisle.”
“ Ah, you are—Miss—Clapp!” said Letty, stammering,MARRIED OR SINGLE?
49
and blushing, as sundry recollections rushed upon her. Miss
Adeline noticed the blush, and said, mentally, ‘ I thought
so.’ For once she felt some difficulty in a direct approach
to the matter in hand. Perhaps she was touched by the ap-
pealing tenderness of Letty’s demeanor ; an ox will not set
its hoof upon a child. After looking about the room, as if
taking an inventory of its furniture, “ What a spruce little
parlor,” she said ; “ I suppose you hâve a privilège in it, as
you appeared to be playing when I came in—of course it’s
the family parlor, isn’t it ?”
“ No, Miss Clapp ; it is my private sitting-room.”
“ Dear me ! Oh, I see. You teach the young Steinbergs,
and this is thrown into your salary.”
It did not comport with Letty’s Puritan habits of truth
to connive at Miss Clapp’s mistake. “No,” she said, “ my
salary does not include the parlor.”
“Then, how do you afford it? rents are so up in the
city.”
Letty made no reply. She looked tormented.
“ I see,” continued Miss Clapp, “ that you hâve feelings,
Letty, and I don’t mean to huit them ; but I must say, a
young lady is in a precarious situation—I don’t mean that
exactly—but it’s not prudent, for a young lady to live in
lodgings that a young gentleman pays for ; and there’s no
one living bas a better right to advise you than I, if that is
your case, and Archy Lisle is the man.” Letty gave way
to inévitable tears. “ 1 am sorry for you,” continued Miss
Adeline ; “ I don’t believe any harm of you, for you look as
innocent as a lamb.” Letty did not just then feel lamb-like ;
a feeling of résistance rose in her gentle bosom. Miss
Clapp was checked in her tramp into Letty’s affairs, and,
looking round for something to fill up the pause, she saw a
portfolio on the table, with drawing utensils beside it, and
putting her hand upon it, “ Do you draw ?” she asked.
VOL. il.	350
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ Yes, a little,” replied Letty, rising to rescue the prey
from the fowler.
“ Oh don’t take it away,” said Miss Adeline, “ I admire
to look at drawings and forthwith opening the j>ortfolio,
she shook the contents upon the table ; and before Letty,
whose face reddened with more painful vexation than she
ever in her life felt before, could gather them up she had
snatched from among them a crayon sketch of Archibald
reading by lamplight—as he did to Letty many an evening
—with Steinberg’s little grand-daughter leaning her elbow
on the table, and gazing at him. It was a pretty and a faith-
ful picture, and showed that love had not deserted the art
it first inspired. Miss Adeline held it afar and near, on one
side and on the other, and then broke out in a tone of utter
amazement : “ Did y ou do this Letty ?” She probably
heard Letty’s faintly articulated “ Yes,” for she proceeded,
“ It’s much better done than any of the others ! Why, I
don’t see but it is as well done as Cheeny’s, and they say
he makes men and women look like angels. Dear me ! I
always thought Archy handsome ; but this is splendid !
Why Cheeny gets two or three hundred dollars a piece for
his. A bright thought! You can take likenesses—how "
much better for you than keeping on dépendent. I hâve a
lot of acquaintances, and I will make it a business to recom-
mend you.”
“ Oh no, no, no, Miss Clapp,” said Letty, with more ve-
hemence than she had ever spoken before ; “ don’t recom-
mend me—don’t speak about me !” and taking the drawing
from Miss Clapp, whose touch seemed to her to desecrate
that which she had kept for the contemplation of her most
private hours, she returned it to the portfolio ; and having
gathered up the scattered drawings, she laid it aside, as she
would out of the reach of a mischievous child. She felt
Miss Adeline’s presence to be intolérable, and musteringMABBIED OE SINGLE?
51
courage, she said, looking at her watch, “ You must excuse
me, Miss Clapp—it is time for the children’s lessons.”
But Adeline Clapp was not to be repulsed by the tactics
of civilized warfare. “ Oh, my dear,” she said, “ you must
keep the young ones out for a while ; I hâve not entered on
business yet. I saw you had quick feelings, and I did not
want to hurt them ; but now Pli corne to the point.” Letty
sunk back into her chair, as if a dentist, with his instrument
of torture, were approaching her. “ To commence, then,”
resumed Miss Adeline ; “ I think I can see as far into a mill-
stone as any one, and I believe that you are correct, and
that Archy Lisle is honorable.” This profession of faith in-
dicated nothing to the artless girl, and she made no answer,
though Miss Clapp paused apparently for one. She pro-
ceeded: “You know, Letty, the city is different from the
country ; there we know ail about folks, here they know a
little, and guess the rest ; and when a young woman that’s
rather pretty, to say the least, carries a gold watch, and
has a drawing-master, and the most expensive of music-
masters, as I hear you hâve, and a private parlor, and a
young gentleman visiting her for a constancy—why, people
will talk.”
“ What do you mean, Miss Clapp ? Talk about me ! 1
do not know a human créature in this great, full city, but
the Steinbergs and Mr. Lisle.”
“ My dear, what does that signify, so long as they know
Mr. Lisle ? Folks will talk—folks live by talking. Why,
Letty, I heard a drawing-room full of ladies talking over th,e
pros and cons about you and Archy, and I did not let on
that I knew either of you.”
“ But you should, Miss Clapp,” said Letty, speaking now
with a calmness that surprised herself, and a gentle dignity
that, for a moment, awed Adeline Clapp. “You should
hâve told them that I hâve no father, no mother, no brother52
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
or sister—but that Mr. Lisle is ail of these to me ; that he
placed me here with good people, where I am earning my
bread ; and that ail I hâve, beyond that, he gives me—mas-
ters and books, and my sitting-room, and my c gold watch !’ ”
If Letty could be sarcastic, then her tremulous smile, as she
uttered the last clause, was sarcastic ; but it vanished as she
added, with intense sadness, “ And he has given me what I
can ne ver hâve again—his time.”
“ And his affection, perhaps you think ?” said Miss Ade-
line, plunging her probe to the quick.
“Yes,” replied Letty, with an heroic effort, “yes, as a
dear brother gives it to a dear sister—so, and no other-
wise.”
“ That’s well—that’s very well. But, child, I am older
than you, and I must tell you it is not prudent to go on so ;
there’s no telling when brotherly love may blow out into
something higher-colored. You and Archy are running
risks. He has given you ail duty will let him, for Archy is
—married.”
“ Married !” Letty covered her face with her hands.
Whether it were white or red, whether it expressed mor-
tification, disappointment, or misery, Adeline Clapp could not
guess ; in any case, she meant to speak soothingly. “ I
knew you would feel,” she said ; “ but it’s always the way in
our family, to bring things to a head. And so I repeat it—
Archy is married. A Clapp’s word is as good as a bond.
What I tell you is trutb, though not the whole truth—that
will corne out in time ; the circumstances are peculiar. I
leave you now to judge for yourself whether it is right for
you to live on in your présent style. Not but what I think
it right that Archy should befriend you, and I am sure I am
quite willing to bear half the expense—” Miss Adeline was
stopped in her career by Letty’s hands falling into her lap,
and her head dropping on to her shoulder. Not one wordMARRIED OR SINGLE?
53
had she heard since Miss Clapp’s authoritative déclaration
that Archibald was married.
Adeline Clapp roused the house with her outcries, and as
she perceived Letty coming to life again under the tender
ministrations of the Steinbergs, she took her leave, congratu-
lating herself upon her wisdom in ascertaining the exact con-
dition of affairs, and putting a bar to their further progress.
Archibald Lisle now knew far more of the world in its
good and bad aspects, and far more of the theory and the
actuality of the world of sentiment, than when, in his youth,
he unconsciously stole away poor Letty’s heart. Without
vanity, he was aware, that placed in the relationship she was
to him, and restricted to his society, he might become the
idol to her that a girl of loving heart will make to herself,
and he conscientiously guarded against the danger by talk-
ing to her of her future career of teacher, by keeping the
ultimate purpose of his liberalities steadily in view, and by
selecting such books for reading to her as she might turn to
account in her future occupation.. We do not mean to inti-
mate that Archibald was self-denying in his dévotion to
Letty. His evenings, at old Steinberg’s, harmonized with his
domestic tastes, in danger of starvation in a bachelor’s
boarding-house life with ail its egotistic little comforts. The
kindling of Letty’s soft eye at his approach, her sweet cheer-
ful satisfaction in his society, the caresses of the little Stein-
bergs, and their glee when like ail lovers of children—childish
as they—he showered toys and candies upon them, and an
occasional gossip with the old people, ail combined to diffuse
a home atmosphère over Letty’s little sitting-room, and to
make it a balmy rest, after the dreary and weary bustle of
every-day life. Lisle had now and then, at long intervals,
spoken to Letty of Miss Herbert. He had mentioned meet-
ing her, had quoted some brilliant remark of hers, or alluded54
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
to some interesting circumstance that bore a relation to her,
and when he did so, there was a flash from his eye, and a quiv-
ering of his lip that never escaped Letty’s observation. But
strange as it may seem, this did not make her unhappy.
She had settled it in her mind, that Miss Herbert was
Archibald’s fate, but when it was to be accomplished, had
the indistinctness and mystery that death has to common
minds—and so had her own future. It was neither near, nor
afar off. So long as she satisfied her masters, did earnestly
her duty to the little Steinbergs, and could pass half her
evenings beside Archy, she lived in absolute content with
the présent. And could this hâve been her eternity, good
little orthodox Puritan as she was, we fear she would not
hâve changed it.
But now hàd corne the déclaration from that relentless
Miss Clapp that must be “ the end—ail.” And that there
might be no misunderstanding, Miss Clapp followed up her
interview with a note, as follows :—“ Dear girl, I did
not say quite ail I wished, owing to your fainting which, I
suppose, came from the heat of the room, and your surprise.
I thought it my duty to tell you of a certain person’s mar-
riage, but as it is yet a secret, don’t let it transpire, and
don’t allude to it to him.	A. C.”
Poor Letty! She could hâve plucked out her tongue
easier than to hâve told it to another, or alluded to it to
Archibald. Ail day she was restless, and in answer to the
kind solicitude of the Steinbergs, she complained of head-
ache, and head-ache and heart-ache she had. Margaretta
Steinberg brought her in a basket of exquisite flowers, and
a novel from Mr. Roberts, a lodger in Steinberg’s house.
This Mr. Roberts was head master of a noted Latin school.
He had sought an introduction to Letty through the Stein-
bergs, and had lately been lavish in certain démonstrations,MARRIED OR SINGLE?
55
which her kind friends thought most auspicious omens of
her future ; and even the children interchanged whispers
about “ dear Letty’s beau,” and smiled when they brought
in his offerings. And Mr. Roberts might hâve had a fair
chance of winning any sound heart, but not poor Letty’s.
The novel remained with uncut leaves on the table, and the
costly flowers would hâve withered there, but for Marga-
retta’s interposition.
Letty, living out of the world, and having no data by
which to calculate its chances, never, for a moment, doubted
that Archibald was married to Miss Herbert, and ail day her
tormented brain was exercised in divining the reasons of the
secresy—“ Why Archy had not even had the kindness to
hint it to her ? and how in the world Adeline Clapp had
found out what Archibald had meant to keep secret ?” She
sent away her drawing-master, she vainly tried to get through
with her daily task with her pupils. Their report brought in
Madam Steinberg, and she, alarmed by Letty’s burning
cheeks, and hot hands, sent her husband waddling round to
Mr. Lisle’s office to ask him to send a physician. But Stein-
berg not finding him there, or at his lodgings, the good old
people, with German placidity, determined to defer medical
aid, and in the mean time to administer, a homéopathie nar-
cotic, not so innocent as it might hâve been, as the old lady, on
paying her last visit to Letty’s attic before going to bed, and
finding her sleepless, trebled the dose. How blindly mortals
work out Heaven’s beneficent purposes ! Dear old Madam
Steinberg never forgot Letty’s good-night to her, and often
repeated it with streaming eyes, “ Oh, how kind you are to
me, Madam Steinberg,” she said—“ to me, a stranger and
then clasping her little hands, she added, “ Seeing this, shall
I not trust myself to him who pitiés me, even as a father
pitieth his children—I do, I do !” The trust and the prayer
were answered.56
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
Lisïe had been walking till a late hour that evening, taking
no note of time. Life seemed to him made up of disturbed and
disturbing forces, ail inharmonious. Letty in her artîessness,
her gratitude to him, and her unworldliness, stood before him
in something like reproachful contrast to Grâce, who was being
overcome by the world. Lisle felt, as he had never felt before,
the fact of Letty’s love. He felt an irrépressible gush of pity
and tenderness for her—not love ; no, that cornes not for the
bidding. He was approaching Canal-street, and turned into
it, reraembering, with some contrition, that a longer interval
than usual had passed since he had seen her. He heard a
cry of fire, and perceived it was in his direction. Still, so
common an occurrence excited no alarm, till he perceived
the outcries corfcentrating near Steinberg’s. In a moment
after, he saw the fiâmes burst out from the old man’s little
wooden dwelling. In another instant he was there, and
penetrating through the crowd, he met Steinberg, face to
face, who, with a child in each arm, was screaming in Ger
man—so completely had he lost his head—“ Letty’s in the
attic, save her !—the dear child !—mein Gott 1 mein Gott !”
Lisle understood him—he knew the localities of the house.
The fire had broken out in a crazy back-kitchen, and had
made some progress when the sleepers in the front rooms were
awakened by the smoke and crackling. “ Bring a ladder !”
cried Lisle, “ there’s a person in the attic that must be saved !”
A ladder was brought, but intrepid as our firemen notoriously
are, they recoiled from applying it. “ Ther’s no use,” cried
one, “ the fiâmes are licking round the rafters—it can’t be
done.” Lisle sprang upon the ladder. “ Corne down, young
man,” cried another. “ You are lost,” shrieked a third, with
a horrid oath, “ you are lost, if you enter !—it’s death—
it’s death, over and over.” Lisle paused on the topmost
rung, but not to retreat. With characteristic presence of
mind he took a siik scarf from his neck, put it over his face,MA~RRTTCD OK SINGLE?
57
and secured it. With one tlirust of his strong arm he de-
molished the frail window-sash, a dense column of smoke
rushed outward, and Lisle disappeared. From below arose
cries upon His name, who, if forgotten till human help fails,
is surely then remembered. Breaths were suspended till,
issuing from the blackness, and followed by the fiâmes, Lisle
reappeared bearing Letty, whom he had wrapped in a blanket,
as if he carried but a child’s weight. A general acclamation
burst from the crowd ; such a response as ever cornes from
man’s soûl to an heroic deed.
Archibald, tearing the eover from his face that had saved
him in his mortal strife with death, perceived that Letty was
incapable of motion and unconscious. Plenty of hands
came to his aid, and she was borne to the nearest safe house,
and laid on a sofa. Restoratives were brought, and medical
aid was sought and found. Her puise beat feebly. Archi-
bald knelt before her, and unconsciously kissed over and
over the little hands he held in his, and felt the puises, that
had quickened at the faintest sound of his approaching foot-
step, grow feebler and feebler.
“ Spare your pains, friends,” said the physician with pro-
fessional coolness, addressing the assistants who were lavish-
ing restoratives ; “ it is ail over with the poor girl. It is
death by suffocation.55
“ It is not death ; it can not be death !55 cried Archibald ;
“ Letty ! Letty—dear Letty !” She answered not. “ Oh,
Letty—dear Letty ! rouse yourself. Speak to me—to
Archy !” There was a slight, a perceptible tremulousness
of the eyelids, and the least possible movement of her lips
to smile. It was the last vibration to the voice that had
mastered the finest chords of her being—henceforward, still
forever.
The coarse, hard-handed men who stood around, bowed
their heads. “ Can we do any thing for you, sir ?” said one
3*58
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
and another in subdued voices. Lisle shook his head, and
they slowly départ ed, one whispering, “ I think he is her
brother and another answering, “ Something more, I
think.’’
While the lady of the house went with her domestics to
préparé an apartment for the exigency, Archibald was, as he
desired, left alone with Letty. The fîrst motion of his soûl
was a devout thanksgiving to the great Shepherd that he
had taken this lamb away from the périls of life to his own
inexhaustible love—that she had passed from the rough
places of earth without dread or consciousness, to rest and
peace eternal.
And then, by that preternatural power which the memory
has at such periods of exaltation, the passages of their past
association passed in révision before him. Her loving, pleas-
ant childhood in his father’s house ; her fond clingings to
him in fancied dangers ; her graceful little form playfully
hidden by the vines of the old porch, springing to meet him
with eager joy, when he came in from his fîeld sports ; the
refinements that, as she grew older and more perceptive, she
sprinkled over the homeliness of rustic life ; the consolation
of her filial dévotion to his father, and her cheerful patience
with the little fry at home. And, as if by a spell, came up
the memory of thrilling tones, of words half spoken, of sud-
den blushes, and as sudden tears. These, passed by at the
time as caprice or moodiness, were now révélations. And the
last and dearest chapter of their joint lives, Letty’s happi-
est days at old Steinberg’s, her sweet contentment in his
mere presence, her gratitude for even his smallest kindness,
not conveyed in words made common by common thanks,
but in floods of light that came beaming from her soûl
through her eyes, in smiles that are the spirit’s language,
in tones that breathe music into the simplest sentence.
“ Oh, I hâve been hard, unkind, unfeeling !” was the cryMARRIED OR SINGLE?
59
of his inmost soûl. “ I loved you, Letty—truly. But why
hâve I wasted on another what should hâve been yours ?
Bitter, bitter, vain regrets ! 'Now you are as far beyond
my reaeh, as you were above my deservings.”
Is it not ever thus ? Is any, the happiest relation of life,
severed without leaving us to lament over the imperfection
of our love and its irrémédiable failures ?CHAPTER Y.
“ Enfin sa bouche flétrie
Ose prendre un noble accent.”
Thebe are tides in the affairs of men ; tides uuvng
to sweep every obstruction away and bear down every op-
posing force. Circumstances had of late been auspicious to
Copley, and the object that for years lie had pursued with
unwavering détermination, was within his grasp. The Es-
terlys had been out of the way. Little May, who had stood
like the angel at the gâte of Paradise, pointing a sword
against him, was gone ; and Uncle Walter, though the trea-
sure of his life was at stake, became hopeless, and resigned
himself to the common law of non-interference.
Had Lisle, before this crisis, cast ofF the shackles of his
reserve, risen above his self-distrust, and manifested to Grâce
Ms unconquered and unconquerable love, she might hâve
responded to him, and risen by the force of her own upward
tendencies out of sight of the subtle spell that Copley had
addressed to her lower nature. But Lisle had now with-
drawn wholly from her society, and though his love was not
extinguished, it was buried deep in his heart and covered
with the ashes of despair.
Events are sometimes in such curious relation and proxi-
mity, that one does not wonder they hâve been referred to
conjunctions of the stars. It was on the evening of Letty’s
death, that Grâce, at twilight, was sitting alone at the bay-MARRIED OR SINGLE?
61
window of Mrs. Herbert’s library, not gazing at the tints of
parting day that smiled on the budding trees opposite, but
taking an introspective view, where, just then, a soft and
pleasing twilight pervaded too. She was endeavoring to
overpower the still small voice that yet murmured against
her lover, with such thoughts as, “ how kind, how lavish he
was to dear little Herbert	“ how generously forgiving of
Frank’s obstinate préjudice against him “ how considérâte
of his interests “ how prompt and noble for poor Violet’s
relief.”
The door opened, and the idéal of her reverie glided in,
approached her, and bent over her chair with a low and
ardent expression of his joy in fînding her, as he wished to
find her, alone. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
She did not withdraw it, and he saw in her beaming face a
happy augury.
The words, and the more expressive silence, the émotions,
and the démonstrations that made the two hours that followed
an epoch in the lives of both can not be told—must not be
told, for the time was sure to corne when Grâce would wish
ail memory and record of them effaced. How many hours
of life glide away colorless and unnoted ; and how vitalized
two hours may be ; how bright ! shedding a soft lustre over
the past, and illuminating the future and inimitable ! What
swift movement hâve they, and yet what anchorage and
sweet rest ! What outpouring of hearts, what telling of their
historiés, what solving of their mysteries !
Such were not Grace’s ; not even then, in those two hap-
piest hours of ail her intercourse with Copley, was there the
béatitude of a true love. But they ended as such hours do,
with promises, and plighted vows, and with some earthly
regards and arrangements. Copley had business which
would take him South for a few days, and it was therefore
agreed that their engagement should not be announced till62
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
he returned. In the mean time Walter Herbert was first to
be told ; a note was to be written to Eleanor (a cold tremor
seized Grâce at tbe thought of tbese duties) and the fact,
as in courtesy due, was to be imparted to Mrs. Herbert and
her daughter.
Copley was just transferring from his own finger to Grace’s
a diamond ring, to be the Symbol of betrothal ; her hand
rested impassive in his, while he poured a torrent of tears
over it (whence came they ? had he a good angel ? and was
he then possessed by it ? were questions Grâce often after-
ward asked herself), when, at the Sound of a footstep in the
entry, approaehing, he dropped it, and shot off into an alcôve
at the end of the room, where he stood in shadow.
“ My !” exclaimed the most unwelcome intruder. “ I am
so glad, Grâce Herbert, to fînd you at home and disengaged ;
I seldom hâve that good luck with you. Dear me ! is that
you, Mr. Copley? Oh—ah—I might hâve known; but
there being no light here—well, moonlight is pleasantest for
some occasions that shall be nameless. Oh, how well I re-
member one moonlight night! Well now I hope I don’t
intrude,” continued Miss Clapp—it could be no other than
Miss Adeline Clapp—lowering her voice to Grâce ; “ I dare
say I hâve broken up a tête-à-tête again. I hâve not been
to Mrs. Tallis’ since her réception till this morning, and I
found Mr. Copley tête-à-tête there ; odd, is n’t it ?”
The obscurity of the room, and the imperceptiveness of
Miss Clapp, favored ail parties. She did not see the look
Copley darted at her, nor did Grâce perceive his sudden
paleness, nor betray her own mounting color. On went
Adeline Clapp : “ Mrs. Tallis looked uncommon handsome
this morning ; she had on the loveliest silk, just the color of
a dove’s wing, Paris made, sleeves entire new eut. I asked
her for the pattern, and if she remembers to give it to me,
I’il send it to you, if you wish, Grâce.”MABRIED OR SINGLE ?
63
44 Thank you.”
Miss Clapp proceeded : 44 What a kind of a superstitions
look Mrs. Tallis’ little girl has. She’ll not be long spared !
How she did run on this morning, Mr. Copley. I guess
Mrs. Tallis felt something she said to be rather searching—
don’t you, Mr. Copley ?”
44 I do not remember a word she said,” replied Copley.
44 Why, don’t you ? how odd. Don’t you remember she
asked her mother 4 how long her papa would be gone ?’ and
when her mother told her a month, 41 wish it were a month
now,’ said she, and the tears ran down her pretty cheeks,
and her mother kissed her—she does love that child ; and
then—why it’s strange you did not observe—she looked up
in her mother’s face, and says she, 4 Mamma, do you love
papa ?’	4 Run up to the nursery, my dear,’ says the mother,
and she went just like a little lamb. But my ! I wonder you
did not hear her say, as she stood with her little hand on the
door, 41 never send you away, mamma—I hâte the nursery,
and I hâte Mr. Copley.’ Her mother got up and kissed
her, and checked her. I’m sure she spoke loud enough for
you to hear her, Mr. Copley.”
Copley deigned no reply, and Miss Adeline at last per-
ceived that her persistent monologue met with but an un-
gracious réception ; but nothing ever disturbed her equili-
brium, and she wound up with saying, 441 feel as if it was
but friendly to you, Miss Grâce, and to Mr. Copley, too, to
tell you that I surmise even that poor little child has heard
that people talk about you and her mamma, Mr. Copley ;
and that is the make of people—they will keep on talking
when a gentleman pays, well, rather particular attention to
a married lady, visiting her every day, as it were, when her
husband is off on a journey.”
44 Madam !” said Copley, with so tierce an expression that
even Miss Adeline started, and exclaimed, 44 Gracious me !64
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
Mr. Copley, I did not mean to touch your feelings. I ad-
mire to see gentlemen polite to married ladies ; and if you
ara’t sensible of any imprudence, there’s no harm done by
just my speaking between us three.”
Copley bad quite recovered himself,.and, taking up his
bat, be replied witb bis usual coolness, “ Mucb impertinence,
madam, but no possible barm and tben, murmuring a few
sentences to Grâce, too low for Miss Clapp’s greedy ear, he
took his leave.
“ Miss Clapp,” said Grâce, rising, “ you must excuse me,
I—I—”
“ Oh now, Grâce, I can’t excuse you. Miss Carlton told
me you had no engagement tbis evening. I bave been wait-
ing ever since Eleanor’s boy sickened to speak to you, or to
her. It seemed more suitable to consult witb a married
lady ; but she is always engaged, or out of town, or some-
thing. It’s about Archy ; and you and sbe are friends to us
both. Now do listen to me.”
Grâce had risen, and was quivering witb impatience to
get out of Miss Adeline’s grasp, but Archibald Lisle’s com-
plication with the insatiable woman turned the tide, and she
reseated berself witb résignation.
“ It’s a pretty long story,” began Miss Adeline ; “ but
tben, Grâce, I know you’ll hâve a fellow-feeling, wben we
get into it. But it’s so dark bere, won’t you hâve ligbts ?”
Grâce rang the bell. The servant lighted the gas. “ My
goodness, bow pale you look!” exclaimed Miss Adeline,
staring at Grâce, as the ligbt flashed on ber face, and for a
moment she was awed, witbout comprehending the beigbt
and deptb of feeling it expressed. But a glimpse into
beaven would not long hâve checked Miss Adeline’s tongue
in its communication of her self-centered interests.
“I am sure,” she resumed, “you’ll approve of my feelings
—tbere can’t be two opinions about it—as brother says, it’sMAEEIED OE SINGLE?
65
only a question of time. Well, to commence at the com-
mencement. Archy and my brother Dates were classmates
in college. Archy was first-rate then, as he is now, and
Dates was sort o’ behindhand at mathematics and those kind
of studies ; and father hired Archy to give him extra lessons
which Archy did, at a pretty handsome price—you know
Archy’s folks were rather poor, but we did not feel any
différence on that account. I hope ail the Clapps are too
noble for that. Archy was invited down to Clapp Bank,
to celebrate his birth-day. He had paid me considérable
attention before that ; and though he had not a dollar but
what he earned, and his father was a mechanic, and my
father had been a Wholesale shoe-merchant, and had gone
out of business with a handsome fortune—though nothing
to compare with what we hâve now, with the rise of real
estate, and factory-stock, and so forth—”
“ Oh, do corne to the point, Miss Clapp.”
“ Well, I am close upon it. I wras just going to say that
none of our folks would hâve made any objection if Archy
had délicate views ; though father had been a member of the
Législature for five years, and Uncle Medad was in Congress;
they felt I would hâve selected Archy before any other
voung man I knew. Well, that evening we had a first-rate
time. It was moonlight, and the young men took the girls
a rowing on the lake. Archy took me, and then we played
plays, and had forfeits; and Anne Jane Evans adjudged
Archy and I to go through the marnage ceremony to re-
deem our forfeits. Pa was in his study wdth Judge Eastly,
and the judge went through the whole ceremony of the
Church of England service with us. I can’t say I looked upon
it then as any thing more than a kind of forerunner. Well,
after commencement, Dates went off to China, and Archy
studied law, and went into practice, and never came to
Clappville again. Well, you know how it is, Grâce ; when66
MA.RRIED OR SINGLE?
one is attached, and is, as Dates says, expecting 4 relations
of reciprocity,’ one don’t give up the ship for a trifle. Well,
you know Archy made the tower of Europe, and while he
was gone, I did for his family just as if I were daughter and
sister. Well, last fall, Judge Eastly was down at Clappville,
and talking over old times with Dates and me, and so, says
he, 4Take care, Adeline,’ says he, 4 that that chap of a New
York lawyer don’t claim you for his wife when he cornes
home.’ I asked the judge his meaning, and he said he re-
ferred to the marriage ceremony, and he said there had been
two just parallel cases in Massachusetts that bound the parties.
The first lawyers had been consulted, and they gave it as
their opinion, that it was 4 a legal and binding contracta
These were the judge’s words.”
Grace’s interest was now thoroughly excited. 44 Good
heaven,” she exclaimed, 44 you do not mean—”
44 Hear me through, Grâce Herbert. I don’t mean any
thing but what is fair and above board. Well, I won’t
repeat ail that the judge and Dates said. The judge thought
that with my large fortune in hand, for by this time, you
know, pa was deceased, and the estate settled ; the judge
thought that Archibald, knowing the points of the law,
would claim me, whether or no. Well, Dates was ambitious
for me, and he thought Archy was not quite up to my mark,
and wanted me to keep it hushed up. I did not say much,
but I had my own feelings. It’s true, I did not know
Archy’s views, but knowing he would hâve the best of the
bargain, I did not hesitate. I knew the day he landed. I
laid ail my plans, straight-work, as you would mark out a quilt.
Matrimony is a solemn duty ; and to be sure, I own I had
entered on it rather lightly, but not without feeling—per-
haps it was the same with Archy. I meant to behave
honorably, and give him opportunities of falling in love,
before we took up the stiches ; and so I told Dates ; andMARRIED OR SINGLE?
67
hâve written him the same since I came to New York.”
Miss Adeline paused, and Grace’s face expressing, even to
her dull perceptions, something of the mingled wonder and
disgust she felt,
44 I see,” she resumed, 44 that you don’t quite feel with me.
Perhaps you think it would hâve been more prudent for me
to hâve told him at once that we were as good as man and
wife ?”
44 Oh, no—no, no, Miss Clapp, never tell him that.”
44 Never ! why, we are ; and can’t you see it must not run
on as it is now. He takes no hints, and he’s ail the while
paying attention to the girl Letty Alsop—at old Stein-
berg’s. I hâve found out who she is ; it is not prudent, as
regards her, and if Archy has really forgotten ail about that
evening, as he prétends to, don’t you think it’s quite time he
was reminded ? Now that’s just the question I came to ask
you.”
Grâce had not heard this long story without arriving at
the conviction, that Archibald Lisle had entangled himself
with this inévitable woman. 44 What is to be done ?” thought
she, rapidly reviewing in her own mind Adeline Clapp’s
story ; 44 that noble fellow must not be caught by this 4 mous-
ing owl,’ but what can I do for him ?—nothing. It is not a
matter for a third person’s meddling. Archibald Lisle will
be the best manager of his own affairs, and the sooner he
gets out of the web this horrid woman has spun about him
the better.” And so, with effort suppressing a smile, she
said, 44 Miss Clapp, I see but one course for you to pursue,
that is, to make known at once to Mr. Lisle what your
brother calls your 4 relations of reeiprocity.’ He will, as he
chooses, confirm or dissolve them at once—good-night.”
44 She might hâve had the politeness to wait till I got out
of the door,” said Miss Adeline, as Grâce fleetly vanished up
the stair-case.68
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
44 4 Dissolve them, indeed’—that he can’t do ; and dissolve
fîve thousand five hundred a year—it’s ail at seven per cent.
—that he won’t do ; but I kind o’ dread to throw open the
blinds at once ; what is the use of asking advice ?”
Some of our readers may recoil with as much displeasure
from Grace’s betrothal as she felt disgust at the presump-
tion of Miss Clapp’s expectations, for there are those who in
spite of the discordant matches of every day, will as freshly
wonder at every new one as the child, who on looking at an
old man with a young wife, exclaimed, “ What a poor two
you make !” Not that the world, in general, by which com-
préhensive phrase is designated the particular circle in which
Miss Herbert moved, would feel any thing other than per-
haps a momentary sensation at her rare good fortune. The
general feeling in relation to any woman being, that she is
better off in port than afloat.
But there may be some, who comprehending the nobility
of Grace’s nature, will feel a keen disappointment at this
crisis of her fate, having believed that though uncontrolled,
unguided, unwarned, she would, in Ida Roorbach’s phrase,
44 hâve worked out her own salvation,” and not hâve yielded
at last to extraneous influences. She had clung to her dis-
tasteful home with the one dear compensation of her Uncle
Walter’s presence, though solicited by the advantageous
parties, enumerated by Mr. Herbert to Lisle, and others
^piite as advantageous, unknown to him. She was now the
victim of an illusion, an illusion to which an imaginative
unoccupied young women, cast into a State of society with
which she has few sympathies, is most miserably exposed.
Letter-writing was not Copley’s speciality, but he wrote,
each day of his short absence, sincerely, and therefore earn-
estly. He spoke of the future as a fait accompli. Grâce
passed carelessly over his request that the finishing up, and
décorations of his house, should be controlled by her judg-MARRIED OR SINGLE?
69
ment and taste, who “ was soon to be its adored mistress
and over his exultation in cheating the town of its gossip—
though with this she rather sympathized, to dwell on his
professions of ardent love, his impatience to return and
bask in the summer of her kindness, after the a polar winter
he had endured,” and like phrases, common coin in com-
mon circulation. Grâce took them at their current value.
The happiness of being loved is next to that of loving, and
perhaps she felt that the perfection of the one made up for
the still haunting consciousness of tno imperfection of the
other.CHAPTER VI.
THE RIGHT AND THE WR0NG SIDE OF THE TAPESTRY.
It was a significant circumstance that Grâce did not com-
municate to one of her friends, not even to her dear IJncle
Walter, her engagement by word of mouth. Was it that
she instinctively àvoided the truth that flashes from the face
before the soûl is shrouded in plastic words and conventional
phrases ?
Copley had recently gained in Mr. Herbert’s good opinion.
He had even, on one or two occasions, eagerly praised him
in Grace’s hearing, but the sigh, with which he ended, indi-
cated but too truly an ineradicable disapprobation of the
man. There was a singular sympathy between the old man
and the young woman ; an understanding and correspond-
ent that did not need the intervention of words. And
Uncle Walter was a man of few words, especially on those
occasions when ordinary men are diffuse. The more intense
the heat, the less crackling was there.
Grâce met Mr. Herbert, for the first time after her brief
written announcement to him of her engagement, the next
morning at breakfast. He was a very late riser, and she
was accustomed to give him his breakfast. It wras their
hour of privilège and security, Mrs. Carlton being then in
the field, laying out the momentous duties of her productive
life. Grâce met her uncle with her usual dutiful salutation,
and took her seat. Both parties were silent. That was noMARRIED OR SINGLE?
Il
unusual circumstance, for there was that perfect love be-
tween them that casteth out fear and restraint of ail sorts.
They were sometimes silent through the whole meal, and
sometimes merry as children. Grâce poured out a cup of
coffee ; Mr. Herbert took it, but their eyes did not meet.
The servant brought in his hot toast and egg and placed them
by him. He touched neither, but sat for a few moments,
looking out of the window as far away from poor Grâce
as possible, and then seizing a morning paper he turned
over its mammoth pages ; it would not do ; his blinded
eyes could not see the words, and the rustling only sharp-
ened the silence. He threw it down, rose from his seat, and
was running away like a child from what he had not courage
to face. Uncle Walter was a child. Grâce sprang to him,
and throwing her arms around him, and bursting into tears,
said, “ You must not go so, dear Uncle Walter. Speak one
Word to me, won’t you? can’t you? Well, then, I will
undo, unsay it ail !”
“ Oh, no, no !” he cried, his heart at last finding vent in
words ; “ no, you hâve done it, my child, my ail ; I am fool-
ish, Grâce—I am old—God forgive me ! God bless you !”
And then gently disengaging her arms, he seated her on the
sofa, and left her sobbing there ; and taking his hat and
cane, he left the room and hobbled through the long entry
from the breakfast-room to the outer door, then returned,
and half opening the door, in a sort of choking between
laughing and crying, “Mind, Grâce,” he said, “you give
me notice to quit in time. PU set up my rest with Eleanor
and May ; PU not stay in this house after the only live person
in it leaves it.”
“ Engaged ! let me see her note,” cried Anne Carlton to
her mother, who had summoned her daughter to her room
to receive the news. She read Grace’s missive. It was aMARRIED OE SINGLE?
12
short reading, merely a respectful announcement of her en-
gagement and an injunction to présent secresy.
“ Secresy !” exclaimed Miss Anne, “ I wonder who will
care to tell the news—men are shameful ! It was only last
Thursday, at Mrs. Smith’s, that Horace Copley said such
things to me, and looked more than he said.”
“ My dear !”
“ Oh, ma’am, you need not nndertake to convince me
that he did not mean any thing—I know him. What’s be-
come of your study of human nature, ma’am ? You’ve missed
in your lesson this time.”
“ My dear !”
“ Well, it’s too provoking. I should hâve accepted Ed-
mund Fay or Guy Clayton if you had not harped upon what
you called a 4 wavering scale,’ and such nonsense.”
“ My dear Anne, you are not respectful. One can not
always clearly discern the future.”
“ Oh, I know. But you are always in a fog, and you al-
ways think you hâve nothing to do but heave your lead------
human nature ! that’s a riddle you can’t read, ma’am !”
(After a pause,) “ I ne ver heard him admire any thing in
Grâce but her aristocratie air. And she and her uncle pro-
fess to look down upon fashion, and fortune, and the world,
and so on. I never believed them. Who is a man of the
world, if Copley is not ? So dreadfully shocked they were
at our asking Belson and Count de Salle. They and Copley
are birds of a feather.”
“ Not quite, my dear. Not that I defend Brother Walter
or Grâce, for criticizing us ; they knew I did not approve of
intimacies with those men, nor would I exclude them from
large parties, because they are not just what they should
be—‘ judge not,’ etc.”
“ Oh, mamma, what is the use of talking so ? Every body
knows what Sam Belson is, and you know besides.”MAEEIED OE SINGLE?
73
“ My dear, there is a différence between Belson and Cop-
ley. Belson lives by—I don’t know what, possibly gamb-
ling ; he does not respect public opinion ; he—in short, lie
lives freely ; whereas Copley is prudent as regards public
opinion ; he has immense wealth, and does not waste it. Of
late I hear nothing against him ; on the contrary, I am told
he has been confirmed, and you know he has a class in our
Sunday-school.”
“ Ail humbug, mamma—every bit of it humbug ; ail to
throw dust in people’s eyes. Confirmed, indeed ! Confirmed
on Sunday, and fooling with Mrs. Tallis every day in the
week. How easy old folks are humbugged.”
Mrs. Herbert was on the verge of irritation,—she never
went over. “ I must confess I do not like this levity, Anne,”
she said ; “ and if you really hâve so low an opinion of Mr.
Copley, I own I do not see why you are not willing to give
him up to Grâce.”
“ Oh, low opinion ; I hâve no such thing. I look upon
Horace Copley as the very first match in New York. I am
not in love with him. If he should marry any one else, I should
not hang myself ; but to hâve Grâce Herbert the one taken,
and I to be the one left ! Besides, I never professed to be
particular. I am willing a man should amuse himself the
way he likes best. One thing please give me crédit for,
mamma—I never was humbugged by Grâce.” So far as
entertaining a blind faith in human virtue is humbug, Anne
Carlton may claim complété exemption from it.
“ What do you mean, my child ?” asked Mrs. Herbert.
“ Why, I always said that Grâce was contriving and work-
ing for this prize, and would go through fire and water to
attain it. Now tell me, mamma—you understand human
nature, you know—would any girl in Grace’s position pass
by the opportunities she has had, unless for an ulterior ob-
ject ? Think of a girl, without fortune, rejecting the Hon-
YQL. II.	474
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
orable Mr. Grey, of a noble English fainily, possessing every
thing that Grâce professes to admire. Tut, tut, mamma ; it
is not so easy to throw dust in my eyes. Grâce is getting
on—she is two-aud-twenty, and past.” She paused, and
then added, “ When is the wedding coming off ?”
“ That I don’t know ; probably soon—there is no reason
for delay. But, my dear, I do hope you will put the best face
on the matter, and congratulate Grâce. I should be morti-
fied to hâve her suspect you of envying her good fortune ;
indeed we ought always to rejoice with them that rejoice.”
“Never fear, ma’am—I can play my own cards.” Anne
was leaving the room, and turning back, “ ‘ It’s an ill wind
that blows no good !’ ” she said, with beaming satisfaction.
“We shall hâve a clear riddance of old Walter Herbert
now.”
“ Don’t speak in that way, Anne ; you know I hâve en-
deavored to do my duty, and make a happy home for my
husband’s brother—but I hâve thought of that”
The “ well-laid schemes of mice and men” are diseon-
certed, and so were Mrs. Herbert’s ; but before evening the
oil had flowed over the ruffled waves, and she had reverted
to her usual dead calm, and was harassing Walter Herbert
with her eternal common-places.
“ If,” she said, “ as would appear now, Mr. Copley has
been long decided on this final step, he has shown remark-
able constancy of purpose, and that is indicative of stability.
Don’t you think so, brother ?”
“ Yes—and a pretty stiff will, too.”
“ True, brother. But Goethe, you know, says the c edu-
cated will makes the perfect character ;’ not that I mean to
say that Horace Copley is perfect. Who is ? It is incident
to humanity to be imperfect. We do not expect young men
of fortune to be immaculate ; he is not. But there isMARRIED OR SINGLE?
75
nothing that is so calculated to restore a young man to a
right course, and keep him in it, as a union with a superior
woman. A superior woman’s influence is unbounded. Love
founded on reason, a deep, fixed love, is—is—”
“ A head of steam, no doubt,” interrupted Walter Her-
bert, who had never before listened so long to his sister-in-
law’s congeries of apborisms ; “ but if you please, madam,
let us talk no more about it. I thank God it is as well as it
is !”
“ As well !” echoed Mrs. Herbert, with spontaneous
amazement ; “ are you not satisfied, brother ?”
Mr. Herbert threw his half-smoked cigar in the lire, and
without any other answer than a short “ good-night,” he leffc
the lady to spéculâte upon the insatiable demands of a do-
ting old uncle, and upon other multifarious stumbling-blocks
in her favorite study of human nature.
It was Mrs. Tallis’ habit to give the twilight hour to her
child. On the mémorable evening of Grace’s betrothal,
Elise had lingered longer, and clung doser than usual. Her
mother had a sweet voice, and sang old ballads enchanting
to the child. She was broken off in the midst of one by a
servant bringing in a twisted note, written on a scrap of
paper, in pencil, which Copley left as he passed homeward
from his betrothal. His eyes were hardly yet dried from
the tears he poured over Grace’s hand ; his hand was still
warm with the pressure of her’s !
“ Dear A.,” said the note, “ I am engaged to G. H. ! ! !
I shall be liere between nine and ten—and am now, and
then, and always yours devotedly,	H. C.”
There were but two fines, but Mrs. Tallis remained stand-
ing at the window and reading them, over and over, till her
little girl, who had been repeating her entreaties for five
minutes, that she would corne back and finish her “ story76
MAEEIED OE SINGLE?
song,” said, taking her mother’s hand in both her’s, “ Corne,
do corne, mamma—I’ve got a very great pain in my head,
and when you sing I don’t feel it.” The mother answered
rather instinctively to the magic touch of the little hands
than apprehending the words, and again sat down, with the
child on her lap, who, laying her head on her mother’s
bosom, and her hand on her head, said, “ It feels better now,
mamma—now sing.” But instead of singing, Mrs. Tallis
turned the note to the mouldering April fire, and, as if yet
incredulous, read it over again. The child snatched it and
threw it in the grate, and then, frightened at its own im-
patience, she burst into a fit of crying. She was of a most
quiet tempérament, and usually as docile as a dove. The
mother’s thoughts were for a moment recalled to the child.
“ Why, what ails you, Elise ?” she said ; “ what is the
meaning of this ?”
“ Oh, I don’t know, mamma, what does ail me—my head
feels so—and I could not bear the sight of Mr. Copley’s old
note.”
“ Mr. Copley’s note ! How did you know it was Mr.
Copley’s note ?”
“ Why, John said so, when he brought it to you, mamma.
I hâte his notes, and I hâte his présents.”
“ What, the beautiful présents he sends you ?”
“ Yes, I do; and I don’t love liim a morsel, and I wish
you did not, mamma—I wish you loved papa.” There was
a moment’s lull, and then the child resumed : “ Mamma, do
some ladies love husbands ?”
“ Some do,I believe,” replied the mother, with a faint smile.
“ But you don’t, mamma ?”
“ I do not ! Who told you so, Elise ?”
“Nobody told me, mamma—I can tell myself. You love
me, mamma ; if I am gone out, ever so little way, when I
corne home you are so glad to see me, and when papaMARRIED OR SINGLE?
11
came home from ever so far off, you were not glad to see
him ; and you always speak kind to me, and you never speak
kind to papa.”
“ Hush, Elise—you talk too much.”
“ Well, I will hush, mamma, if you will just sing me out
that pretty story.”
The mother resumed the singing, but her voice soon died
away ; and when the child again urged her to go on, she
said, “ I can not sing to-night, Elise. You must go to bed,
my child.” She rang for the nurse. The little girl held fast
to her, clung most fondly, and when forced away, she said,
“ Do, mamma, corne up and sing me to sleep, my head does
really hurt me—horridly—will you, mamma ?”
“ Yes, y es, I will, you little make-believe.”
But, alas ! alas ! the mother forgot her promise, and that
night, for the fîrst time in Elise’ life, Mrs. Tallis went to
her own bed, without going to her child’s little couch.
Ckildren are God’s messengers. Woe to the mother
whom they do not persuade to rectitude !
On this same mémorable evening, Eleanor read, and gave
the following note to her husband.
“ Dear Eleanor :—
“ You will not be surprised to hear that H. C. and I hâve
corne to the end of our long and intricate journey. Shall
we hâve a glad welcome from you, and a blessing from my
brother ?	G. H.”
Esterly glanced his eye over it. “ Of course,” he said,
“just whatl expected.” Andthen seeing Eleanor dissolved
in tears, exclaimed, “ My dear child, you are not sur-
prised ?”
“ No, no—not surprised.”18
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ Nor disappointed ?”
Eleanor shook her head, but not with emphasis.
“ Nor dissatisfîed ?”
“ Oh, Frank, can you ask me that ?”
“ Why, Eleanor, you must hâve foreseen this inévitable
resuit for the last six weeks, and you hâve seemed to me
to acquiesce in it.”
“ Frank, you know how I hâve been engrossed the last
six weeks ; and, besides, what could I do ? Grâce has
always been independent, self-directing, not a person to be
interfered with.”
“But, Eleanor, it is true I hâve been lost in my own
affairs, but I thought there was a tacit agreement among us
to acquiesce in Grace’s decision ?”
“ And is a mere acquiescence what we should feel at this
crisis of our dear, noble sister’s fate ?”
“ Certainly it is not ail we desire to feel, but most marriages,
Eleanor, are compromises.”
“ Ours was not, Frank.”
“ No, but Grâce could hardly expect another romance,
ripened into a reality, which ours has been,” replied Esterly,
kissing his wife with the enthusiasm of a lover ; “ once I did
hope for its parallel for Grâce. I was impatient for Lisle’s
return. I thought ( propinquity’ only was wanting to com-
bine their destiny, but before he came home, Grâce was
entangled in this affair—her mind, if not her heart, was pre-
occupied. It’s a failure I confess, but after ail, not so bad.
Think how long Copley has been steadily devoted to Grâce
—that augurs well.”
“I know him better than -you do, Frank. Pride had
more to do with his dévotion, than love.”
“ Ail men are made of mixed éléments, Eleanor. I trust
you do Copley injustice.”
“ No, no, Frank, I do not. He is false. Anne CarltonMARRIED OR SINGLE?
19
has confided to me his insidious flattery to her. I believe
the silly girl was half hoping he would ofier himself to her ;
but far worse than that, he has, up to last week, kept up his
intimacy with Mrs. Tallis, and in her husband’s absence has
been every day at her house—so Mrs. Milnor, who lives
opposite, told me. She says his French valet is every
morning at Mrs. Tallis’ door with bouquets, and perfumed
notes.”
“ * Perfumed !’ Does Mrs. Milnor nose them across the
Street ? I wonder, Eleanor, that you should listen for a mo-
ment to such an audacious gossip—an unclean bird that lives
on carriou.” Esterly, like most men, would scarcely hâve
taken a gossip’s word against a murderer. “ I hear much
good of Copley,” he resumed, “ of late. He has become a
teacher in our Sunday-school.”
“ I am sorry to hear it. I hâve no opinion of religious
cloaks over moral delinquencies.”
“ But, Eleanor, he may hâve thrown off the polluted gar-
ments, and not covered them. Give him his due—hâve
you forgotten Violet’s free papers ?”
“ Certainly not, Frank ; but, doubtless, Grâce incited him
to that good deed.”
“ And will to other deeds as good. Corne, corne, Eleanor,
think what power she will hâve ; what a fortune to dispense ;
what a wide influence ! Look on the bright side. Grace’s
fate may be next best to ours.”
“ Next best ! Ah, Frank, you do not know Grâce, if you
think a 4 next best’ in marriage would be endurable to her.
No, she will hâve nothing, if not a love and confidence like
ours—ever growing; our smallest joy, and our keenest sorrow
binding us doser together ; a mutual dependence, and an in-
dividual freedom springing from reciprocal faith, love, and
charity ; each a life apart, and a life together.”
“ Why, Ellen ! what a fine theory of marriage.”80
MARRIED OR SINGLE ?
“ A theory evolved from our expérience, Frank.”
“ True, my blessed wife ; but ours is the fate of but one
pair in a thousand ; we must take life as it is.”
“ Should we not rather, Frank, try to make it what it
should be ?”
“ An odd question to put to a preacher by profession.
But, truly, Eleanor, how is this matter to be reformed, unless,
as Dr. Johnson proposes, we leave it to the chancellor to
couple men and women. Marriage is one of the merest
chances of life, the most difficult and painful of ail social
problems. Just fancy the extravagance of expecting that
the people I tie together should be qualified for the most
complex partnership of life.”
“ Then, my husband, do not lend your voice to the gene-
ral vulgar view of life, and say, ‘ A woman must be married.’
Surely it is better she should be a lonely struggler, an ‘ old
maid’ driven into corners, than to sacrifice her truth, to live
in the closest and dearest relation of life, stripped of ail that
makes life dear. Better utter isolation and désertion, than
to perjure herself by a vow of love, honor, and obedience,
that she can not keep.”
“ I agréé with you, theoretically, Eleanor, but practically
what is to be done ? Do you know a woman who would
live single, if she could help it ?”
“ Yes, indeed, Frank, and so do you. Noble women who
hâve preferred single life to making hollow vows ; poverty,
if you will hâve it so, to failure.”
“ But these are exceptional cases, my dear.”
“ So they are, but there would be many more, if women
were true to themselves, and true to their own sex. Many
a woman, when she gets a husband, looks upon herself as a
general who has won the battle, and may sleep upon his
laurels for the rest of his life, and she looks down upon her
single sisters from her matrimonial height. The first prac-MARRIE!) OR SINGLE?
81
tical lesson she teaches her daughters is, that an c old maid’
is an impersonation of whimsicalities, at best to be pitied,
and that her condition is, at ail risks, to be avoided. Ail
vulgar men speak of single women with scorn or pity, and
such men as you, Frank, are reconciled to such marriages as
my sister’s will be, because—c she must be married !’ ”
“Well, since you drive me to it, I defend my position.
It is never wise to run counter to the institutions of Provi-
dence. Marriage is the first and greatest of these, the cen-
tral point, whence ail the relations of life radiate, the source
of ail political and social virtue. The husband and wife are
priest and priestess in the temple consecrated and upheld by
God himself.”
“ And is this temple to be turned into a den of thieves, a
market for money-changers, Frank ? Is its strength to be
impaired and its purity polluted by compromise-marriages ?
You say that marriage is the source of ail political and social
virtue ; and so I believe, and that we must thank the low
rate of conjugal virtue, for there being so little of either.
And how should conscientious statesmen, pure patriots,
honest dealers, faithful children, loving brothers and sisters,
and loyal friends spring from marriages, such as they are.
The world has made slow progress from this starting-point,
Frank.”
“ My dear wife, I believe you hâve the right, but if you
had ever undertaken one social reform, you would know
how hopeless is change of the very form and pressure of
society.”
“ But remember, Frank, the mouse and the lion in the
fable. The weakest may do something by using their small
power in the right direction. Women’s testimony does not
go very far, but do you, Frank, and other accepted teachers,
teach my doctrine in simplicity and godly sincerity. Don’t
go on in the common rut and multiply these misérable ma*
4*82
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
tings (not unions), by saying ‘ women must be married.’ If
a woman misses her highest destiny, if she can not fold her
heart in the bands of conjugal affection, fortified by con-
genial éducation, taste, and disposition, if she can not vitalize
her union with a religious sentiment, then for pity’s sake,
dear Frank, counsel her to try 4 that other fate.’ Teach her
that she can préparé her soûl for its eternal destiny without
marriage—that she can be sister, friend, and benefactor ; and
that to do her duty within the wide compass of these rela-
tions, is far more honorable in the judgment of man, than
to be a mismated wife and incompetent mother, condemned
to stagnation instead of progress, and fînding the last only
and misérable consolation in the résignation to an indissol-
uble tie !”
This long conversation begun at home, was finished on
their way to Grace’s. Late as it was in the evening, they
both felt a desire to shelter their lukewarmness by their
promptness. They were just at Mrs. Herbert’s door when
Eleanor ended her last sentence : men, the most earnest, the
most serious, do not regard marriage with the solemnity that
a thoughtful woman does. A woman casts ail on that ven-
ture ; a man has other argosies at sea.
“ It is a little odd, Eleanor,” said Esterly, half smiling,
“that you hâve bestowed no part of this lecture upon
Grâce, and that here we are on our way to congratulate
her.”
“ Oh, I know I was cowardly,” said Eleanor ; “ I now re-
proach myself bitterly, but till very lately I thought that
Grâce could not be dragged into this maëlstrom.”
“ Well, well, my dear child, now do the next wisest thing,
and since you can not prevent this marriage, make the best
of it.”
The sisters met with tearful smiles. The common phrases
of the occasion were spoken, so beautiful when, bearing theMARRIED OR SINGLE?
83
soul’s impress, they drop from the heart like fresh coin from
the mint and ring like true métal. Grâce was not radiant,
but there was a certain satisfaction évident, sucb as one feels
who has struggled tkrough an entangled path and cornes out
on a clear road. But how far was this from the feeling be-
fitting such an occasion.
“A content so absolute,
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate 1”
When Mr. Herbert broke away from Grâce after that
breakfast which was only a fast, he directed his course to-
wards the sole light that glimmered through the darkness
closing around him. And after reaching and mounting a
long stairway in Wall-street, and passing through a large
office, he went on by virtue of his general passport, into a
little den where Lisle took refuge from suitors and clerks.
Here the old friend was admitted when the rest of the
world was shut out. Here he had lounged through many a
pleasant hour, and placing no guard over his heart, and little
upon his tongue, he had rashly intimated what he most de-
sired, and freely told what most of ail things he deprecated.
His love for the young man seemed even to himself so out
of bound, that at parting he often quoted Falstaff’s words,
saying, “ Ah, Archy, you hâve given me medicines !” But
alas ! poor old man, he was in no laughing vein now. He
found Lisle arranging his affairs for his departure with Letty
Alsop’s remains for the home burial. He sprang forward to
give his friend his usual cordial welcome. Walter Herbert
turned away, his face full of struggling feeling, and stood by
a window, gazing down into a little dark court, but seeing
only the désolâte chambers of his own mind.
“ What has happened ?” said Lisle affectionately, laying84
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “ What is the matter,
sir ?”
“ Matter !” He turned round as if wound up to a piteh of
fîerceness, and then like an angry child melting into tears,
he said in a broken voice, “ Nothing but what should hâve
been expected—she’s gone, Lisle.”
“ Gone ! dead—who ?”
“ Oh, no, not dead, but lost for ever to me, and to you.
Grâce, my darling is—is—engaged !”
No further question was put, no Word spoken ; each un-
derstood the other perfectly. The young man turned white
as the unwritten paper on his desk ; and after Walter Her-
bert left him, he sat as if paralyzed for half an hour ; then
giving his clerks their instructions, he shut himself up till
the hour of his departure. He tried to master himself, but
Letty was dead, and Grâce worse than dead, and the world
was very dark to him.
After fulfilling his engagement with Mrs. Tallis on the
evening of his betrothal, Copley returned to his mother’s
house. He passed the drawing-room from which the punc-
tual lady had retired at her stated time, and went to his
own sitting-room, where he found Sam Belson awaiting him,
and the fiood-gates being open, he did not shut them.
“ Why, bless my soûl !” exclaimed Belson, throwing his
unfinished cigar away, “ what dead earnest you seem to
be in.”
“ I am earnest and triumphant. You know, Sam, I hâve
been pursuing this one object for years.”
Belson laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and replied,
“ Yes, so you hâve, Cope, with some pleasant little détours;
you are capital, Copley.”
“ Capital ! why, what do you mean ?”
“Nothing, nothing, I assure you; I am only amused toMARRIED OR SINGLE?
85
see you as rnuch elated as if you had conquered a king-
dom.”
“ I hâve—my kingdom.”
“Not by the knights Yalor and Love, thougli you seem
to say so.”
“ I do say so ; and what can you say to tlie contrary ?”
“ Pshaw ! Cope, don’t fire up ; that is not your eue.
Why, did you ever suppose after you mined the fortress
with that lawsuit, that it would not yield ? You remember
I told you that was a masterly tactic.”
“ You hâve misunderstood me ; upon my honor you
hâve, Sam,” said Copley, reddening ; “ and certainly you
do not know Miss Herbert.”
“ Nor ever shall. The lady once refused to permit me to
be introduced to her. I shall not ask the favor a second
time, though since that mémorable epoch, she has stooped
from her pride of place. They are devilish poor, I hear.
She ought to overlook my foibles, being near of kin to
yours.”
“As to that, Sam, Miss Herbert is like other women,
comme-il-faut. They do not know, or care, or think about
such matters. But if you imagine she has been governed
by a sordid motive, your judgment may be the natural
resuit of your own expérience, but I assure you, it is a false
one.”
Belson looked askance at Copley with an indescribable
leer of dérision, and Copley, maintaining his seriousness, and
betraying a sincere indignation, which his faith in Grâce in-
spired, Belson said, “ Corne, corne, Copley, don’t let us fall
out now ; I thought you had got beyond woman-worship.
Upon my word, I meant no spécial disrespect to Miss Her-
bert ; I only do not imagine she is an exception to the sex.
Show me a disinterested patriot among politicians, a parson
who preaches for the pure love of soûls, a just merchant, and86
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
I will show you a woman who has no price. Pshaw ! Copley,
they can ail be bought : you know it. A poor girl, ever so
innocent—like young Jessie—with a few baubles, and soft
words, and fine dresses ; Tallis’ wife, with a little larger
amount of the same coin ; the mass of them, with a trous-
seau, a nuptial ceremony, and an establishment ; and a re-
duced gentlewoman, be she ever so well-born, clever, and
accomplished—and your affiancêe is ail this—will let herself
be knocked off to the bid of half a million, and the mirror
of ail the Grâces into the bargain,” and Belson bowed low to
Copley as he finished.
The poisoned chalice was returned to Copley’s lips. He
was silent.
“ Good-night to you, Copley,” resumed Belson, after a
long pause. “I am going West. You need not ask me to
the wedding. I never countenance weddings or funerals.
But after this is over, the wedding I mean, we may take up
life together, and yet spin some glittering threads. Good-
night, pleasant dreams to you—dreams a month long, and
then awake to married life with what appetite you may.
Good-night !”
This was said much in the temper and voice of the first
nuptial greeting to the first pair :
“Live while ye may,
Tet happy pair : enjoy, till I retum,
Short pleasures, for long woes are to succeed.”CHAPTER VII.
“ Kow, Trath, perfonn thine office !”
Grâce had eagerly escaped from Mrs. Herbert’s forced
politeness, Miss Anne’s sulkiness, and, above ail, from her
dear uncle’s pathetic countenance, and passed the intérim of
her lover’s absence with her sister at Harlem; where, in
her obscure dwelling, she realized that home is made of
a woman’s heart, and its various relations and dependencies
—not of marble, or brick and mortar, or even of May’s
magical “ wood painted white.” She came to town with her
sister and brother-in-law on the day of her lover’s expected
return. They were sitting with Mrs. Herbert’s family
around her tea-table. If there was ever an hour in life
when Mrs. Herbert’s platitudes could be acceptable, it was
such a one as this, when every one else was kept silent by
suspended or disquieted feeling and fluttering expectation.
Mrs. Herbert herself seemed flooded with serenity, as if
neither “ crosses nor losses” had ever invaded her lot.
“ How much we miss you, dear Eleanor,” she said, “ and
the children, dear little ones. But you must find being in
the country a great saving of time—life seems so eut up, so
very short in town ; don’t you think so, Mr. Esterly ?”
“ I don’t know, madam ; reckoned in poor Charles Lamb’s
fanciful mode, by the waste of it, it should seem fearfully
long.”
“ Long or short,” interposed Miss Carlton, “ there is not88
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
half enough of it to do what one wishes. Mamma and I
hâve been trying so hard, dear Eleanor, every day to get
out to see you in your dear little cottage, but something al-
ways chances to prevent us—it is so tiresome.”
“c Lord hâve macy on fine ladies for ail the lies they tell,’
as poor old Di’ says,” whispered Uncle Walter to Grâce, who
sat at his side. “Now, just listen to Eleanor’s answer, it
will be gracious, and true, too, Pli be bound.” But before
the answer was finished, a carriage stopped at the door, the
door-bell rang, an ominous silence heralded the expected
guest, and Mr. Copley entered. It was his first appearance
since the engagement. Mrs. Herbert and Anne had had
time to préparé their masks ; the rest never wore them.
The blood rushed to Grace’s cheeks as her lover kissed
the hand she extended to him. Eleanor, too, gave him her
hand, but, truth itself, she spoke not a word. He looked in
her face, and no doubt his vanity interpreted satisfactorily
the émotion it expressed. Esterly looked grave. After ex-
changing the common civilities of meeting, he felt that
something more was expected, and he said, “ I congratulate
you, Mr. Copley ; my wife is perfection—and Grâce is her
sister.”
“ A little equivocal,” interposed Mrs. Herbert ; “ no doubt
Mr. Esterly means that our dear Grâce will go on to perfec-
tion now that she is to be so fortunate, so happy. I hold
that success is as propitious to the character as—as—”
“ Sugar-plums to children, mamma. By the way, Mr.
Copley,” added Miss Anne, “ though you did not give ail
your’s to Grâce—your sugar-plums, I mean—I was not quite
so blind as you may imagine. I hâve seen ail along that the
farce of ‘ Love ’s a riddle’ was to end in this charming way.”
Grâce turned her eye upon Anne Carlton ; its flash dis-
closed the hollowness of that vessel ; she paled under it, and
was silent.MABBIED OB SINGLE?
89
Walter Herbert sat sipping his tea, not moving or even
looking up. Grâce put her hand on his shoulder, and said,
in a low accent that meant more than met the ear, “ Uncle
Walter.”
He started to his feet, and offered his reluctant hand to
Copley. “ Excuse me, Mr. Copley,” he said, “ excuse me ;
I make it a rule never to congratulate people, till they hâve
been married half a score of years.”
“ Then, sir,” replied Copley, with an animation that molli-
fied Mr. Herbert, “ at the end of ten years I will be sure to
claim my dues, with interest.”
“ Corne, sit down, Mr. Copley,” said Mrs. Herbert, “ here,
near me ; you can’t do better, since brother and Mr. Esterly
hâve placed Grâce a prisoner between them—very wrong,
gentlemen ! I hope you observe, Mr. Copley, that I hâve
endeavored to do honor to the occasion—to dress my tea-
table en pleine toilette. You see John has served my best
china, and the bouquet was expressly ordered for your wel-
come ; Thorburn has really done his best.”
“ c There’s rhue for me’—do you see it ?” whispered Anne
to Copley.
“You observe,” resumed Mrs. Herbert, “the silver vase
that contains the flowers, is something quite out of the com-
mon way. I keep it locked, you know, Eleanor, in my silver
safe—it’s so precious. It was your poor father’s gift to me
on our wedding-day ; and now, dear Grâce, I présent it to
you as a pleasant souvenir of your poor father’s bridai.”
Grâce tried to speak decent thanks, but the words died
on her lips. Anne, whose eyes on some occasions were as
quick as a détective policeman’s, saw her embarrassment, and
smiled.
“What are you smiling at, Anne?” asked her mother.
“ Anne has been so happy since this event.”
“Nonsense, mamma; such ievents’ to other people don’t90
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
particularly delight me.” Anne turned her eye to Copley,
and heaved an honest sigh.
“ What did you then smile at, my dear ?”
“ I hâve forgotten ; it might be Mr. Copley’s elaborate
toilet after his railroad journey. What did we hear at the
play about an 4 hour’s delay in love ?’ ”
Miss Carlton’s poor spite passed unheeded, for at this mo-
ment a servant brought in a letter, with a paper parcel care-
lessly tied, and laid it down before her. “ This is not for
me, John,” she said, and passed the letter to Graçe. “ Why,
what a direction !” she exclaimed, looking at the parcel—
“ 4 Miss Herbert, Bond-street.’ One would think it was
written by a maniac.” Miss Anne partook the very com-
mon curiosity to see the inside of a parcel. As if uncon-
sciously, and ail the while talking to Eleanor, she fumbled at
the carelessly-tied string till it came off ; the paper opened,
and the contents rolled on the floor : fans, rings, bits of fan-
tastical jewelry, a splendid opera-glass, a certain delicately-
carved cigarette-case, and a diamond bracelet.
Walter Herbert moved back his chair. 44 Hallo ! what’s
ail this ?” he exclaimed.
44 Dear me,” cried Mrs. Herbert, 44 the engagement has got
wind. Dear Grâce, what a quantity of splendid wedding
présents !”
44 Good heavens !” exclaimed Anne Carlton, picking up the
bracelet, and darting her eyes from Grâce to Copley, 44 as I
live, Mrs. Tallis’ bracelet ! What can it mean ?”
“God knows !” exclaimed Copley, and perhaps uncon-
scious that he had spoken, he rushed, like a félon from jus-
tice, out of the room, and out of the house.
Miss Anne, for once inspired by her mother’s genius, con
descended to borrow her aphoristic style, and murmured,
with ineffable relief, 44 4 There’s many a slip between the cup
and the lip.’ ”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
91
Eleanor’s eyes were fixed on her sister ; her’s had not
turned from the letter, which was rustling in her shaking
hand. She was blind and deaf to ail that was passing
around her. Without reading the letter, she had, by a
sweeping glance over it, and as if by intuition, comprehend-
ed its mission, and refolding it, she left the room. When
she came to her own apartment, she felt that her intellects
were confused and made incapable by the sudden shock ; she
paced up and down, till she became calm and quite self-pos-
sessed. She then lighted the gas, and sat down to the con-
siderate reading of the letter that follows. It was illegibly
written, evidently by snatches, and blotted with tears. To
Grace’s sharpened sense every word was clear ; to her quick-
ened feeling, every meaning sharp as Steel.
It began :—“ She is dead !—my child, Elise is dead.
God’s curse has fallen on me—she is dead—gone from me
forever and forever.
“ I kneel by her hour after hour—the hours are minutes,
and the minutes are hours—there is no change. She is still
—oh, so still !—this restless little body that at my least look
would fly into my arms. I kiss her with my burning lips ;
they do not warm hers. I take up the little hand that used
to grasp mine, and it falls, heavy and cold. My heart throbs
till I think life stirs in her, but there is no life there. She is
dead—Elise, dead f
“ She was a sweet fountain in my life-desert. She should
hâve kept me from wrong-doing. She did not, and so I
lost her—my darling, darling child. I loved her as I hâve
loved nothing else. I never loved my husband. My child
loved him. And when I think of that, and look upon
her, it does not much comfort me that I hâve not been
criminal toward her father, in the world’s sense. I see
written on my spotless child, ‘Blessed are the pure in92
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
spirit.’ And I am sure I feel that such as are not so, are
cursed.
“ One ray of light has penetrated my thick darkness.
One duty appears before me : it seems as if my child had
spoken to me, and that does comfort me, though my head
thr'obs, so that I know not if I can do what I would. I will
try.
“ I hâve moved away from her. I hâve dropped the cur-
tain ail around her bed, so that I can not see her while I
Write. I will try to Write distinctly.. Oh, how could she
die ? so full she was of life and love.
“ Stop—let me think. It was that evening my darling
first showed signs of this fatal illness. She had been hanging
round me ail the afternoon, but I think she did not complain
till after a note was brought in to me from Copley, informing
me of your engagement, and telling me he would corne to
me in the course of the evening. She was sitting with her
arm over my shoulder, and her little cheek resting on my
breast. I was singing to her—the last time. I dearly loved to
sing to her ; how she loved it ; how she would ask for c more
and more.’ I learned every pretty ballad I could hear of,
to sing to her. When I had read the note, she begged
me to sing more. She said her head did not pain her when
I sang. I thought it was just a little pretext, she was so
petted. Poor little darling !
“ I must tell the whole humiliating truth. Copley’s note
set me off crying with vexation, and mort-ified vanity. Not
disappointed love ; no, no, it was not love ; no, I never
loved that bad man. My child kissed off my tears, un-
worthy the touch of her lips ; I rang for her nurse. Again
Elise told me she had pain. I called her c a little make-be-MARRIED OR SINGLE?
93
lieve,’ and kissed her, and sent her away. Oh, my God ! if
I could hâve her now, but one moment living, in my arms !”
44 Copley came—I will tell ail, for so I resolved on my
knees by my little angel’s side. His sacrilegious lips touched
my cheek, still warm with my child’s caress. I do not re-
member distinctly much of what he said. Like a dream, it
has been ail swept away before the dreadful realities that
followed. I remember we sat together, and walked the
room together, hour after hour. Twice, nurse knocked at
the door, and told me Elise was asking for me. I gave no
heed ; nature was dead within me. God forsook me when
I sent my child away.
44 Oh, yes, now it cornes back to me, some things he said that
dreadful evening. 4 He must marry, sooner or later.’ He
believed his incentive in the pursuit of you had been the
difficulty of attaining you. You piqued his pride. He chose
to pursue, not to be caught by the 4 eager mothers, and ready
daughters,’ and stuff like that. And then, oh, how he flat-
tered me. How he has, from the beginning, talked of my
beauty, my grâce, my magnetic attraction, my exquisite
taste in dress. Think of my folly ; think of it—and of my
punishment. Oh, my child, my child !
44 Why did I not leave him, and go to my darling ? Had
I only gone to her little bed to kiss her, as I went to my
room !—it was the first time I ever missed it—it was my sin
that kept me from her. Perhaps I might hâve saved her if
i had called the doctor then—that way lies madness. She
was awake ail night, nurse says, and continually asking her
for me ; and when they called me in the moraing, she was
in a fit. Since then she has not known me. She has not felt
my kisses. I tried every song she loved, and sang till I94
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
fainted quite away, but she gave no heed ; God would not
let ber. She would never hâve left me of her own free will.
“ Her father is absent. Poor Rupert ! he will never see
ber, not even as sbe lies now—dead. Ob, that horrid word,
it seems as if I bad never beard it, never seen it before. He
will be comforted, for be bas not offended. He uttered no
false marriage vows, nor has be broken tbem in tbought,
word, or deed.
“ Now tbat I bave done this one duty left in the dark
world before me, I look on my child with less torture. I
seem to hâve taken one step toward ber.
“ Augusta Tallis.
“ P. S.—I send you ail the trinkets be has given me. Dis-
pose of them as you will ; tbrow tbem into the Street, if you
will, and let tbese witnesses of my vanity and folly be trod-
den under foot.”
Half an hour after, Eleanor softly opened the door and
entered ber sister’s room. Grâce was kneeling beneath ber
mother’s picture ; it was the place sbe bad fondly chosen,
wben a child, to say ber prayers, and she had retained it for
tbat holy office witb something of the feeling of a Catbolic
m devout communion witb ber dearest saint ; she raised
ber head. Ail struggle was over; there was a beavenly
peace on ber glowing face. “ Corne bere, dear sister,” sbe
said, “and help me tbank the beneficent Providence tbat
has saved me from perdition.”
Their arms were interlaced and tbeir hearts melted to-
gether in one silent, fervent thanksgiving.
Grâce gave Eleanor Mrs. Tallis’ letter. She wiped away
her tears as sbe finished the reading. “ Poor mother ! poorMARRIED OR SINGLE?
95
woman !” she murmured, “ what can be done for her ? She
bas neither mother, nor sister, nor, I believe, one intimate
friend.” Grâce impulsively answered to what she felt as an
appeal. “ Shall I go to her, Eleanor ?” she said. “ She is
alone with her servants. She must need some one who knows
her whole calamity. I may corne between her soûl and its
despair—I hâve been at least as weak as she, and therefore
my presence will be no reproach to her.”
“ Yes, go, dear Grâce, and support and comfort her if you
can ; but do not silence the reproaches of her conscience ; re-
member in whose name conscience speaks.” Eleanor paused,
Grâce rang the bell, and bade the servant order a carriage.
“ I thought her so weak,” said Grâce, “ I would not hâve
believed there were éléments in her for so fearful a tem-
pest. I am afraid she will lose her senses when it cornes to
the last.”
“ No, Grâce, I think not. I think I hear from out the
storm that gracious voice, ‘ It is I, be not afraid !’ ”
“ What do you mean ? I do not understand you,
Eleanor.”
“ I see in her remorse and in her hard struggle to do the
duty nearest to her, that God is dealing with her soûl, and
that she accepts his dealing.”
“ Oh, Eleanor, you are so much more religiously wise
than I am, so much wiser every way, that you, not I, should
go to her.”
“ No, Grâce, for every reason it is better you should go.
Mrs. Tallis must be approached through her feelings. But
do not, dear Grâce, in your pity and anxiety for her présent
relief, lose sight of her future good. She recéives her child’s
death as punishment; her mind is filled with this idea.
Make her feel, if you can, that this is not the way that our
great Shepherd in his infinité love deals with us. He chas-
tises us, not because we leave the fold, but to make us con-96
MA.RRIED OR SINGLE?
scious of our wanderings, to bring us back and keep us
there. If the cliild had lived she would hâve followed the
fashion of her mother’s life ; that would hâve been the real
misery. Now the little loving creature’s death may bring her
mother out of her idle useless life, may lead to right relations
to her husband, to a sincere, effectuai repentance. To this
great end, you must persuade her the bitter draught the
great Physician has put into her hand must be drunk, not
turned aside ; and that he gives it to restore, not torment.”
“ How right you are, Eleanor, and as much better than I,
as a cure is than a cordial. I thought only of paying the
infinité debt I owe this poor lady, by giving her what com-
fort I could in her désolation. ISTow, by your aid, I will be
true to her, and try to help as well as comfort her. How
different, dear sister,” she said, as she stooped to kiss Elea-
nor good-night, “ is this from the sweet peace at your child’s
death !”
“Yes, thank God, it is very different; but Grâce, that
affliction discovered moth and rust gathering on our Chris-
tian armor, that we had not perceived.”
“ And the angel of death brings in his hand this divine
anointing for ail our eyes, does he not, Eleanor ?” Grâce re-
plied with a pensive smile, and as she paused at the door,
her face radiant with a sense of her great deliverance, she
added, in a low voice, “ May I not say devoutly that ‘ where-
as I was blind, I now see ?’ ”
Once out of the room, she turned back, and in an altered
tone said, “ Think of my forgetting ITnele Walter ! Go to
him, Eleanor, tell him I hâve passed the Dead Sea I hâve
been drifting down the last five days ; that I am free and
happy, and his own child again ; and if he wishes, tell him
ail how it is—most likely I shall never speak of it again.”
The good news was told to Walter Herbert. It was
health to him by day and sleep by night.MARRIED OR SINGLE?
97
At two in the morning, Grâce, having withdrawn, from the
apartment in which the body of Elise was lying, to Mrs.
Tallis’ library, wrote the following letter to her sister :
“ Dear Eleanor :—
“ When I came to this house, I summoned Mrs. Tallis’
maid, and inquired for her mistress. ‘ Oh, Miss,’ she said,
‘ it would scare you to see her. The poor lady has not left
the nursery since first the child was taken ill. You can go
in, for she takes no notice who goes in or who cornes out ;
she seems to know nothing but that the child is dead. She
has swallowed nothing but a sip of tea or coffee ; she has
not had a brush through her hair, and only takes her bath,
and slips on her dressing-gowri, as if she grudges the minutes
she’s away from Miss Elise’s side.’ I stopped her prating,
and went, as seemed to me best, directly to Mrs. Tallis.
Oh, Eleanor, what a spectacle ! The last time I saw Augusta
Tallis was at Mrs. Seton’s bail, splendidly arrayed, brilliantly
beautiful! She was now colorless as the little blighted
blossom she hung over. Her flesh has melted away ; she
looks ten years older ; and yet, haggard as she is, her hair
matted, her dress neglected, her exquisite beauty impressed
me as it never did before. It is now instinct with spirit,
though the spirit be in prison and in torment. She was
kneeling, when I entered, beside her child’s little couch,
her head lying on her child’s low pillow. I went to her
and laid my hand on her head. She did not notice me.
I stood hoping for some sigh or motion—there was none.
I turned my eyes to the child—she looks like a sleeping
cherub—so serene, so lovely ! Thoughts of the salvation
she had wrought for me, flooded my heart. I kissed the
6hining locks on her temples, and murmured something, I
know not what, expressions of my debt to her. The mother
started, as if from deep sleep and dreams, and said, ‘ Who
vol*	598
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
is it ? what is it ?’ I sank down beside her, and put my
arm around her quivering frame. 4 Dear friend,’ I said, 4 I
hâve corne to thank you and to bless her—you and your
child hâve saved me, Augusta. She inspired you to Write
that letter to me.’ I shall never forget the instant change
of her countenance—it was from death to life—from despair
to hope. 4 I thought it was so,’ she said ; 4 she seemed to
speak to me out of that death silence—to tell me the only
thing left for me to do in this world—and I did it—and I
shall see her again ; shall I ? Oh, tell me you believe I
shall ! that I am not a castaway !’ I thought of your caution,
Eleanor, and resisted my impulse to fold her to my bosom,
and say nothing but the balmiest words I could think of.
I spoke yours instead. 4 Surely I believe you will see your
child again,’ I said, 4 if you faithfully receive the admonition
our heavenly Father sends to you through her.’ 4 Oh, tell
me what it is,’ she said, 4 my head is so weak, so dizzy.
Why, there is nothing left for me in this life to do—it is ail
empty and dark. My husband must hâte me, must cast me
off—our child has died by my neglect.’ Now I soothed
her, Eleanor ; I begged her to be quiet, and to wait, and
by-and-by she would see God’s gracious purpose, if she
would but look to him—his arms were always outstretched
to the returning child. She seemed a little comforted and
laid her head on my lap, and the tears flowed with less
anguish. But she broke forth again, and wrung her
hands and said, 4 Oh, she was not like any other child !
she was so sweet ! so bright ! such a merry laugh—
did you ever hear her laugh ? Oh, my heavens, I shall
never laugh again ! And she could be so quiet. When I
had my nervous head-aches she would lie by me for an hour
with her little cool hand on my forehead, and if I but sighed
she would kiss me ; but she will never kiss me again, never,
never !’ By degrees I soothed away this paroxysm, and sheMARRIEB OR SINGLE?
99
permitted me to lay her on the sofa, and bathe her head, and
while I stroked her temples, she fell asleep, and slept natur-
ally for an hour, the first time, her woman avers, since the
child became ill ; but that can hardly be. Ignorant people
are apt to express their sympathy by exaggerating the
démonstrations of suffering. When Augusta awoke, she
took, without résistance, the nourishment I offered. And
what was more important, she seemed comforted by my
presence, and ready to open her heart to me. She returned
to her child’s low couch, and after having sat by her a long
time in thoughtful and tearless silence—4 Oh, Grâce,’ she
said, 4 I begin to comprehend what y ou said to me—that
God’s dealing with me was supremely wise and loving ; was
not that what you said ? My head has been so confused—
it is getting clearer now.’
44 4 I believe ail God’s dealings with us are so,’ I replied.
44 41 don’t mean in general, but in particular to me—I see
it is so.’ It seemed for a moment as if she struggled to
penetrate with the eye of faith the thick clouds that obstruct-
ed it, and then again she reverted to the treasure that had
absorbed ail her love, and giving way to a fresh burst of
grief, she said, 41 was not fît to be trusted with the precious
spirit of my child. Ail I did was to pamper her, and to deck
this little body in French finery. I loved her ; yes, I loved
her. God knows I loved her. But, oh, Grâce, meanly, self-
ishly, wickedly. I could not bear she should love any one
but me. I was jealous of her nurse, and bitterly jealous of
her father. I used often to ask her if she did not love me
better than she loved her father; and the dear little créature
would say, 4 No mamma, I love you both alike; you are good
to me, and papa is just as good to me, and I can’t help
loving him as well.’ She was so true ; she could not say
what was not true, and it was wise and loving to take her
away before I corrupted her. Oh, am I not humbled ? I100
MAREIED OR SINGLE?
should hâve dragged down to earth that sweet heavenly
spirit. I should hâve made her just what I am—a mere vic-
tim of vanity, living to no One good purpose. Poor Rupert !
what will he say ? what will he do ? She was ail he had in
the world. I hâve done nothing for him, but to wear out
of him ail the goodness he had. He did love me. He does
love me still.’ After a pause, she said, with animation, as if
the thought had just struck her, ‘Grâce, Grâce, do you
think it possible that he can ever forgive me, and forget,
and be happy again ? Do you think it possible that I can
love him, because I ought. Is that my child’s admonition ?’
“ I hesitated. She seemed gazing into the very depths of
my soûl. ‘ Ah,’ she said, ‘ you do not believe it possible.’
“ Now, Eleanor, you may imagine how much I was per-
plexed what to answer her. You know how I hâve always
maintained against you, whose nature it is to feel as well as
to do right—and who, therefore, hâve it at will to love or
not—that love is an instinct, or an impulse, or something quite
independent of our will, or our conviction. I tried to think
what you would reply to her, Eleanor. I was frightened,
lest I should put some obstruction to the good work begin-
ning in her heart, and while I hesitated, she said, ‘ I do not
believe you know how good Rupert is—how forbearing he
h as been with me—how much he has overlooked—how
dreadfully I hâve tried him. And yet I think, I hope he
still loves me.’
“ I can not express to you the relief I felt at these words.
I could now answer as I wished, without belying my own
convictions. I saw the child’s death was working a change
in the wife’s heart.
“ ‘ The desire for your husband’s affections will turn yours
toward him, Augusta. Feeling as you do, this bereavement,
you will know what he feels, and from your infinité pity for
him, affection must spring up ; not a girlish love, but theMARRIED OR SINGLE?
101
considerate affection of a steadfast friend ; and then she who
now seems lost to you will not be lost, but the guardian an-
gel of both.’ Augusta looked at me, while I spoke, with an
earnestness I can not describe to you, and when I finished,
instead of replying to me by word, she sank on her knees,
and bending her head over her child, she held such gracious
communion, with Him who had stretched out his arms to
receive the returning prodigal, as I think she never knew
before.
44 It was a fitting préparation for what was to follow.
Mrs. Tallis’ maid opened the door, and beckoning to me,
said, 4 Mr. Tallis had arrived, and would I please to go down
to him ?—he was in such an awful way they could do nothing
with him.’ No, thought I, if it be possible, his wife shall go
to him. Now, while they are baptized in the same affliction,
and the same grief, the past may be obliterated. The ice
formed against him in her heart is already melting in this
fiery crucible—the current may set to him.
44 Augusta had risen from her knees, and was looking to
me. 4 Has he corne ?’ she gasped out. 4 Yes, Augusta, will
you go to him ? You alone can comfort him.’ 41,’ she said,
41 comfort him ?’ After hesitating a moment, and gazing
again at her child, as if from her to draw strength and cour-
age, she said, 4 Yes, I will go. I will tell him ail; everything.
He may—he may forgive me. Oh, Grâce, he has a great
heart.’
44 4 Yes, I believe he has,’ said I, delighted to perceive the
subtle workings of her newly awakened feeling for him, 4 and
Augusta, such greatness is goodness ; trust to it.’
44 4 1 will,’ she replied ; and added, with almost a smile
beaming through the sweetness of her face, 4 Our child bids
me go to him.’
441 wrapped a shawl around her, and supported her, shiv-
ering and tottering, to his door. He was weeping aloud102
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
when she went in. Then followed a fearful stillness. But
afterward, here in the library, where I am sitting, over the
drawing-room, I heard the murmur of their low, sad voices
for half an hour. I doubt not there was humble and full
confession from her, and forgiveness from him. Then they
came up to Elise’ nursery together, and the maid now tells
me, that Mr. Tallis has gone, quite calm, to his own apart-
ment, and she is falling asleep on the sofa. Oh, Eleanor, if
he has lost his child, has he not found his wife ?
“This is the second time that I hâve been so near to
death as to penetrate with a sort of second sight its myste-
ries. When our mother died, I was too young for any thing
but the dreadful sense of loss. Aunt Sarah told me she was
gone to heaven, but what heaven was, or where, I knew not.
She was gone from me forever ; that I fully comprehended,
and night after night I cried myself to sleep. But never,
till I saw y ou and Frank meekly resign y our child into the
safe wardship of Him who gave him, did I know that
the gates of immortality are never again closed to those
whose eye of faith has seen one they loved pass through
them. Thenceforth, this life has an unction from the life to
corne.
“ And to this house death has corne as an angel, sowing
with light and life the paths of these poor wanderers be-
fogged by their own follies. And it has an angel’s mission to
ail those for whom it sets its solemn seal and superscription
on vanity, and levity, and worldliness, and ail the utter waste
of God’s good gifts.
“ But, dear sister, in pointing the moral for others, I do
not évadé it for myself. This evening has been what your
good little cousin Effie calls c a teaching period,’ and I hâve
had my own humbling task to con.
“ Eleanor, when you prescribed the medicine for Mrs.
Tallis, you meant there should be enough for two. I hâveMAEEIED OR SINGLE ?
103
drank my portion, and now I send you the resuit ; please
examine it, dear physician, and tell me if it be right.
“ The blow to my vanity this evening was stunning, but
my affections are unscathed. This is certain from my prés-
ent satisfaction, and grateful sense of escape. If I had loved
Horace Copley, blinded, beguiled, I might hâve been, but
then I should hâve found exténuation in my delusion. Now,
in my retrospect, I see how my weakness yielded to his
stronger will, how his importunate flattery filled the vacu-
ities of my life, and bribed my imagination to supply the
defects in his character ; obvious enough they were to my
judgment, and glaring to my instincts. I certainly did not
dream of such heartless profligacy as Mrs. Tallis’ disclosure
revealed; but at twenty-two, I should hâve reflected on
what was meant by that term, c man of the world,’ which I
hâve more than once heard applied to him, and I ought to
bave reasoned far enough to conclude that a man, false in his
relations to our sex, is unsound, is false throughout, and that
his integrity is not to be trusted when assailed by temptation,
corne in what form it may.
“ This man lias been a sort of possession to me. What
hours, hours ! years of precious responsible life I hâve wasted
on him. I now dismiss him from my mind forever, and
truly without resentment or contempt ; he has exercised too
much power over me for contempt, and for resentment,
Eleanor, my self-abasement is too deep, my penitence too
keen, to permit resentment. You are my confessor, dear
sister. Every sound is hushed within and without. The
city is steeped in solemn silence. I feel like making a
clean breast of it, so bave patience. I begin with a con-
fession that makes my cheeks burn, while I Write it. I
was, no, I was not jealous of Anne Carlton, but the thought
that she might finally triumph over me, would intrude, and
I could not brook it. I looked forward with pleasure to104
MÀRRIED OR SINGLE?
baffling Mrs. Herbert’s manœuvring. I will keep the mem-
ory of those misérable vanities as a scourge for ail future
intrusions of this subtle weakness, which like the fretting
worm works into the very root of virtue. Don’t tell your
husband, Eleanor ; I am not liumbled enough for that. To
y ou alone, who are so good, so c lowly-wise,’ and to my God
can I confess this most humiliating weakness.
“ I hâve gifts that compel the world to admire me, and
make Anne Carlton, and birds of her feather, hâte me—it
would be mock-modesty to deny it—and other gifts that
make you and Frank, and my dear Uncle Walter, love me;
but what use hâve I made of them, Eleanor? I hâve been
one of the veriest idlers in that wide harvest-field, where
the laborers are few and the harvest still plenteous. I hâve
made myself my own centre ; I hâve studied art and
literature as ends, not means ; I hâve fretted in the har-
ness of the frivolous society in which my lot was cast,
but I hâve not thrown it off ; I craved, and expected—as I
believe most young women do—an adoring, exclusive love,
as if we came into this working world merely to worship
idols, and be idols in turn ; in short, Eleanor, amid my
morbid repinings, and insolent exactions of Providence, I
sought for peace every where but where it is to be found, and
where, being found, ail pure human affections, ail gifts and
grâces, ail diversities of attainments, are its gracious acces-
sories, never its substitutes.
“I hâve looked upon you, sweet sister, wrapped in your
humility, and going through the paths of duty heavenward,
as my inferior, because -you had not my longings—aspir-
ations, I think I called them in my nomenclature. The
steeps I climbed were as the mere mole-hills on earth’s sur-
face, while your way led up those shining heights seen only
by the eye of faith. You, Eleanor, hâve been like sunshine
in your course, imparting vitality to every thing you touched ;MARRIED OR SINGLE?
105
even the few possible virtues in our step-mother and in
Anne Carlton hâve put forth and blossomed in your beams ;
whereas I hâve been the sphynx, with its riddie, to them,
and they, heaven knows, a desert to me.
“ I lay some trifling unction to my soûl from the fact that
your plastic youth was moulded by our martyr-aunt, while
my willful and wayward childhood was left to the corrosions
of Mrs. Herbert, and dear Uncle Walter’s petting, which
nurtured my affections, and thereby brought forth some
flowers, but certainly had no tendency to root out the weeds.
“But these are accidents; the différence between us is
essential. You hâve been a Christian, and lived a Christian’s
life ; I hâve been a heathen, and lived a heathen’s life. I
know the inscription is the same to us both—ail those who
are baptized, and hâve conformed to the rule of their church,
as I hâve to ours, are called Christians, as I am called ; but
I also know, that those only are so who hear Sis word and
do it.
“ Dear sister, I hâve had a long life in this solemn night,
if time is to be reckoned by sensations. I hâve laid the
cross upon my heart, and comprehended, as I never did be-
fore, this Symbol of humility, love, and fidelity.
“ I am penitent, Eleanor. Time must prove whether I
am repentant.”
The following passage from a recent publication seems to
us of so apt an application to Grâce Herbert’s letter, that
we take the liberty to enrich our pages with it :
“ Hâve you, reader, ever experienced a great sorrow ? and
if so, hâve you not seen afterward how it discloses heights
and depths in your spiritual nature which you had never
known, and resources upon which you had never drawn ;
how it produces susceptibilities which you had never before
‘5*106
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
felt ; how it induces a tenderness of mind that makes it duc-
tile almost as the clay, and ready to receive the stamp of the
divine image ; how little animosities and hatreds are ban-
ished and forgotten, while the heart h as new yearnings to-
ward ail that live, and especially toward ail that suffer ; how
the soûl sickens at mere shows and appearances, and de-
mands realities, while it hungers after the good and the
true ; how this world recedes less, while the world of im-
mortality cornes on as if now first revealed, and incloses you
in its light, just as when the glare of the day is withdrawn
and the darkness moves over us, we gaze on a new sky,
and bathe in the starry splendors of the milky way ?”CHAPTER VIII.
“ Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there.”
It was just at the close of day, a soft, showery April day,
that the body which had invested Letty’s sweet spirit was
let softly down into its mother earth. The sun sent its
slanting beams athwart the turf, jeweled by the shower, and
checkered by the shadows of an old oak that spread its
arms, as if in bénédiction, over the space allotted in the vil-
lage church-yard to the Lisle family.
The friends that had gathered to assist in the last rever-
ential office had dispersed. Archibald alone lingered, lean-
ing against a marble slab which marked his father’s grave,
and near which Letty was placed.
We said he was alone; but not far from him stood the
village sexton, leaning on his spade. The old man’s few
white hairs, curiously husbanded and braided, lay in a single
lock on his forehead, making him look like the fit chief crafts-
man of “ Time in the primmer.” “ Uncle Phil” was the
most venerated official of the village—his dynasty had been
the longest. He had buried two générations, and turned
into the dust some sweet blossoms of the third. Uncle
Phil’s hands were thus hallowed. Besides, in his private
life, he was a single, kindly, true-hearted man, with a quaint
humor that pleased the old, and drew the children to his
knee. A touch of human vanity he had, but it ran in the108
MARRIED OR Sfts GLE ?
professional line, and thus interfered with no one, and of-
fended none. He was proud to be the ultimate authority in
ail the traditions of the burying-place, which he seemed to
regard in some sort his private estate. He boasted that
there was not an error in the records of his meraory ; that
he could name each individual that mouldered in an un-
marked grave ; that he could tell the day and the hour when
such and such a grave was dug ; who had the longest pro-
cession ; who was buried in the pomp of “ mahogany and
silver plate,” and who was laid down in humble “ cherry.”
These, and other analogous ghastly particulars, were as fa-
miliar as household words to TTncle Phil, but they never
clouded his serene mind. Life was pleasant to him from
sunrise to sunset—from the morning of youth, to the twi-
light of old âge.
Archibald was wiping the tears from his eyes, and turning
to départ, when an expressive “ hem, hem,” from Uncle
Phil arrested him.
“Ah, Archy,” he said, hobbling forward as fast as âge
and rheumatism would let him, and grasping the young
man’s hand, “ I déclaré I’m glad to see you, tho’ it’s a kind
o’ solitary time with you. She was pretty”—in our rustic
phrase, the most comprehensive of commendations—46 it
cornes tough to me, Archy, to lay down such a young, kind
créature as Letty Alsop was ; but I guess she’s better off—
she was sort o’ lonesome in this world.” Solitary, and lone-
some, in Uncle Phil’s social vocabulary, stood for ail modes
of wretchedness and uncomfortableness.
“ Yes, Uncle Phil,” replied Archy, “she is far better off,
in every way;” andthen, characteristically closing the door
on his own griefs, he added, “ I am very glad to see you
able to be out after your great loss ; I was very sorry to
hear of it, Uncle Phil.”
“ I knew you would be, Archy. Gorry ! ’twas hard. SheMAEEIED OE SINGLE?
109
was the only one we eyer had. Her mother had not been
dead but little more ’n a year, and Livy and I had lived to-
gether sixty years, three months, and seven days. She was
the peaceablest creter—lively as a cricket, too—and a mas-
ter-hand for work ; no noise about it ; and neat as a Shaker !
Sixty years we saw the sun rise and set together—never
apart one night in that time. Sixty years î It’s a long day,
Archy; but ’twas pleasurant, I tell you.” The old man
paused, still leaning on his spade, and then went on to the
second chapter of his life : “ But an only child is choice,
Archy—you was a speaking of Anny? Well, she’s gone,
too ! We wa’n’t neither of us none of the youngest when
Anny was born. She was ail of thirty, and I was upwards.
Anny was a comfort ail the way through ; she was good—
she was, Archy ; but after her mother died, I never see no
creter so lonesome as she was. It was i Mother ! mother !’
ail the time ; and when the typhus fever set in, I couldn’t
say a word—she was going to mother, and I could best bear
being left alone. My spirit is a kind o’ rising one, you
know, Archy ; but it was a hard stroke parting.” The poor
old man, with a nature ail abhorrent of sadness as it was,
bit his lips, and fairly whimpered.
“ It is very wretched, Uncle Phil, that you should be left
alone.”
“Oh, gorry ! Archy, I ain’t alone ; that is, Ned Finley’s
family has moved in to t’other part of the house, and they ’re
good company, ’specially their boy Jemmy. Says he to me
t’other day, when my rheümatis was at its height, and I
could not put on my shoes, says he, 4 Corne, Uncle Phil,
corne to dancing-school with me, and it will cure you.’ He’s
a bright one.” And the old man, who had glided into sun-
shine as eagerly as a lizard does, laughed, and went on : “ I
always liked boys, you know, Archy ; you and I was always
friends, you remember ?”110
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ Oh, I can never forget it, Uncle Phil, how kind you al-
ways were to me—the mammoth melon you gave me, and
my pleasant rides in your old wagon. Is old Whitey alive ?”
“ Whitey ! Landsakes ! Archy. Whitey died twenty
years ago, and he was upwards of twenty-two ! I was not
thinking, Archy, of our little sprees in the old wagon, and
so forth, but of your ploughing ; do you remember it ?”
Uncle Phil proceeded to relate what he repeated circum-
stantially at his semi-annual meetings with Archibald, for
he never went home without paying the old man a visit.
“ You remember, don’t you, Archy, when we raised that
noble bit of corn that took the premium—before you went
into larning? You was but a slip of a boy, but you was one
of them kind that succeeds. Gorry ! there ’s a différence in
boys, that ’s a fact. When you took the ten dollars instead
of the silver cup, Deacon Shay’s wife said c she thought it a
bad sign for a boy to be so greedy of cash.’ I tell you,
Archy, I had my revenge when I went to settle with her for
burying the deacon. The old lady disputed my price—you
know the deacon was tall as Saul, and I had to dig extra
length. Well, I told her, twice over, how you would hâve
me take the ten dollars, ’case you would hâve it the yield
was owing to my ploughing—you remember ?”
“ You will not let me forget, Uncle Phil, though it is so
long past ; even then you seemed to me an old man.”
“ ’Case you was a boy, Archy. Why, it ain’t much over
twenty years, and I was not much past sixty then—but old
âge has corne on me like a snow-storm since she and Anny
died.”
“ Still, I see you are able to keep up your old business ?”
“Well, yes, with some help. Since railroads came in,
Archy, people are running wild with notions. They must
carry new fashions into grave-yards, and turn ’em into cime-
taries, and there ’s a sight to do ! But corne here, Archy,MARRIED OR SINGLE?
111
and see where I laid my folks.” Archibald followed him.
“ There,” he continued, after a slight pause, “ there they lie
together, side by side, as close as we could put them. 1
always meant to lie by her, but Anny went first, and I gave
up to her. I knew she ’d want to lie close to c motber’—so
sbe’ll lie between us. Now, isn’t tbat sleek, Archy ?” he
pointed to tbe smootb, ricb turf over bis wife and cbild. “ I
spare no pains here,” and be stooped to pluck out tbe only
weed visible, “ it’s ail I can do for tbem now ; tbe ladies put
up this monument—it was kind of them, but I guess father’s
work pleases them that lies under better—foolish, tbey
don’t know nothing about it.” And our poor “ Old Mor-
tality” dashed off the tears tbat seemed to sting bim.
“ Oh I think tbey do, Uncle Pbil ; not from ‘ under,’ as
you say, but I believe they are looking down upon you, lov-
ingly, gratefully.”
“Gorry! do you, Archy? do you? Well, maybe tbey
are.”
Uncle Phil’s garrulity did not tire Archy, to wbom he was
mucb endeared by tbe pleasant memories of bis boybood,
but anxious lest tbe falling dew should barm bis stiffened
joints, be told bim so, and proposed tbey should go home-
ward. “ Oh, never fear, Archy. I never bumor my rheum-
atis—there ’s no use. I want you just to notice your plot.
You were too mucb eut down at tbe funeral. Tbe trees you
planted thrive finely. I hâve my favorites below, as otbers
bave above ground. You can pick them out by tbe look of
tbeir graves ; no nettles where your people lie, I can tell
you.”
Tbey turned tbeir footsteps towards tbe fresb grave, and
having examined tbe young trees wbicb encircled tbe sacred
precincts of bis family, and commended tbem, Archibald,
for tbe first time in bis life, noticed a grave beside bis
motber’s, tbe turf of wbicb was very slightly elevated above112
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
the surrounding level. It had a small brown head-stone.
“ Whose grave is this, so close to my mother’s, can you tell
me, Uncle Phil?” he said.
“ Tell you, Arcby ? I guess I can,” replied the old man,
chuckling. “Why, since they’ve been modeling-over the
yard, I’ve ’dentified more than forty graves that had no
name on ’arth, but what’s in my mind—there’s not many
folks remembered long after they corne under my spade. I
was puzzled myself sometimes, but then I’d call to mind the
shape of the coffin, the kind of wood, and sometimes, Archy,
the look of a mourner would corne up fresh, and bring it ail
back. But that little grave—landsakes, Archy ! to think
you should not know about that.”
u I do not,” said Archibald, his feelings startled by the
old man’s emphasis and by his face full of meaning.
“ Why, Archy, that’s Helen Dale’s grave—your aunt.”
“ Helen Dale ! my aunt ? I never heard the name before.
I never knew I had an aunt.”
“ Why, you don’t mean so, Archy !” and the old man bent
over his spade, and gazed at Archy in a sort of bewilder-
ment. After a moment’s pause, he said, “ Well, maybe it
is not so strange. Corne to think, she must hâve died about
the time you were born—a little before, or may be a little
after ; and your own mother, Archy, was—was—was—was
not like other folks. That is ail I mean, Archy—no disre-
spect—for she was a noble disposition of a woman, and your
mother besides ; but she was the shut-uppest woman that
ever I came across. c Deeds, not words,’ with her ; but the
last corner, that is the présent Mrs. Lisle, has made up for
it. Gorry ! her tongue is set in the middle, and runs at both
ends.”
“ Still,” said Archibald, reflecting more than listening,
“ I wonder my father never mentioned my aunt to me.”
“ Well, he was rather of a still man too, Archy ; and theMARREED OR SINGLE?
113
last woman was so breezy, he could scarce Lear his own
quiet voice. No ; it’s not strange, you was not over eight
when your own mother died, and Helen Dale was only your
aunt, and your mother pined inwardly ; she was inclining to
stern too, your mother. But corne, let’s be going toward
home.”
“ I do not remember,” said Archibald, following, afler he
had given one last, loving, lingering look to the sods that
covered poor Letty, “ I do not remember that my mother
was stern.”
“ Well not to you, Archy, nor to Helen Dale. She was
more child than sister to your mother—ten or twelve years
between them ; and Helen was the apple of her eye, the
meekest, mindingest little creter ; she was pretty ! Your
mother was married so long before you was born, that no
one mistrusted she would ever hâve a child, and Helen was
ail in ail to her. And your mother was ambitious, she knew
a’most every thing. She had been a teacher, you know, and
folks thought she over-teached Helen. She grew up as
white as a water-lily—a real beauty, and her eyes just a
pretty match for yours ; she did not seem made out of com-
mon clay, Archy, she did not. She went away that spring
before she died, to the sea-shore for her health. When she
first came home, she looked chirp, but she soon ran down,
and went as consumptive folks mostly do, at the fall of
the leaf. It was just after you were born, and your
mother would hâve the coffin brought up in her room where
she was lying, and you, a little black-looking fellow along
side of her. We placed the coffin across the table that
stood under the glass, so that the head came close to your
mother’s pillow, and she raised up in the bed and told us to
put back the lid. Helen made the beautifullest corpse I ever
saw. She had long, light, shining hair, like your’s, Archy,
when you was a boy ; and ’twas parted off her forehead,114
MAERIED OK SINGLE?
and brought down each side on her shoulders, in a clump ot
kind o’ wavy curls. Your mother would not hâve a cap
put on her, nor a shroud on, but her own white dress with
a narrow ruffle, showing just the pretty modest part of her
neck ; she looked like a child asleep ; she was not much past
sixteen ; her eyelids laid quiet down just as if she was
dreaming something pleasant, and her long eye-lashes soft
and black, seemed to stir when you looked at her. She was
a pictur to look at, I tell you, Archy.”
“ But my mother, Uncle Phil ?”
“ Well, I was going to tell you. Your mother was a di£
ferent make from Helen : a tall, strong-build, but she was
dreadful took down. She did not seem to know what she
was about ; she took you up in her arms and held you on
the pillow as if you could see into the coffin, and knew ’twas
your aunt, and so forth ; your poor little head lopped one
side and t’other, and what did you take in ? and then she
put you back and ris’ up in bed, and laid her arms on the
coflin, and her head went quite down in, and I saw her neck
swelled as if it would burst, and the veins along her temples,
and not a word she spoke, nor a tear she shed ; and I knew
ail this was resJcy to a woman in her situation, and that she
had ought to live for the sake of her baby—that’s you,
Archy ; so says I, ‘ Mis’ Lisle, ma’am, this won’t do,’ and I
takes her by the shoulders, and lays her down, and she threw
the bed-clothes over her head, and I called help, and we
brought down the coffin and set it under the old elm-tree in
the yard, and they had the prayer there, and there was no
dry eyes, I tell you, Archy. I kind o’ shuddered when I
laid the sods over her ; so young—sixteen and seven months
—and so pretty, Archy,” concluded the old man, with a sigh.
Archy was infected by the sexton’s vivid recollections ; he,
too, shuddered. After a moment’s silence he asked Uncle
Phil if he could tell him no jnore of his mother.MÀRRIED OR SINGLE?
115
“ Well, not much, Archy. Before this time she’d been a
dreadful ambitious woman. Every thing of Mis’ Lisle’s was
better than the neighbors had, and ail her make. But after
Helen died, she seemed to give up the world pretty much ;
they said Mis’ Lisle’s butter and cheese wa’n’t better than
other folks’. She seemed not to care much for any thing but
you ; not but what she did her duty as a wife, but her heart
was half in Iîelen’s grave, and t’other half you had.”
“ I remember her,” said Archy, “ as pale, and thin, and
sad, and it seems to me she was a long time ill.”
“ A failing ? yes, Archy, she was. The very last time she
was out, was the summer Deacon Shay died. She was at
the funeral ; I obsarved she did not go out with the proces-
sion, and I was sleecking off the deacon’s grave. She beck-
oned to me ; she was a standing at Helen’s head-stone.
Since Helen’s burial a good many of your father’s relations
had dropped off, and she was kind o’ hedged in among ’em ;
and so says your mother, says she, ‘ Uncle Phil, you must
bury me under that oak-tree yonder, and mind when you do
it, that you take up my sister’s coffin, and place her close
beside me, and move this head-stone.’ ‘ I shall do it, ma’am,’
says I ; and I did it, Archy, no mistake. Your mother died,
and was buried that following September, and the next day
I moved Helen ; and now cornes something remarkable :
She’d lain eight years bating fifteen days, and she looked
just precisely as she did the day I put her down, not a hair
moved, not a shade changed, even the little white plaited
muslin ruffle round her neck laid just as pretty. I’ve seen
a great deal in our old grave-yard, but never the like o’ that.”
They had now reached the gâte that led to the sexton’s
dwelling. “ Well, good-by, Archy,” he said, returning the
cordial grasp of his young friend’s hand. “ I’ve had a plea-
sant time with you, though it’s a solitary business that
brings you here. One thing, Archy, no offence. I took116
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
kind o’ comfort in pntting Letty down a side of Helen ;
young folks together, you know ; it seems sort o5 company
for them.”
“ Uncle Phil !”
“ Well, Archy, you can’t, I see, enter into my sense of it,
but I hâve lived so mucb in the grave-yard, that ail my
folks there that I hâve buried and seen to, and so on, seem
to me about as living as any body. Landsakes, Archy ! it’s
a kind of a confused world, after ail !”
And so it seemed to Archibald, as he slowly retraced his
steps homeward, brooding on what he had heard from the
old sexton, so much, and yet so little of what he longed
to know of his mother. He had now reached the old
house on the hill-side, where Letty was first introduced to
our readers, no longer seeming the old house ; but repaired,
repainted, and refurnished by the fruits of the New York
lawyer’s hard work, it.afforded to his father’s widow and
her children, a most comfortable and happy home. And as
Archibald sat surrounded by his brothers, who had ail corne
home for the mournful occasion of the day, and saw them
bright with intelligence, and good, and affectionate—the
resuit of the combined necessities and opportunities of our
New England youth ; the opportunities for the most part
supplied by Archibald—he felt that life, however checkered
by disappointments, has healthy excitements and sweet
consolations, so long as duty is its aim, and affection its
stimulant.
The tea was over, a tea more luxurious, but not attended
with less bustle or less clatter from his step-mother, than
that which preceded his father’s death, when Mrs. Lisle’s
domestic brought Archibald a letter, the writing covering
three and a half sides of a foolscap sheet.
“Poor Archy!” exclaimed one of the younger Lisles,
“ there’s Dr. Bay again ! I wonder if he ever let you restMARRIED OR SINGLE?
117
one day at home, without sending you one of bis everlasting
letters, as long as Paul’s epistle to the Romans. But what
is that paper inside, Archy ?”
Archibald unfolded it : “ A certificate of the date of my
birth ; the careful do et or has always an eye to possible exi-
gences.” He refolded it, and the letter also, without even
glancing at that, and added, a It will keep till I hâve leisure
to read it. It probably concerns some ancient landmark, or
disputed boundary ; we shall miss the doctor when he dies,
as much as we should the county records, if they were ail
burned.” Lisle put the letter into his pocket, which, at no
distant date, was to be worth to him ali the “ county
records.”
The door-bell again rang, and another letter was brought
to Lisle. “ See, boys,” said his mother, “ what it is to be
a New York lawyer.”
The letter contained a télégraphie despatch, and in the
course of an hour Lisle was in the express mail train for New
York.CHAPTER IX.
“ The day cometh when she who has made the wretched her children,
shah be hailed ‘ Mother,’ and she who has forgotten or ill-performed her
duty to her children, shaJl be written childless.”
True to his dinner hour, six o’clock, Walter Herbert was
slowly mounting the steps to his sister-in-law’s house, with
that heavy-heartedness one feels when there is no face within
the door one cares to see, no voice one cares to hear. “ This
house is a tomb to me,” he murmured—old people hâve a
trick of soliloquizing—“ I now hâve always a bad taste in my
mouth when I corne near it.” As he rang the door-bell, a
hackney-coach drove up, its door was opened, and a young
lady in a gray dress, a straw bonnet, and blue veil, and a
Russia-leather traveling sack on her arm—a railroad costume
—alighted, and running up the steps asked the servant,
who answered Mr. Herbert’s ring, with much earnestness in
her tone, “if Miss Grâce Herbert were at home ?” “No,
miss,” answered John, and was shutting the door on the
inquirer, his manner being rather addressed to the shabby
coach than to her. Some of our servants naturalize the in-
solence of older civilizations with wonderful facility. The
young person’s tone touched Uncle Walter’s soft heart. He
put John aside, and opening wide the door, asked “ If she
wished to speak with Miss Herbert.” “ I do, very much,”
she replied, with a simplicity that won a smile from the dear
old man, and casting her veil aside, she added, “ Do you
expect her in soon, sir ?”
“ No, not soon, nor till to-morrow evening, unless youMARRIED OR SINGLE?
119
will give me your name, and let me summon her. I think
she will corne at your bidding,” he added, as he gazed in the
sweet and troubled face of the stranger. She was just de-
ciding to accept the kindness, when Miss Carlton’s splendid
carriage drove up, and the liveried coachman motioned to
the misérable Irish driver of the hack to give place. He
drew off. The modest litt-le stranger’s eye encountered the
supercilious stare of Miss Carlton, and dropping her veil, and
saying, “It’s no matter, sir, I won’t trouble you,” she
glided down the steps, and giving a direction to the coach-
man, drove away.
While he obeyed her order, Walter Herbert despatched
the folio wing note :—“ Dearest Grâce, corne home forthwith.
There has just been a distressed little damsel here inquiring
for you. She is a tight-built, trig lass, with a dainty little
mouth and lips, that an old man would love to kiss ; and an
eye like a star dropped from the firmament, and blue as that ;
and so light and fleet of foot, that as she sprang into the car-
riage, I cried aloud, 4 Give me back my youth.’ I should
not wonder if she were your little friend, Alice Clifford.
She looked at me as if she half knew me for your Uncle
Walter.”
We must précédé the slow coach to its destination in
Wall-street, and enter Mr. Lisle’s office where one clerk
asked another who was rummaging tables and pigeon-holes,
44 What he was searching for ?”
44 I am looking for the note brought by the policeman on
Monday; it is not in the letter-box; it is not anywhere.
Mr. Lisle may return at any moment, and nothing vexes him
like a missing paper.”
44 You need not tell him it’s missing. It came from some
poor devil in the Tombs, who is probably disposed of by this
time.”120
MARRLÉD OR SINGLE?
“ No, that he is not. His messenger has been here three
times to-day ; he was here an hour ago, and sulked, and
said he should not take the trouble to corne again.”
“ Why did you not ask the name of the person who sent
him ?”
“ I did, and he said that was just what he did not know ;
‘ the name was to the note, he supposed.’ ”
“ Ah, well, it’s some gent of the upper ten got into a
scrape, who expects Mr. Lisle to get him out, and keep his
incognito. Let him take his chance. Corne, sit down,
Slidell, and let a fellow pursue his studies.”
Slidell looked over the student’s shoulder, and seeing him
deep in the “ last new novel,” gave an expressive a-hem, and
returned to his own desk, and probably to some “ study”
equally recondite. But our young students were not des-
tined to remain quiet at their learned researches. The door
was ajar, a light footstep was heard, and the rustling of
a petticoat, an unaccustomed Sound in these resorts, followed
by an eager tap at the door. Their “ Corne in,” was an-
swered by the appearance of the young traveler already
described. She paused on the threshold, and looked eag-
erly around, as if in qûest of some person not présent.
The young men started to their feet, and stood awaiting the
first word. It was uttered with intense earnestness :
“ Is Mr. Lisle here ?”
“No ; he is out of town.”
“ When is he expected ? ”
“ He may corne to-morrow ; perhaps not for some days.
He left his return uncertain. We could hasten it by a
letter.”
There was a pause, evidently a mental deliberation ; a
conclusion. “ Is he on a telegraph line ?” she asked.
“No, he is in some obscure village, not far from Bos-
ton.”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
121
“Has Mr. Lisle no friend in Boston whose name you
know ?”
“No; none.”
“ Ko business-correspondent ?”
“ Oh, yes. You know, Slidell ? Judson Bâtes, Esq.”
“ That may do. Will you be kind enough to give me pen,
ink, and paper ?”
She wrote :—“ Mr. Bâtes, please send an express to Mr.
Archibald Lisle, requesting him to return to New York
without delay, on important business of my brother’s.
“Alice Clifford.”
She then requested one of the young gentlemen to take
the note to the telegraph office ; and after giving him money
to pay for it, she went with such swiftness down the long steep
stair-case, that Slidell, who followed her with the intention
of offering to escort her through the questionable purlieus
of Wall-street, just reached the outer steps in time to hear
her tell her coachman to “ drive to the Tombs.”
“Thunder! that’s a girl, Jem,” said he, returning to the
office.
“A go-ahead, you mean, Slidell; but somehow I don’t
fancy a girl, though she be so very pretty, with such a busi-
ness way.”
“ Oh, I know you don’t. You like a girl compounded of
amiability, docility and imbecility, like the heroine of that
story you are reading, who never had a thought of her own,
or an independent action ; a sort of 4 lean to’ to the noble
structure, man. One of your sort, if she has soft blue eyes,
or brown waving tresses, if she be blonde or brunette, has
dimpled hands, and délicate feet ; why, she’ll do to stand on
a pedestal, and be worshiped till she’s twenty, but she’d be
a de vil of a drag for a wife. Now this peerless little stranger
VOL. il	6122
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
is in some sort of a strait, there’s no mistake ; but if there’s
a way ont she’ll fînd it. How direct was her aim ; how every
word.told! Would it hâve occurred to your kind of girl
that a telegrapb must be paid for ? The deuce of a dollar
could you and I hâve raised between us after last night’s
spree at Delmonico’s. I am for women using the faculties
Heaven has bestowed on them.”
“ There’s sense in what you say Slidell, but heaven defend
us from Women’s Rights women !”
“ Amen and amen to that.”
While the young men were giving a brush to a much-
vexed question, Alice Clifford was pursuing her way through
the dusky twilight to the Tombs. It was a drizzling, dirty
evening. A feeble light from the lamps struggled through
the foggy atmosphère ; crowds of men were hurrying home-
ward from the business quarter. Overburdened women
were carrying or dragging along lagging children, and here
and there a drabbish-looking outcast, a frightful vestige of
womanhood, crouched against a wall. Omnibuses and ve-
hicles of ail sorts were in a crush, their wearied drivers
shouting and swearing. Alice sunk back in her seat, after
for a moment curiously eyeing, through the misty window
of her coach, a scene so new to her. “ Oh, what a dreadful
place !” she exclaimed, “ how can people live here ? There
is not a hut, or shed in Mapleton that I would not rather
hâve than a palace here ! Oh, my poor brother in a prison
in a city, itself a prison ! How slow he drives ; I shall be
too late !” But the coach was soon extricated from the
crowd, and driven at a fair pace down Leonard-street to the
Tombs, the prison so called from its resemblance to its
gloomy Egyptian model. Alice heaved a deep sigh as her
eye ran over it from turret to foundation-stone.
“ Shall I wait, Miss ?” asked the coachman, as she wasMAERIED OR SINGLE?
123
taking from her purse the money to pay the unconscionable
fee the fellow demanded. After hesitating for an instant,
for her calculations for the night had not gone beyond her
meeting with her brother, she gave a decided négative, and
was pressing on from the dreary outside to the more fearful
inside, when her steps were arrested by the whimpering of
her dog, a little Blenheim spaniel, who had leaped out of
the coach before her, and made a spring upon the heels of a
man passing. ïïe turned and gave the little animal a blow
with his cane, that sent him back howling to his mistress’
feet. “ Poor Pixie !” she said, taking him caressingly in her
arms. His cries continued, and brought out of a small room
adjoining the entrance, a little woman, who, asking what had
happened, the coachman replied, pointing to the man just
turning the corner into Centre-street, “ ’Twas that brute, he
struck the lady’s dog.”
“ Oh, I know the fellow,” said the woman, looking after
him.
“ Do you, ma’am ?” said Alice, earnestly, as if she too rec-
ognized him ; “ what is his name ?”
“ I don’t recall his name ; I’m poor on names ; he’s always
haunting round here to see his comrades who get in, when
he’s lucky enough to keep out. You were wanting some
one perhaps, Miss?” added the woman, with an official air,
tempered with kindness.
“ Yes, ma’am ; I wish to see the keeper of the prison.”
“ The keeper, my dear ? Why there’s ever so many keep-
ers here. There’s the head-keeper, Mr. Edson, and ever so
many underlings, and there’s myself that looks after the
women ; do you want any thing of me ?”
“ Oh, yes ; above ail things I want some kind woman to
help me.”
The little woman nodded, as if to say, “ That’s me !” and
Alice felt her heart revive as she looked into her new friend’s124
MAKRIED OR SINGLE?
face, and inferred the capabilities indicated in her keen
humorous eye, her ruddy cheek, and a pleasant smile that
expressed a benevolence which even the uses of her revolt-
ing office could not stale. She had a firmly knit strong
frame, sturdy and short, and Alice felt like a frightened lit-
tle bird, ready to cower under a strong wing.
“ My name, young lady,” she said, showing her into the
small receiving-room, “is Juliana C. Barton; sit down and
make yourself comfortable—a light heart’s a small burden,
as I tell my folks when I put them in the i Black Maria,’ or
boat them for Sing Sing.”
“ Comfortable” was a word just then struck out of Alice’s
vocabulary. She remained standing, and inquired if Mrs.
Barton were acquainted with the male prisoners ?
“ No, my child, I know nothing about them. I used, to
hâve a kind of curiosity to see murderers and gentlemen
defaulters, but they are so common now-a-days that I am
’come indifferent.”
“ Hâve y ou heard of a young man, committed on Satur-
day, for a—a forgery ?”
“ La, no, my dear ; that happens every day.”
“ There was a young man so committed. How am I to
find him ?”
“ Oh, that’s ‘ as easy as sinning,’ as I say to my ladies.
We must go to Edson; he’ll look into his records fora
pretty young lady, when he would n’t lift a finger for an old
one ; but that’s men’s ways, you know. You won’t mind
going througli the cfive days quarter,’ it’s the shortest
eut.”
Alice would not hâve shrunk from the “ shortest eut,”
were it through purgatory, to her object.
Mrs. Barton, taking a ponderous key from her waist, un-
locked the door that led into a long corridor, with stair-
cases on one side and cells on the other, story above storyMARRIED OR SINGLE?
125
to the top of the building. It is in this, the “ five days
quarter,” that the human offal of the city is every morning
emptied. Alice’s quick eye took in a new sense of human
dépravation. She groaned aloud, as she looked around upon
the misérable wr et ch es, some sitting singly, sullen, shivering
against the stone-wall, some gossiping in groups, and some
lying where they had been thrown, on mattresses in the
cells, still steeped in intoxication, and ail in dirt and rags,
and branded with the grossest vices. Alice gathered her
garments close around her, and clinging to Mrs. Barton,
begged her to hurry through the place.
“ Poor child ; it’s something new to you, but there’s no
use in feeling,” said the habituée ; “ you see they don’t much
mind it.” She paused as a woman brushed by them, just
brought in from a scene of riot, which she was coarsely cari-
caturing to an acquaintance, while her own little boy was
filching pennies out of her pocket.
“ That woman,” said Mrs. Barton, lowering her voice, “ is
Adèle de Russe, alias Sally Tomkins. ’Tis not six years since
I saw her riding, fine as the finest of fine ladies, with Sam
Belson.”
“ Oh,” said Alice, “ I never heard of her ; I never heard
of Sam Belson ; please, ma’am, let us go on.”
“Yes, yes. I thought you might hâve some curiosity;
but I see you don’t know much of city doings. I’d like to
show Sally as she is to that mother and daughter that I saw
yesterday chatting so soft and so friendly with Belson,
at their carriage door before Stewart’s shop. A decent
lady should not let the hem of her gown brush the
skirts of the coat of such as he ! If they saw what I
see ! my ! There’s a différence between men and women,
that’s a fact : there’s Sally and there’s he ! but corne to the
upshot, there’ll not be a pin’s head to choose between them ;
if any thing, I’d rather stand in her shoes than his, at the126
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
judgment ; there will be a clond of witnesses against such
as he, thieves and marderers they are !”
While Mrs. Barton was thus evolving the wisdom she
had distilled from her observation of penal life, and carrying
her analogies from the police-court to a higher tribunal, they
had passed through the prison-yard, and re-entered at the
mens’ department. “Well done, little young lady!” she
exclaimed, as they turned from Edson’s office, with the per-
mit to visit the young man in “ cell No. 30,” uyou are a
trump ! Why, if the Mayor, and the Ten Governors to boot,
were to corne into Edson’s office, he would not hush up, and
go straight to the business in hand, as he did for you ; his
tongue is—well, it’s like the sea, never still. Stay a minute,
Tim,” she continued, to the turnkey whom she had sum-
moned to unlock No. 30, “we must arrange before you go
in. I would not like,” she lowered her voice, “ to leave you
in the care of the men—they ain’t ail what they should be—”
“ Oh pray,” cried Alice, interrupting her, and feeling as if
she should be maddened by another minute’s delay, “ let me
go in—wait five minutes. Open the door, pray—”
“Well—open it, Tim.” The turnkey obeyed. Alice
sprang in. Mrs. Barton put her hand over the turnkey’s to
keep the door open, till she saw and heard the récognition.
The words, “ Dear sister !” “ Poor Max !” the close, fond
embrace, the burst of tears, satisfied her. She shut the
door, and her voice trembled in sympathy, as she exclaimed,
“ Ail right, ail right ! The Lord forgive me, but I thought
nothing short of a love-scrape would carry a girl straight
ahead like that. And after ail she’s nothing but a sister !
Well, a sister’s love is always the same, and lasts to the end ;
that’s the love for my money.” Our friend was only Mistress
"Barton by courtesy. “ Corne, corne, little lady,” she ealled
out, after restlessly walking up and down, 46 it’s twice five
minutes, and I must be going.” She re-opened the door, andMAKRIED OR SINGLE?
121
her heart melted as she found Alice still sobbing on her
brother’s neck. “I. am real sorry to break you off,” she
said, “ but I’m pushed for time. I must be in Williamsburg
at eight, exact, at my niece’s wedding ; and before I go, I
must see you safe on your way to your place.”
“ My place !” echoed Alice ; “ I hâve not any place.”
“ No place to go to ! Such a sensible little lady as you,
not to provide a place to go to.”
“Oh, Mrs. Barton, I thought only of getting to my
brother, and staying by him. Can’t I stay here ? Do let
me.”
“My dear, it’s contrary to ail rules. You can’t—”
“ Can’t you take me to your home, Mrs. Barton ? I don’t
care for a bed. Let me sit in your parlor, lie on your floor,
any thing.”
“ If I had a half hour to spare, my dear, I could take you
to twenty decent places ; but weddings won’t wait. I’m
after time now.”
“ Why not go to Miss Herbert, Alice ?” asked her brother.
“ I hâve been there, Max ; she is not at home, and I can’t
ask a favor of the ladies there. Is there not an empty room
here, near my brother, Mrs. Barton, that I may occupy ?”
“ Well, that is a proposition!” said Mrs. Barton, holding
up both her hands. “ Yes, my dear, we’ve empty rooms—
we call ’em cells, but—”
“ But what ? Are they not clean ?”
“They are whitewashed and scoured, soon’s ever the
tenant leaves.”
“ And can not I take the key and lock myself in ?”
“ You can ; but my ! the thing was never heard of, that a
féminine was locked up in the male department.”
“ Is there a rule against it ?”
“Well, no, I guess not. No rule against what no one
ever thought of, but kind o’ silent law.”128
MAKRIED OE SINGLE?
“ Then let it be silent, good Mrs. Barton. I am sure you
can do what you ]ike here, and no one will dare to find fault
with you.”
Mistress Barton was touched by tbis sagacious perception
of her magisterial authority.
“ It’s a new case,” she said ; “ but I tbink I may use my
judgment. I see you are sometbing out of the common
way, young lady. Tim,” to the turnkey, “ unlock Ko. 31.”
The door was unlocked. Mrs. Barton put her head in, and
pronounced it “ sweet as a nut.” “I’il just fix the bed for
you,” she said ; and was proceeding to arrange the iron bed-
stead that, with its mattress, was turned up against the wall,
“ Oh no, no, ma’am, please,” said Alice, “ I will lie on the
clean floor.”
“ If you’re so partic’lar, miss,” said the turnkey, “ there’s
a bran new rocking-chair, sent in yesterday for the gentle-
man that left for Sing-Sing—he never sot in it.”
“ So much the better,” thought Alice, and throwing her
blanket-shawl over it, “ there’s my bed,” she said, and heartily
thanking kind Mistress Barton, and agreeing with the turn-
key that he should let her out of her brother’s cell at his
last round, she re-entered it, and was locked in ; and Mrs.
Juliana S. Barton wended her way through the prison, mur-
muring, “ There’s a girl for my money ! She knows what
she is about, and can take care of herself; and others, too,
if need be—and so young, and so pretty ! But she’s as safe
as if she had a légion of angels to see to her.” Wise and
simple corne to the same conclusion.
“ So dear to heaven is saintly chastity,
That, when a soûl is found sincerely so,
A thousand liveried angels lackey her.”CHAPTER X.
“ A flrst-rate business lad he was, but, like other bright lads, needed the
careful eye of a senior, to guard him from the pit-falls he was exposed to.”
—Amos Lawrence.
By the liberal use of those appliances which do the work
in our actual life, of wishing-caps and talismanic-rings in
Eastern story, Alice procured, through the turnkey, that
unspeakable consolation to lads of twenty and thereabouts—
a good supper ; and when her brother had eaten his oysters
and drank his coffee, he, in his own phrase, “ rose up a new
man, and fit to live.”
“Now, Alice, tell me,” he said, “ how my mother took
the news ? I could not ask you till I got fortified.”
“ Dear Max, she has not yet got the news. She went on
Monday morning to Boston.”
“ And you were at home alone ? poor, dear little Alice !”
“ Oh, I was but too thankful that my mother was gone ;
and I trust she will hear nothing till we hâve consulted with
Archibald Lisle. I hâve telegraphed to him, and I feel sure
he will be here to-morrow.”
“Then he is out of town—thank Heaven ! I hâve sent,
and sent to his office, and could get no answer. I thought
he believed me guilty, and had given me up.”
“No, he is not of that sort, Max.”
“ And did you corne away without telling any one ? You
are the dearest, pluckiest little girl in the world.”
“ Yes, I consulted no one ; but by this time—. You know
6*130
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
how it is at Mapleton—give but the least ray of light, and
their sharp eyes can read any riddle. I was at the Prescotts
when the mail came in ; Laura opened her paper, and the
very first paragraph she saw she read aloud. It was to this
effect, I can repeat it word by word : 4 A young man from
Massachusetts was apprehended yesterday, for passing a
forged check at the Manhattan Bank. As we hear he has
respectable connections, we withhold his name for the prés-
ent.’ ”
44 And so, I suppose, you wise young women of Mapleton
iumped to the conclusion that I was the only clerk in New
York from Massachusetts ?”
44 Oh, Max, I know not what Laura and the rest did ; they
were ail silent. My heart throbbed, and I made some pre-
text, and ran home through the garden. Your letter lay on
the table—it was written on coarse, soiled paper.”
44 Yes, I remember, a sheet I got here in the office.”
44 Well, that boded no good. I sat, feeling very faint and
wretched, five minutes before I had courage to open it.”
44 You did open it ;—spare yourself the trouble of tell-
ing me the contents, as I had the pleasure of writing it.”
44 Ah, but dear Max,” said Alice, throwing her arm around
her brother, and bursting afresh into tears, 44 you don’t
know what a comfort the last line in it was to me. Those
blessed words : 41 am innocent, mother ; take my word for
it.’ Why, Max darling, they seemed to spread over the
whole letter. So often hâve I heard dear mother in her
different distresses about you—and you know they hâve oc-
curred pretty often—so often hâve I heard her say 4 My boy
is true. I take comfort in that, he never told me a lie.’ ”
441 never did. I never was afraid to tell my mother the
truth ; but go on, Alice. Did you hâte me for always get-
ting you ail into hot water ? What did you think ?”
441 thought of nothing, but how I could best help you. IMARRIED OR SINGLE?
131
had no one to advise with. Cousin John, and Judge Bliss,
were gone from Mapleton, and there were none but women
left, and they were not wiser than I. So I resolved to corne
to you at once. I came off to meet the early train, leaving a
cheerful note to Miss Laura, begging her to account as well
as she could to the inquiring community of Mapleton for my
absence.” Alice proceeded to relate the disappointments
attending her visits to Miss Herbert, and at Lisle’s office ;
and concluded with saying, “ Now, dear Max, tell me the
whole of your troubles from the beginning. I am afraid
both you and Archy hâve kept us in the dark.”
“ No ; but in the dusk, it may be, dear. I shall make a
short story of it, for I am my own hero, and good for neither
song nor sermon, neither bright enough for the one, nor
black enough for the other.”
“ Well, dear Alice, you know, when I slumped at college,
Archy got me a place in what is called one of the c most
respectable houses in the city : Messrs. Beekwell, and Co.
and so I suppose they are, and were, but a deuced bit did they
care for us clerks beyond getting work out of us. But that
did not matter to me so long as I had Archy. Alice, no
brother could hâve done more for me—not our dear Arthur
if he had been alive.”
“ Yes, Max, you wrote us about that—how he gave you
up his sitting-room at his lodgings, for your bed-room.”
“ Oh, as to that, Alice, that was not half. And at first, I
did not thank him much for that. I thought he meant to
stand guard over me, and you know fellows don’t like to be
watched.”
“ Especially fellows that need watching, dear Max.”
“ A brush! Never mind, I deserve it. He soon made
me forget that he was any thing but a dear friend and com-
panion. He seldom went out himself—Archy was always a
dig, you know—and so he did not know how much I pined132
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
for some pleasant houses to visit at. He did take me one
evening to the Herberts, to introduce me to your friend. She
was out, and that Miss Carlton and her mother treated me
as if I had corne into their drawing-room by mistake, and
should, like any otber poor devil of a clerk, bave staid in the
entry with my bill, or parcel. Miss Herbert was up to the
mark, for she wrote me the next day a kind note, asking me
to visit them sociably. Lord ! I see myself going again, to
hâve my blood simmering in my veins, as it did while I sat
there—better blood than their’s, with ail their airs. Besides,
Archy did not go often, himself.”
“ Did not go often to see Grâce, before he went abroad ?
Are you sure, Max ?”
“ Why, Alice, do you expect every body to worship your
idol ? Archy did not, any how. When I could get out of
the store in any decent time, I always found him at our
rooms, and he was so kind. When he was hard at work,
and could not go out, he would hâve a pleasant book for me
—you know I am not a deep reader, Alice—and if he w^ere
at leisure, he would propose going with me to a lecture, or
to study over the Ghinese curiosities, or to see a panorama ;
and now and then he took me to the opéra, or the theatre,
just enough to slake a fellow’s thirst for such things ; and
sometimes we would drop into a saloon, and get an oyster
supper, or an ice, or hâve a little jollification at home. Dear
old Archy ! he had not forgotten what it was to be a ‘ young
youth.’ ”
“ Forgotten ! Archibald Lisle is not so very much older
than you, Max.”
“No; seven or eight years, though—but, Alice, that
makes ail the différence between the boy and the man ; and
I was a boy then ; and heaven forgive me, hâve been more
of a boy and a worse boy since. Ail went well enough till
Archy got ill and dumpish and went abroad, and I was leftMARRIED OR SINGLE?
133
to myself. Now, Alice, I am not good company to myself.
I must liave eye answering to eye, voice to voice, heart to
heart, Alice ; but to be alone—alone in this city of half a
million, I could not stand it, and no heart of flesh could.”
“ But, surely, Max, you were introduced to Mr. Beek-
well’s family ? You never told us you were not.”
“ No, my dear ; for we don’t tell things of course ; but
were you so green as to suppose that a mere clerk—a country
lad—would be admitted by the grand Pachas of the city
into their palaces! Neither Mr. Beekweli nor his partner
could write a grammatical sentence, or spell ten consecutive
words correctly, but they had mounted the golden rungs of
their ladder to the very top, and there was a great gulf be-
tween them and their hard-working clerks.”
“ But, surely, Max, ail merchants are not so to their
clerks ?”
“ Of course, Alice, not ail. I know some that are like
fathers to them, and that will be the best item of ail, I guess,
when they corne to foot up their last accounts. But I tell
you, Alice, the reason so many boys go astrav, and are lost
in this city is, because the c old gentleman’ is lefl to fill up
their idle time ; and you see, Alice, they corne fresh and
innocent from their country homes ; they long for some one
to say even as much as c good-morning Sam,’ or c good-night
Tom ;’ they go to some lodging-house where no body cares
for them, but to get their week’s board, and they are sure
to fall in with some scamp, as I did. I hâve seen enough of
it.”
The young people had both lingered on the threshold of
Max’s story, dreading to plunge into its darkest part. The
poor lad now proceeded manfully.
“ Just after Archibald sailed, there came a fresh clerk into
our establishment—Ernest Gilmore. He belonged to the
‘ upper ten ;’ had been to one famous school after another,134
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
and had fînally been boosted into the junior class in Colum-
bia College, when he was set adrift and placed in the 4 re-
spectable house of Messrs. Beekwell, and Co.,’ where it was
expected that hard work would break him in. Any onec can
lead a horse to water,’ you know, Alice, but ail création
could not make 4 Gril,’ as we called him, work. I need not go
into particulars. He took a fancy to me. He was lively,
and loved fun, and so did I—you know that is my speciality,
and I can’t help it. He had crédit at tailors, and livery sta-
bles, and every where, for he was yet in his minority, and if
he did not pay, his father would hâve to corne down with
the tin. I did not know ail this, Alice, at the time ; I would
never hâve been a party to this plunder with my eyes open,
nor did I know when he passed his minority. By this time
he had pretty thoroughly inoculated me with his passion for
fast horses, and fast doings in general. Don’t open your
eyes so wide, and look so scared, my dear little sister. I
give you my word that I never went to any place that I
would hesitate to tell you of. No, there I made a stand, or
rather there stood my mother and you, and hedged up the
road to temptation that way. Do you remember, Alice,
when you and I were little children, on our knees, saying
our prayers to mother, that she asked us to promise her that
we would never in our whole lives omit repeating, each
day, that first prayer we learned : 4 Our Father, etc.’ ”
44 Yes, indeed, I do.”
44 And how solemn and sweet she seemed, and with tears
in her eyes, and ail that ; well, we made the promise, you
know ; and now honor bright, Alice, I do believe that noth-
ing short of a miracle would hâve made such a head-over-
heels fellow, as I, keep such a promise ; but I hâve kept it.
That litle prayer, Alice, covers the whole ground.”
44 So I think, dear Max.”
441 know it has brought me short up many a time, for,MAKKIED OR SINGLE?
135
Alice, to tell the whole truth, while Archy was in Europe, I
led a pretty fast, risky life ; and it was no wise strange that
the first thing he heard after he came home, was from Beek-
well and Co., that I must lose my place there. He set to
work, like a good fellow, and got me another, far better. I
should hâve been thrown out but for him. He made him-
self responsible to Messrs. Eaton and Smith for my good
conduct. They hâve treated me like gentlemen—that is as
if I were a gentleman. And truly, Alice, fearing that you
and my mother would be made misérable by my misconduct,
and feeling what I owed to Archy, I hâve, for the last six
months, strained every rope in the ship ; but they would,
once in a while, get slack—a fellow can’t walk a crack for-
ever, Alice ; and Gilmore was forever haunting about me,
and as I found, now, when we had a spree, I had to pay the
fiddler, which he had done while he could, it seemed mean
always to back out. Still I did not go with him often. If
I had not the fear of Archy before my eyes, I had the love
of him, which is better. Ail this last ten months Gil has
been borrowing money of me—two or three dollars at a
time, sometimes five, and up to ten. While I had a penny,
could I refuse him, after he had been so lavish to me ? But,
oh, Alice ! you’ve no notion how like lightning a man goes,
when he begins to slide down hill. Last week, on Tuesday,
he came to me, and said he, c Well, I hâve been reckoning
up ail my small debts to you, and I find, to my astonishment,
I owe you seventy-five dollars.’ It did not astonish me, for
I had been as bare as a picked chicken. c Luckily,’ said he,
‘ I hâve the means to pay the debt,’ and he put into my
hands a draft on the Manhattan Bank, made out in my
favor, by Charles Innés of Boston, to the amount of five
hundred dollars. I stared, and he said, ‘ Happy dog ! am I
not ? Old Aunt Sukey is dead, and this Charles Innés, her
executor, wrote me she had left me this legacy of five hun-136
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
dred dollars. So, desiring that my various creditors should
not get wind of this blessed windfall, that I might save it
from the sharks, and pay it to the honest fellows like you, I
wrote to said Innés to forward me the money by a draft in your
favor. He did so—I hâve an appointment to go up to Al-
bany with my father at three o’clock (it was then half-past
two) ; if you will step round to the bank, and get the money,
take out your dues, and just hand me the balance, we shall
be ail fair and square. I hâve an errand for my father at
the Metropolitan, and will meet you between there and here.’
I did not, for an instant, think of foui play. I wTas too glad
at the prospect of getting back my money. I presented the
draft, met Gilmore, paid him the balance, obtained leave of
a day’s absence from Messrs. Eaton and Smith, ran off to
my lodgings, and was packing my carpet-bag in a prodigious
fluster of joy to run up to Yonkers, and visit a friend, who
had invited me, and who (between you and me, Alice,) has
the prettiest sister in Christendom, when there was a fearful
ring of the door-bell, an ominous Sound in the entry, and
without knocking, without leave or licence, a policeman
entered my room, and politely laying his hand upon me,
said he would change the address of my luggage to the
Tornbs. I was aghast, and did not even surmise whence the
blow came, till he told me my fraud was discovered a half
hour after I left the bank. He examined my person and my
effects for the money, and found the seventy-five dollars in
my purse. I protested my innocence, of course, but he only
smiled and said, 4 humbug ! we are used to ail that, young
man.’ I begged him not to disgrâce me by a commitment,
and told him I had a friend who, I was sure, would be my
bail. The fellow had some bowels, and he waited for an an-
swer to a note I sent to Archy. Archy was gone, as you
know, and every thing wrent against me. And so I was
brought here, as they say, 4 duly committed.’ ”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
137
“Why, in the world, Max, did you not send for Mr.
Eaton or Mr. Smith, and tell them hovv it was ?”
“ That’s you, dear Alice ; you always think of the right
thing to be done. Well, my child, I was stunned. I was
in a hot fever ail night. I could think of nothing but my
mother and you. I did not eat a morsel, not even when
breakfast time came (mirabile!), but your rational thought
did at last, some time this morning, corne into my head, and
I despatched a note to Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith was out of
town. Eaton is in Europe. The head-clerk came round to
me ; I told him the whole story. He did not half believe
me ; you know how it is with some stupid people—if a man
is accused and put in prison, they think he is as good as con-
victed. However, he did go up to Gilmore, and came back,
having seen both Gilmore and his father. Gil denied having
seen me for a week, and expressed the most perfect astonish-
ment at my story. His father said they had had no intention
of going to Albany, and that his son had dined at home on
Tuesday as usual, and spent the evening at home. So Davis,
the clerk, said I could do nothing further without a lawyer’s
advice, hoped I should be able to clear myself, said business
pressed, and left me, Alice ; that’s the way with the world,
my dear !”
“ Oh, I hâte the world, Max.”
Alice’s faith in her brother was implicit, but her heart
sickened when she found he had not a shadow of evidence
to substantiate his innocence before a legal tribunal.
Younger than Max, and albeit of the weaker sex, she had
more clearness and sedateness of judgment than her bro-
ther, and less of that quality which she called buoyancy,
and others might term levity. After pondering for a while
gloomily on Max’s relation, she naturally exclaimed, “ What
a horrid hardened wretch that Gilmore must be !”
“Well, Alice, not quite such a hardened wretch as you138
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
think. Scampish he is, but there is not much to him ; he
is more of the weak, tlian the wicked. He has had a poor
bringing up. His father and mother are nothing but rich.
They thought, I suppose, tbat their grand house, and car-
riage, and horses, and so on, would make Gil a gentleman ;
but y ou know ail that won’t begin to do it. Ho, Gil is not
so bad as some ; there ’s shades in fellows, Alice. Gil got
hooked in with an old stager, who dragged him down—a
rascally blackguard of an Irish gentleman.”
Alice had heard of one such individual in her sheltered
world, and but one, and she asked with some eagerness his
name.
“ His name,” Max replied, “ is Maltby, Hugh Maltby.”
“Hugh Maltby!” echoed Alice.
“ Why, yes, my child—Hugh Maltby ; surely you never
heard of the fellow before ? What in the world makes you
color so ?”
“ Color ! Did I color, Max ? I am tired and nervous to-
night.”
“ That is not it, sister dear. Corne, you are not good at
évasions. Tell me what you know of Hugh Maltby.”
“ I can not tell you, Max. Don’t ask me.”
“ I won’t, Alice ; but I can’t think what you can know
about that wretch. I believe he is at the bottom of this
plot. Gil owed him a gambling debt, and he was afraid of
him. He is a dare-devil. I heard him threaten to shoot
some relation of his children, their uncle, or something of
that sort.” Alice became now deadly pale. She averted her
face, poured a draught of water into a glass, and swallowed
it. “ You are tired and nervous, I believe,” continued Max.
“ Let’s drop the curtain on our miseries, till Archy cornes to
help us. Tell me about Mapleton. How is dear mother,
just the same?”
“ Yes, just, Max,” replied his sister, breathing a deepMARRIED OR SINGLE ?
139
sigh, as she thought the news of her darling boy would tum
her h air gray.
44 Oh, don’t fall into the blues again, Alice. How are Tom
Thumb and Brancus—alive ?”
“ Yes, indeed, and flourishing; mother surfeits them, but
still calls them 4 Max’s pests.’ ”
44 And Blossom—does he still purr around the table, and
mother drop him tit-bits, furtively ?”
44 Yes, Max.”
44 And mother still uses carving-knives, instead of bolts, for
the outer doors? and gives old John a hundred dollars a
year, for 4 doing chores’ he can’t do ? Poor mother, she’s
great on pensions.”
44 She is great at every mode of charity. Has she written
you about the paralytic child she is taking care of ?”
This announcernent, which Alice had been for some min-
utes studying how to interject into their discourse, did not,
as she expected, produce a sensation. Max smiled, said,
44 Just like mother,” and went on. 44 Is Mapleton the same
heaven as usual, Alice ? No marriages? No engagements?
Neither of the charming Prescotts going off, nor Charlotte
Platt, nor the Days ?”
44 No, none of them.”
44 Not a 4 Singleton’ missing from 4 Singleside’ in the last
year ! I told them so ; they seem to look on us men as an
élégant superfluity.” Thus the poor lad rattled on, partly
taxing his manhood to be as heroic as possible, and partly
following the natural bent of his careless disposition.
Cushioned round with love, the evening glided away in
that dismal place. Now and then Alice, disturbed by the
foreshadowings of revenges dire that might be done by a
bold, bad man, and of 44 trial” and 44 sentence,” would start
or shiver, which Max noticing, he would kiss her cheek, and
draw her doser to him.140
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
At nine the turnkey’s knock announced their séparation
for the night. They asked for a reprieve, but the man was
peremptory. “ We’ve already stretched a point,” he said ;
“ we must use our private judgments sometimes.” Our offi-
ciais are very apt to respect this “ higher law.” “ I can see,”
he added, as he gave Miss Clifford a lamp, and the key that
she might turn the boit on the inside, “ when people is hon-
orable, and can be trusted with a privilège.”
Alice locked her door, and having arranged her little af-
fairs for the night, she sat down in the rocking-chair, made
a desk of her lap, and began a letter to her mother. Her
courage was nerved by the strangeness of her position.
Courage she had to face any danger in her brother’s cause,
and resolution to conquer any conquerable difficulty. That
there could be any danger to freeze the blood in her young
veins within the walls of her ceîl, had not even occurred to
her, and when she turned her boit she felt as secure as the
commander of an impregnable fortress ; yet within that nar-
now space, she was to encounter an enemy more fearful to
her than the wild beasts of Ephesus.
“ Great giants work great wrongs, but we œre small.”
The noise of steps and bolting of doors along the pas-
sages had ceased ; there was no Sound but that of her sharp
gold pen, when she was startled by an ominous noise, and
starting up, she saw—not one, nor two, nor three, but, as
she afterward averred, a drove of mice, careering over the
bed, jumping to the floor, and there disporting themselves,
native and happy citizens !
No poor wretch in an Indian jungle, confronting a tiger,
could hâve been more terrified than our hitherto intrepid
little Alice. She sprang on her feet into the chair ; the
rockers were treacherous—over it went, chair, lamp, ink,
Alice, and ail !MARRIED OR SINGLE?
141
It was now utter darkness, and luckily quiet, too. The
little habitues were frightened back to their holes by the
sudden turmoil, and Alice, making an effort of heroism equal
to St. George’s, in his contest with the dragon, or to any
other saint’s with any other monster, groped around until
she recovered her lamp, and relighted it from a match in her
sack. What was next to be done ? In a lion’s den, or a
fiery furnace, she might hâve looked for miraculous interven-
tion ; but now she must trust to her own right arm—to that
poor trembling arm. A rattan in the corner of the cell
caught her eye, she ^seized this weapon, and intrenching
herself in the chair in a posture which those who hâve seen
female belligerents engaged in this warfare will picture to
themselves, she girded herself for the battle.
For a while she kept the enemyin their entrenchments by
a steady tattooing with the cane, but its sound soon became
as familiar to them as the snorings of the last denizen of the
cell, and they issued forth, rank and file. To any one of the
male sex their gambols, their glidings, and leapings might
hâve been amusing, but there is enmity set between mice
and womankind, and to Alice they seemed a host of malig-
nants, magicians, monsters ! To touch their soft hairy sides,
even with her cane, was a horror, but by deftly plying that
she kept them at arm’s length. She changed the cane from
wearied hand to hand. The night seemed interminable, and
reference to her watch alone convinced her that it was “ but
eleven,” “ but twelve,” “ but one,” “ but two !” Sleep, the
surest of youth’s allies, at last came to her relief ; her tired,
aching arms fell, no longer obedient to her will, and the will
itself (for so say the sages is its nature) fell asleep, and the
enemy had it ail their own way ; and wThile poor Alice’s
brain was perturbed with visions of leviathans and masto-
dons, they ran up to her shoulders, leaped into her lap, and
performed divers antics, till one, Crossing her bare throat in142
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
quest of a crumb from her supper that had lodged on the
hem of her collar, she started up to a fresh consciousness of
the horrors of her condition.
But now sounds of the restless city’s life penetrated from
without to her cell ; and as “ Hope springs eternal in the
human breast,” hope that she might live to tell the taie
dawned on Alice.CHAPTER XI.
“ Our youth, our childhood, that spring of springs,
’Tis surely one of the blessedest things,
That nature eyer invented.”
“ Beautiful is the light and pleasant to behold !” and
never did it seem to Alice so beautiful, so pleasant to behold,
as when, brightening the world, it stole slowly and dimly
into her cell. The little doers of evil deeds had shrunk away
into darkness ; and yet she waited, and listened two mortal
hours before she heard the Sound of footsteps in the corri-
dor. But she did hear them, and hearing her own name
pronounced, she sprang to the door, tumed the boit, and
rushing out, confronted—Archibald Lisle !
Pardon her, fastidious reader—the truth must be told—
“ Oh, Archy !” she exclaimed, and throwing her arms around
his neck, she clung to him as to a dear brother, who had
brought her comfort and help ; then, as suddenly retreating,
she covered her blushing face with both hands, and stam-
mered out apologetically, “ I forgot myself—I hâve been so
dreadfully terrifîed !”
“ Terrified !” exclaimed Lisle, looking fiercely at the turn-
key, “ who has molested you ?”
Poor Alice hesitated, and in one breath made the short
passage from the sublime to the ridiculous, answering in the
feeblest, meekest tone, “ Mice //” and then looking up and
seeing the too expressive smile on Archibald’s lips, and
meeting his laughing eye, she laughed herself, a little hyster-144
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
ically, and looking again, and comprehending at a glance
the change that had passed on Lisle, from a country-bred
youth, fresh from college, to the perfection of ripe manhood,
and seeing in place of the smooth face and the delicately
tinted skin, a countenance Consolidated by expérience, il-
luminated by the habit of keen observation, and yet pre-
serving an indefinable sweetness and sensibility that her
memory had retained as the charm of its immaturity—
“ Mercy !” she thought, “ what must he think of me ?
How could I rush so into his arms ?”	“ Mr. Lisle,” she be-
gan, with a very sober consciousness—
“ Archy, if you please,” he said, interrupting her ; “ let
me be still Archy, as you must remain c little Alice’ to me,
while you continue in péril of life, limb, and reason from a
mouse, just as you were when you ran shrieking out of your
mother’s pantry.”
“ A mouse ! Why there were droves of the horrid créat-
ures ; but it was not altogether my terror that made me so
—so—so—”
“ Affectionate in yourwelcome? N"ow don’t take that
back, dear Alice.”
“No, indeed !” she said, giving him her hand ; “I am
very, very glad to see you, so glad that I forgot it was seven
years since we parted, and that I am no longer a little girl,
and you no longer the very young man who was almost as
familiar and dear in our home, as the brother we loved and
mourned together. You know you almost took that bro-
ther’s place, and it was on the strength of that feeling that
we appealed to you in our présent strait—and how kind of
you to corne so soon.”
“ Ah, dear Alice, your reasons are excellent, your instincts
were better. Now let me know ail that has happened to
Max. I hâve only partly learned it from the officer here. I
need no assurance of his innocence.”MABBEED OB SINGLE?
145
While her brother, who had just been awakened by the
turnkey’s thundering rap at his door, was hurrying on his
clothes, Alice briefly detailed the particulars. She was dis-
turbed at Archibald vehemently biting his nails while he
listened, an old inévitable trick of his, as she remembered,
when any thing seriously disturbed him. “ Do you think it
very bad ?” she concluded.
“We will try to make it better,” he replied, turning from
her to enter Max’s cell, and to receive his affectionate wel-
come, demonstrated without any of the lets and hindrances
that nature and society put between the sexes. After the
glow of meeting had passed, cares overshadowed Archibald’s
brow, and he proposed at once to begin his work by offering
bail for his friend.
“ I knew you would do that,” said Max, gratefully, “ but
for conscience’ sake first send me a breakfast. I never can
work or think till I hâve had my breakfast. Alice contrived
to procure me a capital supper last evening.”
“ Alice ! she can do any thing,” rejoined Archibald ; “ but
confront—mice /” mimicking the low deprecating tone in
which she had uttered that word.
“ Oh, that’s nothing !” exclaimed Max, rather jealous of
his sister’s réputation. 44 Ail women, young and old, are just
such geese about mice. I should like you, Archy, to show
me another girl who would hâve corne straightway and alone
to a city where she never was before—on such an errana—
and hitting ali her nails on the head too. I say, Alice, you
may be a coward about mice, if you will.”
“ I am afraid I can’t help it, dear Max ; I am a coward
upon instinct.”
“ And every thing that’s good and noble upon instinct,
dear sister, so let that go for what it will fetch.”
Archibald looked at the brother and sister with a smile,
YOL. il.	1146
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
provoked, Alice thought, by tbe yain-glorying of lier bro-
ther ; she did not understand it.
Archibald felt tbe impropriety of Alice prolonging ber
stay in her présent quarters, and briefly explaining bis rela-
tions witb tbe Steinbergs be proposed taking ber there.
“ Your breakfast, Max,” be said, “ must wait till your sister
is comfortably bestowed.”
“What a brute was I not to tbink of tbat,” exclaimed
Max ; “ but tbat’s just me, I never tbink. I could fast a
week for you, dear Alice, wben once it was put into my
bead. Go witb Archibald, and as soon as I am bailed out I
will corne to you.”
So they parted.
The unintermitting necessity of bard work, and tbe inter-
vention of illness and absence bad prevented, for some years,
Lisle’s often anticipated visits to Mapleton. Wben last be
saw Alice tbere, she was a mere child—Arthur’s pet and
plaything, and bis. “ Eye-bright,” tbey called ber from tbe
resemblance of tbe color of ber eye to tbe little star-flower
sprinkled, like dew-drops over ail tbe green-sward of our
northern country. Tbe resuit of his first scrutiny on meet-
ing her was not flattering, “ The sparkle of her cbildhood is
gone,” tbougbt be. “ I expected to see ber taller. Tbe eye
retains its lovely color, but it lacks lustre, and there is about
ber bair and dress altogether an unbecoming négligence.
Her mother’s disdain of personal décoration, tells sadly
on ber.” Lisle forgot to make allowance for the muss and
soil of railroad travel, for the weariness, warring, watcbing,
and weeping of thirty-six bours. He compared ber, perhaps
unconsciously, with his fîxed standard of beauty. Certainly,
Alice had not tbe beigbt, tbe unconscious and consummate
grâce, or tbe brilliancy of coloring tbat characterized ber
friend, nor tbose irradiations of countenance tbat conveyMARRIED OR SINGLE?
147
thought and feeling with the electrical swiftness of the tele-
graph. Lisle was but a man, and he was, even yet, with ail
his struggles and convictions, a lover, and, therefore, must
be pardoned his susceptibility to the external. His reflec-
tions did justice to the intensity of Alice’s dévotion to her
brother, and to her clear-headedness. A man admires that
quality in a woman the more that it surprises him. His zeal
and his fears were quickened by her presence. Alice felt
strong in the innocence of her brother ; Lisle knew it must
be proven to those who had no such faith. After installing
Alice in the comfortable quarters to which the Steinbergs
had removed, he decided to inform Miss Herbert of her
arrivai in town. Lisle was now deeper in the world than
when he wore his frock-coat to Mrs. Jones’s dinner, and
previous to presenting himself before Miss Herbert, he re-
paired to his own lodgings to perform his morning toilet.
In this process he cast aside the traveling coat in which lay
perdu the letter he had received at his country home from
the village doctor. This letter containing some interesting
matter, was destined to remain unread till another crisis of
his life.
Walter Herbert was coming down stairs, when he heard
Lisle’s voice inquiring for his niece. He hobbled down at
his utmost speed, grasped Archibald’s hand with both his,
and with a face so joyous that it recalled to Lisle its ut~
terly bereft expression when he last saw him. w Corne up
stairs,” he said, “ to my room. What on earth were you
away for at this particular time ? Oh, I know. God for-
bid that I should forget that poor little girl’s fate ; and the
sorrow to you. I was dreadfully shocked. But, my dear
fellow, I am too happy now to remember griefs—the
world’s a flash of sunshine !”
“What can this mean?” thought Lisle. Of course it
could only mean the rupture of Grace’s engagement.148
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ Saved from drowning” would hâve been nothing, in com-
parison, to Walter Herbert. But he was prevented by tliat
ubiquitous woman, his sister-in-law, to whom her servant
had conveyed Lisle’s inquiry. She opened the door of
the breakfast-room, and called out in her officious tone,
“ Oh, good morning, Mr. Lisle, you wish to see Miss
Grâce?” (“The devil take her,” muttered Uncle Walter
between his teeth. Excuse him, he was an old-fasliioned
raan.) “ She is with Mrs. Tallis,” continued the lady. “ She
has lost her only child—quite a severe affliction ; and her
husband was absent at the time—an aggravation, you know ;
and she has no near friends, and Grâce and she were school-
mates ; she has gone to stay with her till the funeral is over.”
“ There is dreadful misery there,” murmured Walter
Herbert, while Lisle, with forced politeness, listened to the
garrulous woman, and was tuming to go, when Mr. Herbert
said,
“ You are in a prodigious hurry. Will you corne back
before dinner ?”
“ Before dinner, if I can.”
“It must be before dinner, Lisle, for I must see you,
and I am going up the river immediately after dinner.”
“ Then sir, it shall be before dinner, if possible.”
But Lisle did not find it possible, and Uncle Walter was
compelled to go off with the secret of Grace’s temporal sal-
vation unimparted, and Lisle was left to blunder on.CHAPTER XII.
Tarry a little, there is something else.’
Aeter getting his bail accepted for Max Clifford, Archi-
bald sent him to his sister, while he went to the house of
Gilmore’s father, in the hope of eliciting something that
might be available to Max’s defence. Mr. Gilmore’s rési-
dence was in a fashionable Street, and in one of those magni-
fient structures that the enterprise and intelligence of our
citizens, and California gold, bas added to the substantial
wealth of our city. Certainly, neither intelligence nor any
other analogous créative power builded the house of David
Gilmore.
An Irish lad, in livery, opened the door for Lisle. He
was struck with a blending of acuteness and stupidity in the
lad’s face, not uncommon with his race. Lisle found Gilmore
cautious and crusty ; he declined listening to any particulars ;
said “ that it was very onjust his family should be mixed
up with a disgraceful business of that sort, merely because
his son had the misforten to be in the same counting-house
with the young fellow who had committed the forgery.
This country fellow had, he understood, been a wild lad
from the beginning. He had led his son astray for a while,
but he—the father—being of opinion that boys’ pranks was
catchin, had removed his son from Beekwell’s, and since
Ernest had quit there, their acquaintance had ended, and his
son had been remarkable correct.”150
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
Affcer stating some tacts in relation to the early and late
intercourse of the lads at rather striking variance with the
father’s assertions, Lisle frankly told him Clifford’s version
of the présentation of the draft ; and added, “ that legal steps
had been taken to confront the young men, and that he
should prove at the trial of his client, that Ernest was not
at home, as had been asserted, through the morning of the
fraud, but that he had been distinctly recognized in Wall-
street by more than one person.” The unhappy father had
no quieting consciousness of his son’s uprightness, and he
was evidently flustered. The affair did not seem so easily
disposed of as before a powerful friend had appeared for Clif-
ford. Upon Lisle asking, “ if Mr. Ernest was at home, to be
allowed to speak with him,” Gilmore rang the bell, and the
Irish lad who had admitted Lisle, came from the pantry, the
door of which was ajar.
“ What are you doing there, you rascal ?” exclaimed his
master. “ Listening*?”
“ 4 Listening !’ No indeed, your honor. I was just stop-
ping quiet, not to be after disturbing the gentleman.” True
to his Celtic blood, Pat’s invention was ready at need.
At Mr. Gilmore’s bidding, he went in search of his son,
and returned, saying, “ Mr. Ernest is not at home,” accom-
panying the assertion with a side glance at Lisle, which, to
his quick perception, eliminated the not.
“ It does not much signify,” he said to Mr. Gilmore. “ The
examination of my client is deferred till to-morrow morning.
The young men must then be confronted ; and allow me to
beg, that nothing may prevent your son being présent, and
punctual. He would be compromised by his absence ; strong
suspicions are afloat against him.”
“ The evidence against your friend,” retorted Gilmore,
“ is too heavy to be toppled over by suspicions. My son
will be présent.”MÀRRIED OR SINGLE?
151
As Lisle left the house, Patrick, bare-lieaded, followed him
into the Street, looking back and around to éludé observa-
tion. “ Did I hear aright ?” he asked, “ and is it young Mr.
Clifford, God help him, that’s in trouble ?”
u Yes.”
“ Stop a bit—your honor’s a gintleman ; don’t be after
going like a railroad. Tell me the name, plase, was on the
nasty bit o’ paper.”
“ Thomas Innis.”
“ And how do you be after spillin’ it ?”
“ Spelling, do you mean ?”
“ The same, plase your honor.”
“ Thom—”
“ Hot Sint Thomas ; faith and I was tached that at home.”
“ Ah, Innis—I-n-n-i-s.”
“ That’s the very one! Thanks to Him above,” cried
Patrick, grinning wide his cavernous mouth, as if to let out
a volume of joy.
“ Pat !” screamed a voice from the area of Gilmore’s house,
“ you’re wanted.”
“Don’t scrame so unpolite, Bridget. You’ll hare from
me,” he added to Lisle, and as he retraced his steps, he
muttered, “ that shall he if I lose my place. It was the
poor lad himself saved my ould mother, and should not I
give him a lift—why not ?”
The Irishman’s promise made no impression on Lisle. He
well knew the hot hearts and hasty sympathies of the Irish
race, and merely inferred that listening to Max Clifford’s
sad case, had turned the current of Pat’s toward him.
After a hard day’s work in their service, Lisle was obliged
to go to his young friends at Steinberg’s, with but gloomy
prospects for the next day. He had nothing to offer at Clif-
ford’s examination, but the testimony of the heads of both
the mercantile houses in which he had been employed, to his152
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
truth and uprightness. This was not enough to rebut
direct evidence against him.
He found Grâce Herbert with Alice. The young women
had bridged over the abyss of <their long séparation with
manv a pleasant memory, and Grâce was casting that spell
of enchantment over Alice which can hardly be defined, and
certainly not resisted. Alice’s anxieties had been suspended
for an hour, and even Max seemed like one suddenly awak-
ened from a delicious trance, when the entrance of Archibald
turned ail their thoughts on the approaching examination in
the Municipal Court.
Archibald proceeded to communicate the meagre resuit
of the day’s investigation, and as he concluded, he asked
Max if there were any foundation for the Irish lad’s interest
in him?
Max modestly told the probable ground of it. He said,
“ that in one of his fast drives, with Ernest Gilmore, down
the Third Avenue with a famous trotter, and a heavy bet at
stake, Ernest drove against a woman, who proved to be this
same Patricks mother. Her arm was broken, and she was
otherwise badly bruised. Ernest drove the horse to the
stable ; he (Max) helped to convey the old woman to her
shanty, and afterwards gave her, from time to time, what
succor he could. Ernest was, as usual, out of pocket, but
he proposed to make what réparation he could, and save
himself from a prosecution by the injured party, by inducing
his mother to take the lad, Patrick, who had just arrived a
raw boy, into her service. ‘ Pli corne round the old lady,’
that was his respectful mode of alluding to his mother; 4she
likes nothing better than training a fresh hand, if she can
get him under price. Pat is a likely lad—she’s a trump at
training, and when he gets on his livery he’ll do.’ ”
It may be matter of some surprise that any mistress of a
Fifth Avenue palace should thus bestow her time and talents,MARRIED OR SINGLE?
153
but Mrs. Gilmore had achieved her greatness by beginning
as the “ smart” and pretty daughter of a country innkeeper.
She had married a New York shopkeeper, and by “ slow,
but not easy stages,” had arrived at her présent position,
with a carriage and liveried servants, and one only son ; that
son such as might be expected from the ambition, the ex-
amples, and the society of his parents ; the paramount inter-
est of the one, being the rise and fall of stocks—and of the
other, ostentation at the least possible outlay.
Both Grâce and Alice found ground for some vague ex-
pectation in the intimations of the Irish lad ; to the young
men they seemed without foundation. Women are not al-
ways wrong in kindling their hopes by their desires. To
Alice’s quick and apprehensive observation, it was ominous
of evil that Lisle seemed hardly to be conscious of Miss
Eferbert’s presence, and that when, at the Sound of her car-
riage, she rose to go, he did not raise his eye from some
papers he was examining. But when she said, “ Mr. Lisle,
will it do, or will it not, for this poor little sister to go with
her brother to the court-room to-morrow ?” his eye lighted
as he turned it on her ; he was about to reply—he hesitated.
“ Oh, pray say yes, Archy,” said Alice ; “ poor Max will
hâve no friend to stand by him ; you, you know, will only
appear as his counsel.”
“ But, dear little Alice,” said Lisle, speaking to her as if
she were still the petted child of their earlier days, “ that
misérable court-room is no place for you, alone; if your
mother—”
“ Alone !” interrupted Grâce ; “ do you imagine I was so
barbarous as to propose that ? No, we hâve arranged it
ail—settled it together. I go with her as sister, mother,
friend—one or ail, as you please ; and—stop, hear us through
—not merely satisfied to be ‘ strong-armed with conscience,’
like the lady in Cornus, but we will go in strict deference to
Y*154
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
thejudgment that may be supposed to emanate from the
best society in such an anomalous case. My dear brother-
in-law, Frank Esterly, late clergyman, will go with us ; he
is rueful enough just now to give us solemn countenance.
Now tell us honestly, if you were balancing the evidence
for and against this poor fellow, might not the presence
of three friends be the feather to turn the scale—the last
ounce on the back of the camel, to crush his opponent ?”
“ To me, Miss Herbert, it might be a blinding evidence,
but our judges must be governed by precedent and statute;
however, if you ladies hâve the courage, I make no opposi-
tion. We must give Max every possible chance.”
“ Then to-morrow at nine, Alice, I will be with you,” said
Grâce ; “ and for once I will borrow my step-mother’s coach
—we must invest ourselves in the respectabilities.”
The sun went with Grâce, and night and dews came.
When Lisle returned from putting her in the carriage, he
found Max gloomily leaning his elbow on the mantel, and
Alice standing drooping beside him. She hastily wiped away
her tears. “ Is the trial to-morrow final, Archy ?” she asked.
“Yes—the grand jury was in session when Max was ar-
rested, and immediately found an indictment against him.”
“ It looks black as night,” said Max. “ What were those
papers you were looking at, Archy ?”
“ The drafl you presented, which the officers at the bank
very kindly permitted me to take possession of to compare
the endorsement with your handwriting and Gilmore’s. I
hoped the experts, to whom I submitted it, would detect a
resemblance to Gilmore’s.”
“ And they did not ?”
“ Not satisfactorily. They rather inclined to the opinion,
that there was more resemblance to the characteristics of his
hand than to yours ; but their opinion was not strong enough
to give value to their testimony.”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
155
“ Experts, indeed !” exclaimed poor Max, in a tone as sad
as it was contemptuous. 44 Do you, Alice, sit down, and ex-
amine the papers ; you are an 4 expert’ in every thing.”
Alice sat down, and Archibald beside her, but even lier
keen perception availed nothing. 44 Oh, Max,” she said, 44 I
could myself swear to this for your handwriting.”
44 Then the game is up. I see there is no hope for me.”
44 Oh, don’t say so, dear Max, till after to-morrow ; nor
then, even if they convict you—the very worst—yet we may
get a pardon.”
44 A pardon ! I’il not take a pardon from them ; what has
an innocent man to do with a pardon ?”
Max, like most people of his tempérament, sank as easily
as he rose. He was now at the bottom of the abyss. Alice’s
fertility in resources was not exhausted. 44 I hâve heard,”
she said, “ of a fraud detected by the manufacturées date
on the paper.” She held the Innis draft to the candie.
44 There is neither date nor letter on this,” she added, sadly
shaking her head.
Max bent his head to examine it. 44 But—by George !
look Alice—Archy look ! Don’t you see fine water-lines, a
check ail through the paper ?” They did see it, and both
looked to Max for an explanation. He said it was paper
bought of an old Frenchman, Merceau, who lived in a gar-
ret in Nassau-street. 44 Gilmore bought ail his paper of
him. He was very fond of making errands there to see a
pretty grand-daughter of old Merceau ; he used to take
présents to her, and I told him it was not fair, and we had a
little fight about it. It’s the same paper—I’ve twenty notes
from the rascal written on it. That was a bright thought of
yours, Alice ! was n’t it, Archy ?” Lisle cordially assented,
and soon left the brother and sister to follow up, him self, the
faint light that had dawned.156
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
Clifford was présent when the court opened the next
moming. Lisle was on one side of him ; his sister, Mr.
Esterly, and Grâce, on the other. Ernest Gilmore soon
after entered with his counsel, one of the ablest lawyers in
the city.
Ernest’s friends were of the “ fast” order, and having
rather nervous associations with the purlieus of Courts of
Justice, they did not fmd it convenient to be with him. His
father stood upon his dignity, and would not give counte-
nance to the complication of his son by appearing at the in-
vestigation. There was, however, no lack of an audience :
the morning papers had given suffirent publicity to the
affair, to fill the court-room with curious idlers.
It was soon obvious which way the current of sympathy
set. Human nature, unbiassed by selfishness or préjudice, is
true to its instincts. Legal proof might fail Max at his
need, but there was persuasive testimony in his favor in his
fair candid brow, his clear open eye with its straight-fonvard
look-out, in the purity and sweet affectionateness of his
countenance—an insurance against meanness of ail sorts—
and in his healthy aspect, and manly bearing. Ernest was
tall, and thin, and with very handsome features. He was
faultlessly got up by tailors, and barbers, and other profes-
sors of like “ branches of learning but he had a certain
pallor and tremulousness, that indicated his way of life, and
the vulgarity of expression that inevitably foliows it.
We hâve not the masculine peu of Dickens—nor, alas !
the fathomless genius whereby he sounds the miry depths
of humanity, or the opportunities and the observation that
aid him in reproducing the infinité variety of life, with ail its
vitality, on his pages. Therefore we can only give the brief-
est summary of this morning’s proceedings, so critical to our
dear friends. We shall not attempt to describe the confident
hope that actually shone in poor Max’s face, as witness afterMÀRRIED OR SINGLE?
157
witness from the houses of Beekwell & Co., and Smith &
Eaton, deposed to the integrity of his character ; nor Alice’s
sweet trustful smile, showing even through the folds of her
veil, as her eye met her brother’s, nor the gratulation of
Grâce Herbert’s brilliant face, nor the quiet assured faith of
Esterly’s pale, fine countenance, nor how their hopes rose to
the highest mark, as Lisle, with ail the ingenuity of his pro-
fession, and the earnestness of his zeal, converted probabili-
tés—so it seemed to them—to proofs.
But alas ! for the old saying, “ one story is good till an-
other is told.” When the young ladies, in the bliss of their
ignorance of the “ glorious uncertainties of the law,” trusted
it ail settled in Max’s favor, and he—a greenhorn, as he
afterward called himself—thought so too, the district at-
torney rose, and weakened the testimony to Max’s char-
acter, by producing witnesses to testify that he had been
dismissed from Beekwell & Co.’s in conséquence of frequent
absences on “ sprees,” and that he had been repeatedly seen
with “fast” young men driving “fast” horses along the
avenues. These irrégularités the counsel argued, led to ex-
penses not to be met by the ordinary receipts of a clerk.
He granted every thing that could be claimed from the gen-
eral impression of the probity of the young man, and as-
sented to ail that it was reasonable to infer from the influ-
ences of his rural home. “ It was évident,” he said, turning
his eye to Alice, and pausing while it rested on her now pale
and tearful face, “ that they were of the most salutary and
interesting nature, and he could but exclaim, as he looked
upon the youth, with still the freshness and purity of his
country life, on his unblighted countenance,c Would to God
it were possible to exculpate him !’ But alas ! how rapid
is the work of dépravation in the corrupting atmosphère
of this city ; before the bloom fades, the fruit is infected to
the core ! How small temptations mark the sliding scale !158
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
How short and rapid is the passage through the seemingly
innocent indulgence that the gay and audacious tempéra-
ment of youth craves, how short it is to crime ! A proof of
this dreadful accélération from ‘deep to lower deep’ was
striking in the unscrupulousness of Clifford in accusing a
generous friend, a far graver offence than the hasty trans-
gression, which might hâve been committed in a moment of
despair,” etc., etc. He recurred to the evidence in relation
to the paper bought of Merceau. “ Doubtless the old man
had, as he swore, sold that paper to Ernest Gilmore, and he,
Merceau, alone had imported it from the manufactory in
France. But Gilmore had, as Merceau admitted, been in
the habit for two years of buying that paper, and what was
more probable than that he had shared it with his friend to
whom, as has been shown, he had, perhaps too lavishly im-
parted of his superior means, etc., etc. As to the argument
drawn from the hue of the paper corresponding precisely
with that of the last importation—a half ream of this, Mer-
ceau had testified to having sold to Gilmore within a few
days—it was most futile. A sheet within a package, shut
from the air in a writing-case, would not be perceptibly
changed in months. And finally,” he said, “ he felt too much
compassion for the young man, too much sorrow”—“ for his
family,” he would hâve added, but seeing that Alice, unable
to sustain herself, had dropped her head on her brother’s
shoulder, he paused, and eager to avert observation from
her, he hastily concluded, saying that “ it was unnecessary for
him to dwell on the comparison unfavorable to his client,
which had been instituted between the young men ; they
were associâtes and intimâtes, and it would require an
acute analysis to detect their different degree of merit;
and finally, the jury,” he said, “ must décidé against the
défendant, there being nothing in the slight probabilities
alleged in his favor to invalidate the fatal evidence againstMARRIED OR SINGLE?
159
him in the plain handwriting of the endorsement of the
draft.”
He sat down, and Esterly whispered to Grâce that their
verdict would doubtless be against Clifford, and tbat she had
best withdraw ber friend ; but Alice, when the proposai was
made, shook her bead, “ Oh, let me,” she said, “ stay with
him till the last minute.”
“ Don’t be disheartened,” whispered Lisle, “ we may—we
must get a pardon.”
But poor Max was utterly disheartened. He felt the full
force of the truth “ that the différence of going just right
and a little wrong in the commencement of the joumey of
life, is the différence between a happy home or a misérable
slough at the end of it.” The ploughshare had uprooted his
self-confidence, and humility was springing up. To him it
did not now seem a slight departure from right, “ a little
wrong,” that by dangerous associâtes and selfish indulgences
he had periled his own honor, and his mother’s and sister’s
happiness. “ Any punishment,” he thought, “ is not too
severe for me, if I could bear it alone.” But the thought
of the dark shadow he had cast on his dear home unmanned
him, and the handkerchief with which he hid his convulsed
face, was drenched in tears.
At this moment a letter was passed over to Lisle. It was
written on the coarsest paper, and folded not after the like-
ness of any thing in heaven or earth. Within it was an old
envelop resealed. He at first looked at the hand-writing
despairingly. The words were oddly formed, syllables as
oddly parted, and capitals thrown in or left out, hap-hazard.
He was about to thrust it into his pocket for a leisure mo-
ment, when certain names caught his eye, and he explored
his way through the following fines with intense eager-
ness :160
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
cc dearsiranonord :—it was My mothers prares to the
blessed Virgin that was thecosofit—that is my stain in the
pantry, and unbenonsfc harin you tell of poor young Mr.
elifford, that same young gintleman savin My ould mother
after she Comin ail the wa from Ireland, she and The pig
notthepig For that wascrished and squealin when Mr. elifford
—the Almighty blesshimfor that Same Took the little ould
woman like a Fither in hes Arms in the Shanty and haledup
the wunes of Body and hart fetchin the doctor and byin a
Frish one that Is a pig for The dareould lady, so You see,
sir, for Yees may want the testimoni I larned to rite a bit At
home and wasafter larnin better here cos theboyssas a poor
man may be a Poor prisident in yees eountry. so goin won
nite to mr. ernest’s room with the cole I sese scitterd On the
floor a letter sinde Thomas Innis, splindid riten and a sheetof
paper Ail over rit Thomas Innis so sasiPat sasi this Is iligant
for you to copy, and no loss to theYung gintelman fortis But
paper and Ink so I pitsitin my pock et handylike. But when
He comesome his belrings like thunder And when I ansersit
hes blazin and sashe Pat sashe wharsmy papers. the papers
Is itsir sasi—Yes sashe the papers I lift—so To squinch the
trouble sasi the Papers was after fallin on the flore and the
ent nothin happind to em only i jist set the fire agoin widem
—thin he cooldof and sashe niver Mind pat—go about yer
bisnes and So i did and put in my Chist al the ritins every
won and herethe Is. and if i took arite yer honors tauk to
the ould gintelman the May do asarvice to Mister elifford
Godbless him—and the dare ould ladis blessin and yer sarr-
ans to the Ind of it—that’sme pat MacCormick.”
Lisle having mastered Pat’s epistle in an incredibly short
finie, tore open the envelop, and found, within, an auto-
graph letter from Thomas Innis and a sheet of poor Mer-
ceau’s paper, on which Gilmore had practised, not only copy-MAKRIED OR SINGLE?
161
ing the name of Innis, but various words of the letter, of a
chirography so clear and beautiful that it might hâve ar-
rested a more clerkly eye than our friend Pat’s.
The smile that lifted ail the clouds from Archibald’s face
as he involuntarily looked toward the group of which Max
was the centre, indicated good news. Lisle asked to be
heard, and, after some controversy, having obtained permis-
sion of the court to offer some newly discovered evidence, he,
with such explanations as were necessary, exhibited the docu-
ments enclosed by Pat. A murmur of satisfaction ran through
the court-room. ISTot a person there was silent, excepting
those who were too suddenly happy for words, and the poor,
already convicted wretch, on whose shoulder an officer had
laid his hand. From the door-way came a voice silencing
ail others, crying out, “It’s I, Pat MlCormick, that writ
the letter, and that same am here quite entirely ready to
swear ail that your Honors command.” Pat was admitted.
If it is difficult for an Irishman to tell the truth, he can émit
it, and Pat answered satisfactorily to examination, and cross-
examination. Max Clifford was discharged, and Gilmore
committed. Max had paid dearly for his follies ; Gilmore
was to pay, perhaps, his antécédents taken into considération,
too dearly for his crime. But perfect justice is not attain-
able at human tribunals, and there were other parties to the
offences of these lads, not in anywise amenable there ; not,
perhaps, accused by their own consciences, but who will
assuredly be found wanting, and receive a greater condem-
nation when summoned to the bar of the infallible judge.
There are thousands of young men in our city employed
by merchants, and rich mechanics who acknowledge none
but a business relation with them, who never, for a moment,
consider the duty of looking after their morals, and their
rightful récréations, which hâve so much to do with their
morals. Had Beekwell & Co., or Messrs. Smith & Eaton162
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
extended a kind hand to Max Clifford; had tliey, in any
mode, linked him into their social life, they would hâve saved
him from imminent péril, and his family from a cruel heart-
ache. Hundreds of young men are lost by similar neglect.
That loss is fearful, but it may be found, hereafter, that the
loss of the golden opportunity of doing good which Provi-
dence bestows upon the prosperous, is more fearful !
“ Oh bright occasions of dispensing good,
How seldom used, how little understood !”*
* While these pages are going to press, we hâve heard a fact which we
are proud to record. A hatter in Brooklyn has, during the past winter,
employed an eminent chemist to lecture to his nine hundred workmen, twice
a week, at fifty dollars a lecture. Rarely has one of the nine hundred seats
of this httle army been vacant. Better this, than the charge of the six
hundred at Balaklava.CHAPTER XIII.
“ Sweet are the uses of adversity.”
Occupation’, that mighty helper, and consolation of life,
and the best occupation, thought, feeling, and doing for
others, had been Grace’s friend in need. The few last days
had been divided between her ministry to Augusta Tallis,
and her solacing companionship with Alice. In a letter to
her sister, in which she had given a brief history of Clifford’s
affair, she says :—
“I find dear little Alice charming. She has ail the
freshness of her childhood, with a marvelous ripe judg-
ment.
“ The opportunity,” she continues, “ of serving my friends
at this time, has been a providential boon to me. It has
saved me from the weary task of pondering over the past.
It has been well for Frank, too, to hâve his last leaden hours
lightened and brightened by working for others ; not the
most cheerful work either, in poor Augusta’s case ; but work
that will help to cernent the foundation on which the super-
structure of her future life is to rest.
“ The funeral service for poor little Elise was most touch-
ing. There was no one présent but the parents, Frank, and
myself ; no one to let in the world, and interrupt solemn
thought, and impair holy feeling.
“ Augusta was so exhausted by the scenes of the last fort-
night, that, though she has rallied since her husband’s return,
she seemed, on the morning of the funeral, hovering between164
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
life and death ; so pallid, tremulous, and faintish, that I de-
spaired of her getting through with it, but after Frank came,
she was stronger, and quite calm. I never was so impressed
with the official power of a clergyman to ‘ speak as one
having authority.’
“ The little coffin was closed. I had laid a wreath of white
rose-buds, and jasmins upon it ; Augusta did not notice it.
Her eyes
“ ‘Were homes of silent prayer
and whether raised or cast down, were looking far beyond
the material things that surrounded her, except once or
twice when, with a consciousness of her husband’s arm being
around her, she turned them on him with melancholy ten-
derness, as if in grateful récognition of his support.
“ Your husband, dear Eleanor, is worth ail the efforts you
are making for him. I never admired him more than yes-
terday. He did his office so unconventionally, so from his
heart. He spoke, probing truth, as God’s commissioned
messenger should, as his divine Master did ; it was sharp as
Steel ; but steel used for excision, and not to wound. I am
sure he has done good to both husband and wife. Strange
to say it ; but I believe their child’s death will prove the
greatest blessing of their life. She has fallen into the abyss
that separated them, and it is fast closing up.
“ How strange of you, dear ISTel, who hâve always done
the right thing at the right time, to fall ill just at this mo-
ment : 4 it should hâve been hereafter.5 I did the best I
could to supply your place, and went to the ship with Frank.
Archibald Lisle was with us, and had provided Frank with
ail sorts of cheer and comfort ; not the least among them,
charming books and late reviews. This young man is a
study to me. How in the world, in the midst of his busy
professional life, can he do so many kind deeds that cost timeMARRIEZ) OR SINGLE?
165
and thought? It is true, as Uncle Walter says, that the
busiest people do ail the odd jobs of humanity. Why,
Archibald Liste gave into Frank’s hand six sheets of instruc-
tions closely written, mapping out his tour for him, telling
him what to see, and—sagacious young man—what not to
see. Recommending some great économies, and warning
him against small ones as harassing, and interfering with the
great objects of his voyage.
As I look back, dear Eleanor, I think I hâve been
unconsciously influenced by the révélations of what seemed
to me our family doom in the old green trunk. You
remember the morning we spent over it. It filled me
with an undefinable dread of that irrémédiable step on
which a woman’s happiness is staked. You know I hâve
had plenty of lovers, some too good for me, perhaps ; but
I bridled my affections, and they passed on. And while
I thought I was warily watching my one persevering lover,
he mastered my weaknesses. Well, since I hâve fîn-
ished the game of a young woman’s life, won, not lost it,
I hâve turned to clooking on.’ I see in my dear little
friend, Alice, the predestined fate of Lisle ; at présent,
she rushes into his arms, with nothing beyond the sweet
confidence of an inherited and childish love. But she is now
past eighteen, and something more is dawning. I see it in
the quick mutation of her cheek, and in her sensitiveness to
every look and word of his ; and it is inévitable he should
fall in love with her. If I do not much mistake, he has
already. His manners with her are gay, cordial, almost
caressing, but with nothing of that free underbred familiarity
so disgusting in our 4 free and easy’ young men. My cheek
burns as I recur to my monstrous vanity in telling you that
I saw certain signs in Lisle that I might easily convert him
into a lover. I think my judgment was bewitched. With
me he was reserved and stately, with some occasional melt-166
MAEEIED OE SINGLE?
ing like a thaw in January. Now he is ‘ more so.’ If ever in
the intimate intercourse of the past week he was surprised
into a relenting, he suddenly reverted to a sort of chronic
disapprobation. I suspect he has observed my degrading
entanglement, and been disgusted—no wonder. But cour-
age ! When he is Alice’s husband, I will try to win his friend-
ship in the most comprehensive sense of that noble relation.
“Dear Nelly, you’ll not care for these spéculations when
you are longing to hear of your husband ; but you will
forgive them, knowing I hâve always been addicted to what
Shakspeare courteously calls ‘maiden méditation.’ I am
coming to you on Saturday, with Frank’s last Word s and
kisses for you and the children. He went off cheered by a
promise I made (and will explain to you), that I will put
my shoulder to your obstructed wheel.
“ When I returned from the ship to my own room at home,
where I hâve not been since I first went to poor Augusta, I
found on my table the trinkets which I left on that mémor-
able evening scattered over the drawing-room carpet. They
were inclosed in a box, sealed and directed with Mrs. Her-
bert’s pedantic nicety, and on the box was lying a note from
that lady, which being characteristic, I copy for your édifi-
cation :—4 My Dearest Grâce, you are quite safe with Anne
and me ; neither facts nor surmises shall transpire. I shall,
on this trying occasion, as I hâve ever endeavored, act the part
of a mother by you. H. C. has been here more than once,
and, I am happy to say, exhibits no unpleasant feeling. He
has made no allusion to that evening. It was awkward, and
he is ever taciturn, and we must allow for little peculiarities.
Mrs. Tallis’ sending those trinkets to you at such an un-
suitable time is just a specimen of human nature. Death
when it cornes near arouses the conscience, and excited
feeling will exaggerate. But married ladies should not trifle,
and I hope and trust that Mrs. Tallis will lay to heart theMATTRTTCT» OR SINGLE?
167
good lesson she has had. Afflictions do not spring out of
the ground. H. C. has made no inqniries about you, and I
advised Anne not to allude to your being at Mrs. Tallis’, as
I thought you acted a little too impulsively in going there,
and, as I observed to Anne, loyers should be left to settle
their own quarrels. Of course such a sensible woman as you
are will forgive and forget, and only smile at Mrs. T.’s pique.
Your ever anxious and affectionate friend and mother,
“‘S. H.’
444 Oh, what fools these mortals be !’ Eleanor.”
“Here is John to tell me 4 the ladies hâve corne in from
their drive, and Mrs. Herbert would like to speak to Miss
Grâce in her room.’ John smiled knowingly as he gave me
the message, and as I came before the front window on the
landing, 4 Has Miss Grâce,’ he asked, 4 seen Mr. Copley’s
splendid new carriage ?’ It was just turning from the door,
the same équipage which he wrote to me he had 4 ordered
for us.’ 4 It seems as if Miss Anne felt dreadful proud-like
in Miss Grace’s place,’ said John, whether in sympathy for
me, or contempt for us ail, I could not quite tell, but the
latter émotion these people, whom we call our 4 inferiors,’
must often feel for us.
44 Our step-mother looked at me with her beady eyes, as
if she expected to fathom my heart—her line is too short for
that. 4 You observed perhaps, dear Grâce,’ she said, 4that
we came home in Horace Copley’s carriage ?’
44 4 John called my attention to it,’ I replied.
44 4 Oh, I feared you might think it strange. But I hâve
judged it important to keep up appearances, in any event.’
She paused, I made no reply, and she proceeded : 41 hâve
been really anxious about you, my dear, on many accounts.
I hâve kept very secret your being at Mrs. Tallis’, for you
know the world will talk, and it would tend to widen this168
MARRIEP OR SINGLE?
truly unbappy rupture, if Horace Copley should hear any
remarks made about the rather striking suddenness of your
friendship for Mrs. Tallis.’ Again she paused, and again pro-
ceeded : 4 It is but paying a due respect to society to guard
against its mistakes, and its possible censure.’ And so, dear
Eleanor, she went on, and on, with a deal of 4 namby pamby
stuff,’ and finding it did not bring me to the point, she said,
in a slightly apologetic tone, 4 I hâve thought it judicious to
keep up our relations with Horace Copley to prevent gossip
—the world never gets matters quite straight ; and whether
the engagement is renewed or not, my object is to save your
réputation, Grâce, from ail possible damage.’
“4 The engagement will never be renewed,’ I said ; 4 so
pray, ma’am, go on, and keep up your relations with Mr.
Copley, and extend them at pleasure. My réputation you
may leave in my own charge. The world happily knows
nothing of my engagement to Mr. Copley, and that I believe
is the only circumstance in my relation with him that could
damage it.’
“ Mrs. Herbert was not in the least nettled. She saw she
had made a point in her game ; the satisfaction of her soûl
shone through her face, in spite of her évident effort to look
serious and sympathetic.
“A box of Paris finery had just been unpacked, and its
contents were strewn over the bed and chairs. Mrs. Her-
bert coolly pointed out the new fashion of the hats, the new
eut of the mantillas, and the 4 lovely trimmings, so French,’
of the dresses. Yesterday, at Augusta Tallis’ request, I had
packed away, and sent away, similar properties of hers. The
vision of this lovely mourner, eager to
“ ‘ Buy terms divine, in selling hours of dross—
Within, be fed ; without, be rich no more,’
ûlled my mind’s eye, and I rather recoiled from this 4 VanityMARRIED OR SINGLE?
169
Fair.’ Mrs. Herbert gave her own interprétation to my in-
différence. 4 My dear,’ she said, 4 forgive me ; it really did
not occur to me, that 44 if the course of true love had run
smooth,” you would now be getting beautiful things for
yourself ; but when you hâve lived as long as I hâve, you
will learn, my dear, that there is nothing so likely to happen
as change,?
“I bit my lips to keep them from answering this pro-
found dip into life, according to my wont, with insolence or
contempt. The 4 old Adam’ was fast getting too strong for
the c young Melancthon,’ and I discreetly returned to my
own apartment.
46 Now, my dear sister, is it worth my while to try and
live longer with this woman ? Her world is not our world.
You might be equal to it, and in time you might win her
over to serve God more, and mammon less ; but I am not.
I must, to borrow a feather from this owl of wisdom, 4 ar-
range my life judiciously, to preserve a due balance,’ which,
I must confess, that with my habit of shifting ail my feelings
from one scale to the other, I never yet hâve done.
44 There has been a long sériés of petty aggressions and
provocations on the part of my step-mother and her daugh-
ter, and of equally petty irritations and contempts on mine.
I thought myself strong enough to overcome them ; I am
not. Change of air is the only cure for habits, as for chronic
diseases. So, my dear Eleanor, I will corne to you, and you
and the children will bring out ail that is good in me. By
and by, when Uncle Walter cornes home from his summer
trip, we will arrange for him, too ; and we will ail, together,
stand by May’s philosophy about the 4 little wooden house at
Harlem.’ ”
Grâce proceeded to make arrangements for her new life ;
and first of ail, she inscribed on the parcel containing Mrs.
VOL. xi.	3MARRIED OR SINGLE?
170
Tallis’ jewels—blessed talismans to Grâce—“ Vouchers of a
broJcen compact,” and inclosing, and directing it to “ Horace
Copley, Esq.,” she gave it into the hands of a trusty mes-
senger.
The next day, after having assured Mrs. Herbert that the
world would take no exceptions to her removing her rési-
dence to Mrs. Esterly’s house in the absence of her husband,
she took a decorous leave of her step-mother and Miss Carl-
ton, and they parted forever, with mutual satisfaction, as
inmates of a common home.
Grâce was shocked to find Eleanor in bed with a fever,
and much more ill than she had supposed. She was suffer-
ing the conséquence of too prolonged a strain upon her
nervous System, for Eleanor had nerves, though they were
sheathed in heavenly patience.
She had “ waited on the Lord and been of good courage,”
when her boy sickened and died. She had borne with un-
varying cheerfulness the pétulance engendered by the most
wearying of ail diseases ; she had sustained alone the burden
of domestic cares ; and finally, when she had let her house
to enable her husband to repair his health by a year’s travel
in Europe, and had packed her family into the little Harlem
box, and began her career of instruction, she broke down.
Courage and energy had done their work ; submission and
patience were now to do theirs. She was like our precious
perpétuais ; when one blossoming of roses is perfected,
another buds and goes on to maturity. The effluence of the
virtues is truly the “ odor of sanctity.”
“ I hâve corne just in time,” said Grâce, kissing her sister’s
hot cheek ; “ shall I take possession of your spare room ?”
“ My spare-room ! What a change from your spacious
apartments. How you will miss not only elegances, Grâce,
but comforts.”
“ Eleanor, are you turning world’s-woman ? Do you re-MABEIED OR SINGLE?
171
member * how much better is a dinner of herbs,’ etc.—must
I quote Scripture to you f I am not yet one of those who
‘can spare the necessaries of life, but not the luxuries.’
You and your children are to me ‘the necessaries;’ your ill-
ness seems to me most opportune !”
“ Opportune ! Could any thing be more ill-timed ?”
“ To me, Eleanor, it does not seem so. I wanted this
seeming cloud, this providential shower, to nourish the good
seed just dropped into my heart, that it may spring up and
grow before the thorns—the natural product of the soi],
Eleanor—choke it. Perhaps you do not know it is one
thing to form good resolutions, and another to keep them.
Hitherto there has been a division of labor between us ; I
hâve formed them and you hâve kept them.”
“ Oh, Grâce!” exclaimed Eleanor, with protest in her voice.
“ Now,” proceeded Grâce, “you must leave the doing to
me. Dear, good Cousin Effie will take care of the children,
and I will go daily to town and give your music-lessons. I
shall not be half so good a teacher as you are, for I hâve
neither your method nor your patience ; but I am a more
brilliant performer, and therefore shall please the mammas,
and will try to practise your sweet patience, and so please
your pupils, who will be sure to test that virtue.”
“Corne, Grâce, corne!” called out May Esterly, impa-
tiently, “ and look out of your own dear little window, and
see the violets that are blowing out on my garden-bed, and
ever so many birds without any cages, on the trees, and
Harlem river is only a little way off, and if you look very
sharp, you can see the cars passing. Oh, aren’t you glad you
are never going back to live in that old big house in Bond-
street ?”
“ I am, May, I am !” replied Grâce, and with a glee ah
most equal to the child’s, she ran away to partake the ever
fresh pleasures of childhood.172
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
And thus Grâce Herbert, the observed of observers who,
by uniting fashion to beauty and accomplishments, was per-
baps the most admired and the most envied young woman
in ail our “ Yanity Fair,” renounced a marriage which would
hâve added to her position the brilliancy of fortune, deliber-
ately left a life of élégant ease and most lady-like indulgence,
to live in a very humble suburban house, and earn a frugal
living for her sister’s family, by giving “ lessons in music.”
Whether she were elevated or degraded by this step, must
be left to the judgment of her peers.CHAPTER XIV.
“1 corne with joyfhl tidings ; we shaU part no more.”
Mapleton is, or was—our to-days are yery unlike our yes-
terdays—a secluded village in New England. It lies in a
hill and lake country with intervening valleys and meadows
that are enriched by the spring freshets with alluvial soil.
A railroad now skirts the valley, but at the epoch of our
story the simplicity of rural life was in no way invaded.
There was no monster hôtel ; only a two-storied inn, with its
traditions of “ the Révolution,” “ Shay’s war,” and a flaming
ghost that once haunted its precincts. The “ dollar” was
not yet “ almighty” in Mapleton, but such things as content-
ment, mental accomplishment, social respect, and self-respect
were there held superior to it and independent of it. No
city-earned fortunes ruffled its quiet surface, and—oh, bliss-
ful days!—no city bees broke the silence of its summer
shades.
The village-street runs parallel to Lily Pond, a bit of
water some six or seven miles in circumference. Lily Pond
may it remain, in spite of the more dainty parlance of the
présent time, and in spite of its ambitious rechristening as
Lake JBona Vista, by Colonel Donalphonso Hart, a return-
volunteer from the Mexican war, who illustrated Mapleton
by his nativity. The indigenous name of this lovely bit of
water indicates the lotus that profusely adorns its bosom in
the month of August, shooting up its long flexile stems, un-174
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
folding its white petals, with a pink tint as délicate as an in-
fant’s blush, and breathing out the rich odors it seems to
hâve inhaled from the voluptuous sweets of summer.
Mapleton is the oldest village in the county. The beauty
of its position was accidentai for, its founders being true
sons of the Pilgrim Fathers, like them eschewed the qual-
ity of beauty as if it were a device of the wicked one.
Throughout New England the Puritans turned their backs
upon the sweet South and its cheerful sunshine, facing their
houses to the cold blasts of the North, as they did their
tempers to the rigors of life. So it came, that the shores oi
Lily Pond that looked to the east and south with their
charming variety of rock, and W’oodland, and flowery turf,
were abandoned to unseemly barns, and slovenly yards, into
which kitchens and sheds opened, and that the houses were
built hap-hazard on either side a wide Street winding in
parallel line with the winding shore ; the west side being
preferred for building, as highest, and driest, and as com-
manding wider fîelds of pasture, grain, and woodland, inter-
vening between it and the mountain barrier of the township.
Civilization had, however, begun its work in Mapleton. The
native taste of some of its people was cultivated ; a few had
traveled, and they were beginning to adorn their rural
homes with filial love and reverence, the reverence attaching
itself to old things, the love creating new beauties. Creep-
ing roses sheltered and adorned the bared trunks of old
trees, Virginia creepers shot over old barns, and honey-
suckles, and the native clematis, perfumed and graced old
porches. Fences were removed, yards became “lawns,”
shrubberies were set, patches of flowers bloomed out from
the greensward, gravel-walks were laid out, piazzas erected,
and the whole screened from the cold north and envious east
wind by thick plantings of our native hemlock. Ail honor
be to the women of Mapleton, who, by their “MarriedMARRIED OR SINGLE?
175
Ladies5 Cemetery Association,55 and their “ Young Ladies5
Flower Committee,” hastened on this rural millennium.
Alice Clifford5 s home was at the Southern extremity of the
village, overlooking the lake and near its outlet, and so
placed in relation to it, that when the slant beams of the
sun touched the stréam, it could be seen here and there, for
many a mile, gliding through meadows, and stealing around
high wooded hills. But (like ail the masculine gender) it
disappeared from Mapleton so soon as, fed by mountain-rills,
it attained its full stature, and could no longer be recognized
for the brook that, studded with anémones and violets, is-
sued from Lily Pond.
Mrs. Clifford’s house was the largest and best in the vil-
lage. It had been in her husband’s family for three généra-
tions, and thereby had a remote antiquity and extraordinary
traditional interest in a country where the second génération
builds its houses in Ohio, the third in Minnesota or California,
and the fourth—heaven knows where. It was at the close
of an August day, just as the day was fading into twilight,
and the delicious coolness of our northern summer evenings
was revitalizing the air, that Archibald Lisle arrived at
Mapleton, and approached Mrs. Clifford’s. He stared
around him, confused by the grouping of familiar and un-
familiar objects. A young man drove the coach, whom he
recognized as having been a chore lad at his friend’s ; now
he was the proprietor of a small livery establishment. “ I
guess you don’t hardly mistrust where you are,” he said to
Archy, as they entered a narrow avenue winding through a
wood ; “ Mis5 Clifford’s girl has had the modeling of the old
place,” he said, “ and she is not a fool by a long shot ; but
making this—a-venue they call it—through the grove, when
there was a broad road, straight as a die, so that you could
drive right to the front door, in the darkest night, was a
notion. To go dodging round these trees—she would not176
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
hâve one eut down—why it’s—well (paitsing). I should say
it was double the distance it was by the old road, and so
lonesome and confusing. But it’s a slick sight here,” he
added, his voice cheerily changing, as they emerged from
the wood and saw Lily Pond reflecting the rose-tinted sky ;
and the heavy cloud just lifted like a blàck curtain from the
horizon, permitting the last rays of the sun to shine out and
kindle, as with a flame, the topmost branches of the trees
and the summits of the opposite hills. Archibald looked in
vain for the broad front door, that, ever wide open, seemed
to speak a smiling welcome. “ There’s no getting in at the
old spot,” said his conductor ; ct go round the corner of the
house, and you’ll find a kind of a fandango there.”
Lisle eagerly went forward and found a picturesque porch,
whose door was open with the old look of hospitality. He
entered and passed through a passage, not into the “ dwell-
ing-room” that lived in his dear remembrance, but into a
modernized apartment with a bay-window of plate glass,
opening upon a terraced garden extending to the lake.
More in keeping with this novel aspect than were the ac-
customed inmates, was the graceful figure that rose from the
piano at his ent rance. “ I am very glad to see y ou, Mr.
Lisle,” said Grâce Herbert, extending her hand, “ and sorry
that I am the only one of your friends here to welcome you
—but don’t look so disappointed (did Archibald look disap-
pointed ?)—you were not expected for an hour. Mrs. Clifford
has gone to the village on business, Max is out shooting, and
Alice,” she was putting her hand on the bell to ring for a
servant to call Alice, when a sound was heard, more like the
rush of a startled bird, than a footstep, and Alice, gliding
down stairs, entered, her face radiant with a welcome
sweeter than words could make it. a Oh, how glad my
mother will be to find you really here, Archy ! and I am so
glad ; and were n’t you,” Alice faltered, at a loss for the rightMAEKIED OR SINGLE?
111
Word, and then added, not quite as if she had found it,
“ surprised to find Miss Herbert here ? I meant you should
be, Archy.”
“ I certainly had no expectation of finding Miss Herbert
here,” he replied, with a slight embarrassment, and averting
his eye.
“Ah, Mr. Archy,” thonght Alice, “you are as glad as
you are surprised, though you try hard not to appear so ;”
and then observing his abstracted look, she said, “ I am afraid
it does not seem like home to you.”
“ Oh, y es, Alice, your mother’s home will always be and
seem home to me ; but I confess to a lingering love of the
old look. I miss the many doors whose slamming and bang-
ing were pleasant to my boyish ears—the ‘ entry door’ and
the ‘bed-room door,’ and the ‘ t’other-room door,’ and,
above ail, the old cupboard that Arthur and I used to ransack
and rifle; but here,” he added, turning to the window, “here
it is unchanged—here, the same sparkling ripple on Lily
Pond ; every c puise of wind’ and wave is the same as when we
were last fishing on it ; I can recall every indentation of the
shore that Arthur and I foliowed, mapping out our future ;
I can point out the trees that we climbed, and the trees we
scored together—grown very little taller,” he added, turn-
ing his moistened eye to Alice, “ like you.”
“ Take care, Mr. Lisle,” said Grâce, “ you are on danger-
ous ground. Alice is sensitive on the point of height. I
quote to her my Uncle Walter, who says ‘the nicest things
are done up in the smallest parcels,’ and I promise her height
shall reach to the stature of the largest heart.”
“ But you were a tall child,” said Lisle. “ I well remem-
ber thinking so when you stood on the ‘ high rock,’ your
little figure relieved against the sky, shouting to Arthur and
me to return, as we were going out for an evening’s fish-
ing, and take you into the boat.”
8*178
MARRIED OR SINGLE ?
“ I remember it so well ; and what a bad cbild I was,
throwing my basket of berries into the lake in my vexa-
tion.”
Both Archibald and Alice were silent at this point, but
both remembered that he kindly rowed back, took her in
his arms, coaxed and caressed her into good bumor, and
carried her home ; and Alice remembered that she did not
much regret, when fondled in his arms, the loss of the
rowing.
Again Archibald recurred to the landscape. “ There,”
he said, “is our dear old pic-nic ground, and the log-
bridge. But what is that spire coming up over Simmons’
hill, a church ?”
“ Oh, no, that is a saw-mill built since you were here ; the
very thing the village is in a turmoil about.”
“ You hâve made a charming transformation,” said Lisle,
after another survey of the premises, “ by removing the old
barn, making this new approach, and grading the ground to
the shore. How hâve you managed it ?—your mother so
detested changes.”
“And she detests them just as much as ever, but she
says, 4 Youth is stronger than âge,’ and so she yields to the
inévitable. I shall not tell you by what potent charms and
spells it has been done. I shall wish it ail back in the old
way, if it does not seem like home to you. But there cornes
my mother.”
Archibald sprang forward to meet her.
“ Home is in your mother’s face, Alice,” said Grâce; “ what
a harvest radiance it has. I wonder if another génération
will show such faces as your mother’s and my Uncle Walter’s,
so full of what the poets call 4 autumnal beauty,5 the traces
and records of their bénéficient day.”
“ I don’t know,” said Alice, murmuring her words, as if
she were thinking aloud, rather than speaking ; and while in-MARRIED OR SINGLE?
179
tently watching the meeting of Archibald and her mother,
she added, “People ne ver are what you expect, even those
you feel most certain of.”
Alice was not addicted to talking riddles. Grâce looked
at her open face, trying in vain to penetrate her mean-
in g.
“ She is delighted to see Archy,” continued Alice, “ that’s
ail right ; she is almost as much overcome with joy, as when
I brought Max home. How her gladness shines out
through her tears, like#the sun through a shower—dear
mother !”
There was something in Alice’s accent, and the shake of
her head as she made this exclamation, which implied that
“ dear mother” had said, or felt something that crossed Alice’s
hope or purpose. Did her quick eye detect the expression
of dissatisfaction that shot over her mother’s face, as she
glanced her eye from Lisle to Miss Herbert? She could
not hâve heard her say, for she hardly spoke above a
whisper,
“You should hâve been oui* only guest for the next
month, Archy ; it is so long since I hâve seen you.”
An epoch that was to color ail Lisle’s future life had now
arrived ; and that our readers may judge him leniently, they
must know the misconceptions on which he is about to act.
As he was uninformed of Miss Herbert’s relations with
Copley beyond the point of her engagement to him, he was
perplexed by its prolonged secresy, and could see no good
reason for it. He had not met Grâce since the day of
Esterly’s departure. He had repeatedly ridden out to Har-
lem to visit his friend’s wife, but had been finally discouraged
by the uniform answer to his inquiries “ that she did not yet
leave her room.” Once he had asked for Miss Herbert at her
etep-mother’s house, and was told that she was at her sister’s,180
MAKEIED OR SINGLE?
without a hint of her permanent abode there. The complété
suspension of social intercommunication in New York dur-
ing the hot months, accounts for his not hearing the fact,
the nine days’ wonder of her fashionable friends, of Grâce
having become a paid teacher of music ; or their gossiping
conjectures in relation to the apparent conclusion of Cop-
ley’s dévotion to her.
After Archibald withdrew for the night, he sat down by
his open window, and with his eye resting on the moon-lit
lake, he gave free course to his thqughts, much as foliows :
“ Keeping this engagement secret must be some arrogant
whim of Copley’s. The fellow always delighted in silence
and darkness, as if by investing himself in mystery he could
become a demi-god. An unmotived secret must be répulsive
to Grâce Herbert’s nature, as I once imagined it. Fortunate
for me that dear old man told it to me ; it was a stunning
blow, but it disenchanted me. I ceased to worship from the
moment I knew she had declined to his level. And her
content seems so absolute, as if, instead of this hateful com-
promise with the world, she had made safe and noble
anchorage, not a venture out at sea. If she were but infatu-
ated ; but she is calm and satisfied—satisfied with Copley !
“ How quietly happy she seems ; no more those alterna-
tions of spirit and gentleness, of pride and softness, those
sudden mutations that, in my blind idolatry I thought so
charming, c each a lovelier wonder than the last.’ Now she
seems so self-forgetting, her brilliancy so softened, like sun-
shine through a curtained window, in such musical accord
with the simplicity of this household, that if I did not know
beyond the possibility of doubt that she had trafficked her-
self away in the market of weak and vulgar women, I
should fall back into my old slavery ; my old idolatry.”
By degrees, as his eye continued on the familiar scenes of
his boyhood, his thoughts reverted to Arthur Clifford, andMARRIED OR SINGLE î
181
through that medium, to Alice. Lisle had too Sound a mind,
or rather too sound a faith, to fall into the bad scepticism
winch doubts the power of any woman to resist séduction
to her vanity, or temptation to her poor worldly ambition.
The individual had fallen, not the sex.
“ Dear Arthur !” thought Lisle, “ Alice is just sucb a sis-
ter as you would hâve desired—is she not ail that a lover
could ask ? Would not ninety-nine men in a hundred prefer
her with her not too much, nor too little intelligence, her cheer-
fulness and ail the sweetening qualities for every-day life, to
Grâce Herbert ; and shall I be the hundredth to shiver in
the shadow of the greatness that is not for me ? When poor
Letty died, I reproached myself for having forgone a cer-
tain and attainable blessing for one unattainable. I am tired
of my isolation.” And then he thought, as he had often
thought, with a shudder, of the weary waste of life in a
boarding-house, of the oozing out of his best affection, of the
providence that had from his youth bound him up with the
Clifford family, of the long-continued inestimable affection
of Alice’s mother, of the impulsive—love ? No, Archibald
would hâve blushed at that presumption—affection Alice
had already manifested for him ; and he came to a decision,
and was struggling to fôrtify it against old prepossessions,
when his bachelor méditations were interrupted by cautious
footsteps on the stairs. Some one entered the room next
his, shut the door, and burst into sobbings that it seemed
could no longer be suppressed. Soon after, Mrs. Clifford,
whose ears were open day and night to the wants of her
household, came to the relief of the sufferer, for relief it ap-
peared. The sobbing ceased, and a dejected voice was
heard in response to the soothing tone of Mrs. Clifford, which
continued far into the night and long after Archibald became
oblivious of his neutral-tinted future, and was dreaming of
his présent bright surroundings.CHAPTER XV.
“ There are two republics : a great one, which is buman nature ; and a
less, which is the place where we were bom.”
When the breakfast-bell rang the next morning, and while
the family were assembling, Alice brought in her arms into
the breakfast-room a pale, sickly ehild, and seated her be-
tween her mother and herself. The little girl had rather a
pleasing face, but spiritless, except for her large dark eyes
of singular intelligence. She was four years old, or there-
abouts, and frotn her helplessness (her lower limbs were
paralyzed), or from some unknown cause, she seemed to be
an object of spécial interest. Mrs. Clifford, as she took her
seat at the head of the table, said, cheerily, “ Ah, Daisy, is
the world right-side up this morning?” and Alice*s eye
moistened, as the little girl stretched her arms to her and
said, “Give me one kiss for breakfast, my owny, dony
Alice.”
“ Why, who is this ?” asked Archibald of Max.
“You must not ask me,” replied Max, in a low tone ;
“ that’s a secret that mother and Alice hâve not trusted me
with.”
Lisle’s question was heard, and Max’s answer guessed, but
neither were noticed, and Lisle, taking the seat allotted to
him, next the child, instinctively put his hand on one of her
long tresses that, as she shook her head, fell over his sleeve,
“ Take care !” she said, “ don’t tumble my curls ; my Alice
made them so smooth round her finger.”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
183
“ But why do you shake your head, and toss your curls
round at such a rate, Daisy ?” asked Max.
“ I shake it at Amy, ’cause she has put no saucers on the
table for the raspberries.”
“ Shake away, little goddess, you are quite right. I really
wish, mother, you would speak to your ne plus-ultra, Amy,
about her short-comings.”
“ Speak to your sister if you please, my son, she set the
table this morning ; but make no remarks before Amy,” con-
tinued Mrs. Clifford, lowering her voice, and glancing at a
“ parlor-girl” who entered in answer to Max’s hasty ring ;
“ and I wish, my son, you would not ring the bell in that
way.”
Max laughed, as he said aside to Archibald, “ My mother
always rings the bell as if she were afraid the servants’ feel-
ing would be hurt if they heard it.”
“ Don’t you remember Amy ?” asked Alice, as the girl
disappeared in the pantry to repair her young mistresses’
omission.
“ Amy ! Is she the little girl whom your mother brought
home with a batch of children, while she watched over their
mother, ill with a typhus fever ? How could I recognize
that little buxom child in this tall, solemn young woman—
June in November?” He rose, as the girl returned to the
table, and giving her his hand, “ Don’t you remember me,
Amy ?” he said. u I hope it is not the custom at Mapleton
to forget old friends ?”
“No, sir,” replied Amy, coldly ; “I guess it is not much
so.” Amy’s spirit was right, but she had the discourteous
manner that pervades New England, we are sorry to say,
from highest to lowest, and appears in most répulsive un-
graciousness in the medium class that, cherishing the right
to social equality, is jealous of manifesting any deference
that may possibly be interpreted into a confession of infe-184
MABBIED OB SINGLE?
riority of rank. Amv held, in Mrs. Clifford’s family, that
anomalous position, defîned by the general term, “help.”
The relation is scarcely known beyond the rural districts of
New England ; and now that the Celts monopolize domestic
service, and the term “ servant” is used, without fear or re-
proach, it will soon become traditional. It is in such rela-
tions as that of Mrs. Clifford to Amy, and to her other
humble friends in her rural district, that the most perfect
working of our republican institutions is to be seen ; and
rarely is it to be seen out of New England.
But it is hard for young people to divest themselves of a
certain respect for what they consider the marks of “ genteel
life.” “ Alice,” said Max, “ you are spoiling Amy ; why, in
the world, should you set the table for her ?”
“ I could hardly do less, Max, when mother went out in
the dew, in her stead, and picked those raspberries that you
seem to be so mightily enjoying.”
“ Oh, that’s mother’s way, to spoil ail her servants. Can
you imagine such an absurdity, Miss Herbert, as letting a
servant sleèp, and getting up and doing her work ?”
“ Yes, I hâve seen like anomalies in my sister Eleanor’s
ménage y but, Max, I must confess to knowing ladies who
would as soon think of building a nest for a bird, as of doing
the kind turn Alice has done this morning for Amy.”
“And would probably be quite as capable of the one
service as the other,” said Mrs. Clifford, looking approvingly,
and with surprise at Grâce, of whom, as a New York bred
lady, she was still distrustful. “ Is it true, Miss Herbert,”
she added, “as I often hear alleged, that women in our
towns live in hôtels, to escape the trouble of training and
governing domestics ?”
“ I hear so,” said Grâce, shrugging her shoulders ; “ but
really I know little of that genus.”
“The more gracious your estate, Miss Herbert,” saidMABBTED OK SINGLE?
185
Lisle. “ I hâve known something of the way of life of such
resideuts in our hôtels. I hâve had two slander suits arising
out of it ; and nothing can be more inane, gossiping, and
deteriorating than it is ; ‘ altogether inconvénient,5 as Parson
Leland said of the infernal régions.55
“Capital!55 exclaimed Max; “I know ail about it. I
spent one week, just for the fun of it, with that rascal Gii-
more at the—what do you call it? the crack hôtel in New
York ; and the ladies would corne to breakfast in their—
what do you call them, Alice ? Oh, peignoirs ; and their
skirts flounced and embroidered up to their waists ; and they
wore diamond ear-rings, and sparkling bracelets, and em-
broidered pocket-handkerchiefs, and ail sorts of folderols, in
the morning. Don’t you call that vulgar, mother ?55
“ Yes, Max; and perhaps even you think it more vulgar
than setting the table for Amy ?”
“Yes indeed, mother. I had rather Alice would wash,
scrub, and bake—do any thing at home, ail her life, than live
as these superfluous women do. Some of them, I guess,
began life with washing and scrubbing.”
“ Nothing is more probable,” said Grâce. “ It is the sud-
den fortunes that corne upon people unprepared for them,
by éducation or association, that vulgarize our society.”
“And yet,” said Mrs. Clifford, “there are those who be-
come suddenly rich who are gentlemen and ladies by inspir-
ation or instinct.”
“Yes,” said Archibald, “and I hâve known some who
remain poor, and still are gentlemen by virtue of a refined
nature. My father was so in the highest sense of that term,
and in every exigency, though he continued to the end of
his life to work with carpenter’s tools.”
“ Your father a carpenter, Archy!” exclaimed Max.
A smile went round the table at Max’s amazement at fînd-
ing the friend born of “ low degree” whom he looked up to186
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
as gentle by birth as well as by ail manly gifts and accom-
plishments. His mother was annoyed, and not a little mor-
tified at her son’s false notions ; but wisely reflecting that
observation and expérience are better teachers tban ad-
monition, she reverted to the subject under discussion.
“Nothing strikes me more,” she said, “than our childish
impatience with the tasks Providence assigns us. The se,
willing, strong, warm-hearted Irish, adult children, are sent
to our hearth-stones to be taught. We, those of us I mean
in medium condition, are qualified teachers. We understand
the économies and morals of domestic life, and, with the
zeal of missionaries, and at the cost of but a tithe of their
labors and sacrifices, we may raise these semi-barbarians to
the level of our civilization.”
Mrs. ClifFord seems not to hâve been enlightened by the
oracle of a late acute English traveler in the United States,
who opines that our ladies will be driven into Mormonism
by the perplexities of domestic service !
Our friend Max belonged to a family where a gentleman
was made in the old slow fashion, by at least three géné-
rations, and he was in the presence of one of the few repré-
sentatives of that “ancient and honorable,” and almost
forgotten race, an cc old family ;” and therefore we forgive
him the dullness of not seeing the absurdity of attaching im-
portance to hereditary gentility in a country where the
“ lucifer-match” maker, or the médicinal panacea patentée
of this year, may be of the millionaire aristocracy of the
next ; and where the son of the humblest mechanic, or even
of the day-laborer, starts with advantage from a “free
academy” in the race for the highest goals in the country.
But as we should agréé with our young friend that there
was too much of indulgence in a household where the maid
was permitted to sleep while the mistress did her work—a
prodigious exception to ail known usages—we must com-MARRIED OR SINGLE?
187
mnnicate in brief, what Mrs. Clifford imparted in detail to
her guests at the first opportunity.
The saw-mill which Lisle, at a slight glance from the bay-
window, had mistaken for a church, belonged to one Martin
Seymour, a thrifty young man in Mapleton, who, in despite
of suggestive red hair, and a kindling expression, possessed
a kindly, quiet temper. He was Amy’s cousin on the
maternai side, and in rustic phrase, he was, from childhood,
u attached to Amy.” Amy requited his affection, kind for
kind, but the course of their true love was roughened by her
father, who had accumulated grudges against the Seymours.
He and Martin’s father married twin sisters, who, it was
supposed, would divide equally the heirship of their father’s
farm ; a fair rural property. But the parent’s will gave five-
sevenths to Seymour’s wife, alleging that her husband was
“slack,” whereas Goddard was “ forehanded.” Goddard
looked upon this as a mere pretext of partiality, naturally
maintaining that the very fact of his having become “ fore-
handed” qualified him to best husband his father-in-law’s
estate.
We must confess, in dear New England, to an excess of
that quality which expands in noble minds to bold spécula-
tion and generous enterprise, but is in our rustic population
a hateful greed of gain ; it is the blot on our escutcheon, the
moth and rust that eat into our pure gold. It is this that
plucks away the smile from labor, furrows the brow with
care, and overshadows ail the cheerful charities of life. But
grasping as we are, we hâve few hoarders or spendthrifts ;
and it must be said in exténuation of this most répulsive
characteristic, that the money gained by ceaseless toil and
care is transmuted into éducation, invested in some improve-
ment in husbandry, or bestowed on—or more often be-
queathed to—a favorite charity.
Goddard’s was an exceptional case ; he loved money for188
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
money’s sake ; to him it was the motive and the recompense.
He had long had his eye upon the mill-site, and had carefully
accumulated and set apart dollar by dollar for its purchase ;
his “ castle in the air” was the mill to be erected there, and
its productive results were daily calculated. Avarice is a
most unsocial passion, and Goddard, like most avaricious
men, was cautious and secretive, and did not disclose, till
Seymour bought the mill-site, his long-cherished purpose of
possessing it. “ But providence,” he said, “ was set against
him. Seymour’s boy had overreached him ; and,” he added,
and Goddard spoke no idle words, “ he should live to repent
it.” Poor Martin, who had innocently provoked this ire,
“not surmising,” as he said, “howUncle Nat felt about
the mill-site till after ail the Street knew it,” experienced its
most cruel conséquence in a mandate issued to Amy, forbid-
ding any further “ keeping company” with her lover. Amy
obeyed to the letter.
Early in the morning, before Lisle’s arrivai in Mapleton,
Seymour, on going into his mill, discovered an obstruction in
the Works, so placed, that, as he said, “ if he had not seen
it before setting the mill a going, he should hâve been
plunged into eternity, without a minute’s warning.” A
plunge, even so sudden, would hardly hâve found Seymour’s
soûl “ unanointed.” Without reflection upon causes and
agencies, he rushed forth and imparted to his workmen the
péril he had escaped.
“ It’s Goddard’s work !” one exclaimed.
“ It can be no body but Goddard,” they ail responded.
And in spite of Martin’s earnest injunction, rumor, that
oldest of telegraphs, had carried the news through the village
before noon ; and before evening, a complaint was entered
against Nathaniel Goddard, and he was brought before a
magistrate. At this stage of proceedings, Seymour appeared
at Mrs. Clifford’s, and instead of stealing along the path toMARRIED OR SINGLE?
189
the back-door—bis usual approach—he boldly entered at tbe
front portai, and heated and flurried, begged to speak in
private with Mrs. Clifford. After telling the story of the
morning to her,
“Every thing is going against Uncle Nat,” he said ; “ he
was seen about the premises last night, and there is more
than one witness to testify to his threats against me—poor
man ! The only chance for us is to get a surety for his
future good behavior. Now, Mrs. Clifford, if you will offer
that, I don’t care what they ask, up to any thing I own or
can earn, I will secure you.”
“ But, Martin, my friend, if you will be so noble to your
uncle, why not offer the security in your own name ?”
“ Oh, ma’am, you don’t begin to know Uncle Nat ; he
hâtes me more than he loves money. Why he’d rather die
in State’s-prison—and it’s a State’s-prison offence—than be
helped by me. Here is my bond to you, ma’am ; Lawyer
Flint has written it, and I hâve signed it.”
“ But it will seem very odd, Martin, that I should assume
such a risk.”
“ Excuse me, ma’am. The Street never thinks any kind
deed of Mrs. Clifford’s, odd, be it ever so great, or ever so
small, a shower or a sprinkle.”
“ Thank you, Martin ; but really I don’t fancy making
myself a fine bird with your fine feathers.”
“Most people,” said Seymour, “are dreadful afraid of
seeming worse than they are; I never saw one but you,
ma’am, that shyed seeming better. Don’t scruple ; think of
poor Uncle Nat’s folks, think of—Amy.”
“Ah,” thought Mrs. Clifford, “ sits the wind in that
quarter ?” And smiling, and glancing significantly at Sey-
mour, she hesitated no longer, and while he went another
way, she went to the magistrate’s office, and when Lisle
arrived, she was transacting the business that enabled190
MARRLED OR SINGLE?
Goddard to return to his own house, that evening, at
liberty.
Amy was apprised of the proceedings at the village court,
and on the same evening she went to her father’s house to
ascertain the condition of affairs there. She found her
mother in great distress, moaning over her little boy, her
“ youngest,” who seemed in extremity from an attack of
croup.
“ Oh, I don’t mind this,” she said, as Amy took the boy
from her arms ; “ he’ll die, of course, Benny will, but that
seems nothing ; he’d better die, we’d better ail die, than live
to the disgrâce that’s coming on us.”
“Mother!” cried Amy, “don’t talk so; it’s ail fixed;
father is out of trouble.”
“ Yes, out to-day, Amy ; but he’ll be in to-morrow.”
“ My father !” said the little fellow, struggling hard to
speak, and looking up fondly at the mention of his name.
“ Poor little man ! how he loves father ; where is he,
mother ?” In her fright about the child, she had not before
missed her father.
“ Gone,” replied the mother, “ gone to the mill, I know,
for he had his set look on, and I could no more stop him
than I could stop the mill-race.”
“ And did he go, mother, when Benny was breathing so ?”
“No; that might hâve stopped him. He was out of call
when Benny waked choking.”
In a breath Amy had caught up her shawl and rushed out
into the night. She went, by a cross-cut, through a dark
and tangled wood, to the mill. The moon had not risen ;
the stars gave a faint light as Amy, emerging from behind the
interlacing branches of the trees, descried a man just enter-
ing the mill. She sprang forward, grasped his arms with
both her hands, and cried, “ Father ! what is father here
for ?”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
191
He shook her off, and said, fiercely, “ What are you dog-
ging me here for ?”
“ I am not dogging you, sir,” ske answered, with habituai
respect ; “ mother thought you might be here.”
“ D^-n her ! what business had she to think about it ?”
“ Don’t, please, to speak so, father ; mother is in trouble :
Benny has got one of his croups.”
“ Benny ?”
“ Yes, sir ; and it seems as if he would die. I never saw
him choke so ; he tried to speak, and ail I could make out
was cFather! father!5 Oh, do go to him, sir, and I’il go
for the doctor.”
Amy well knew the motive she urged—Goddard’s love
for his “ youngest” was the one star shining through a pes-
tilent congrégation of vapors. The poor man said not
another word, but turned from the mill, and rushed through
the wood. This time love was stronger than hâte.
* Amy did as she said. She went for the doctor ; and it
was not till after she had again been at home, and seen the
child relieved, and sleeping in his father’s arms, that Lisle
had overheard her giving vent to her full heart by sobs and
tears in her own room. She was quieted by the ascendancy
of her beloved mistress over her ; but she was not reassured.
She knew the hopeless détermination of her father’s temper,
and believed that the evil day, however deferred, must corne.
The antagonisms of love and hâte, generosity and covetous-
ness, enact their tragédies even in humble rural life.CHAPTER XVI.
“ Oh 1 how foll of briars is this working-day world 1”
Grâce was sitting by a table with ber open portfolio upon
it, and a pencil in her band ; and so sbe bad been sitting for
a half bour without making a stroke with it, and lost in a
reverie, when Lisle joined ber. Wbetber ber start and tbe
blush that suffused her cheek as be entered, indicated tbat
be had any part in ber reverie, must be leffc to conjecture.
Lisle asked “ if tbe charming country about tbem bad in-
duced ber to make any sketches since sbe came to Maple-
ton ?”
“ A few,” sbe replied, “ of tbe loveliest objects here. Tbese
are my best sketches from nature,” she added, taking several
from her portfolio, and giving one to Lisle ; “ perhaps I think
so because I love my subject, and on tbat score it sbould
find favor witb”—you was on her lips, but she mended
and extended ber phrase, and added, “ with every one of
this bousehold. You see I bave sketched from life,” she
continued, as Arcbibald, with a most admiring expression,
gazed at the drawing, murmuring, “ How like ! bow grace-
ful ! how beautiftil !”
“ Nothing,” said Grâce, “has struck me more in Alice
tban the patience and sweetness of ber dévotion to Daisy, a
most exacting, fretful, exbausting cbild. I could not do any
justice to my subject by a mere pencil-sketch, but imagineMARRIED OR SINGLE?
193
Alice as I saw her. She was cutting flowers from the tall
shrub beside the porch, when she discovered a bird’s nest,
and called to Amy to bring the child out that she might see
it. She had her garden-scissors in one hand, as you see, and
her little hoe in the other ; but oh, dear ! the sketch gives
no idea of the picture she was, except, perhaps, of the grâce
of her attitude, as she put aside the branches with her hand
—thanks to her for the pretty model—and her sweet smile ;
I hâve got that, hâve I not ?”
“ In perfection !” replied Lisle, with enthusiastic emphasis.
One could not tell whether it were the artist or the subject
he most admired.
“ You must tax your imagination, Mr. Lisle, for the color-
ing ; you know her garden-hat, and can imagine how beauti-
fully her heightened color contrasted with its ivy-wreath,
and the deep green ribbon with which she ties it. Here is
another sketch that I like better, as it exhibits more impres-
sively the patience to which I hâve nothing akin, and which,
therefore, perhaps, strikes me as preternatural. Poor little
Daisy was more out of humor, more impish than usual, and
Alice, after exhausting ail other resources, sat down on the
floor beside her, and suffered her to pull out her comb, and
unbraid, maul, and tangle her hair at will. As you hâve
only seen it confîned, you hâve no idea of its abundance, of
what a mass of waving beauty it is—you see how it sweeps
the floor ; and while she was enduring this teasing torture,
she was intently reading—a volume of the ‘Promessi Sposi’
in the original. And here,” she added, taking still another
drawing from the portfolio, “ here is another, a pendant for
the last, if I am ever called on to illustrate the daily occu-
pations—the arts and domestic arts—of a New England
young lady. Here is Alice again with her wealth of tresses
neatly tucked up under a morning-cap, her sleeves rolled
quite above her dimpled elbows, her white apron tied over
vol. il.	9194
MARRIED OR SINGLE ?	/
her breakfast gingham, bending over a marble 4 paste-board,’
where she Works many domestic spells, such as Eve did in
paradise, involving the fruits of her garden in flaky paste,
4 tempering dulcet creams,’ etc., etc. How often I wish my
Uncle Walter were here ; such a blending of le beau et
Vutile as there is in Alice’s life would enchant him, it en-
chants ail men, I think.” Grâce raised her eyes from the
drawing to Archibald’s face ; his eye met hers and he
blushed (Lisle’s youthful infirmity of blushing had of late
returned upon him) ; he blushed as if on the verge of betray-
ing a secret ; he started too, as if awakened from a dream,
and Grâce, giving to the blush, and the start, and the very
grave look, her own interprétation, said, “ I see, as I foresaw
—my subject imparts a value to my sketches; if you like them
pray keep them, they may prove pleasant souvenirs hereafter.”
He thanked her, rather coolly, as she thought, and then
suddenly recollected that Alice had sent him to ask her to
go with him on an errand to Goddard’s. While she went
for her hat, Lisle stood musing over the sketches, and hand-
ling them with the true feeling of a lover, as if Grace’s
touch had consecrated them. “ What an exquisite percep-
tion she has,” he thought, 44 what talent to express so much
of Alice’s attractive grâces in these slight sketches ! Yes,
yes, Alice is made and trained for the best married life, and
he who wins her should esteem himself most happy.” But
Lisle did not seem as if he were gazing upon a paradise
in perspective, and he was half way to Goddard’s before the
sun had risen above the clouds around his horizon. But he
did cast his care behind him, and yielded for the hour with-
out further résistance to the magic of Grâce Herbert’s charms;
and again in his world she, for the time, shone and ruled alone.
Grâce, utterly unconscious of the feeling she inspired,
blinded partly by her past reserved intercourse with Lisle,
and partly by her conviction that Alice was his destiny, gaveMARRIED OR SINGLE?
195
free rein to her natural frankness and earnestness ; and thus
with every hour put a new rivet in poor Lisle’s chains. Lisle
would pause in the rnidst of a delightful conversation with
her, with a feeling akin to that which one who has long, in
silence and awe, knelt and worshiped before his divinity, might
hâve, if that idol were suddenly to awake to huraan sympathy
and bestow a sweet, familiar, condescending smile upon him.
Certainly, a striking change was wrought in Grâce ; she had
arrived at one of those rare and short intervals in any life,
blessed with unclouded serenity. If a storm were gather-
ing, she had no forebodings. Her’s was the thoughtful hap-
piness conséquent upon having finished a painful expérience,
escaped a great péril, and opened with a holy purpose a new
chapter of life. Though her intents and aspirations were
higher and more distinct than ever before, she had a touch-
ing softness and gentleness of manner not natural to her ; it
indicated the genuine humility that springs from past failure.
Humility is the angel of that furnace in which the gold be-
comes fine gold.
For the first time in her life she had worked, and she now
felt the sweetness of rest purchased by labor ; the air of the
hill-country was inspiring ; the common events of every day,
the little accidents of household life, had a surprise and a
new charm for her, like light through tinted glass ; and the
simplicity and freedom of social intercourse at Mapleton were
a révélation to her, contrasting as they did with the only coun-
try life she had ever tasted (a loathsome dose, she called it)
when she went with Mrs. Herbert and Anne Carlton to spend
the hot months at watering-places. She was now beyond
the fretting discords of their society, and en rapport with
the people around her. We beg the loan of this mystical
phrase, to express the instinctive sympathy between charac-
ters, however variously modified, which hâve the same basis.
With ail the ardor of her impulsive feelings, that were too196
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
apt to rise above the high-water mark of reason and ration-
ality, Grâce had (so she believed) renounced love forever.
She had corne to the station where she must make the decis-
ion, “ married or single /” and recoiling from the first, as a
burnt child dreads the fire, she would entrench herself in the
safety of the last. “ I can not live without affection,” she
thought ; “ but is not that a harvest sure to the sower’s
hand ? and hâve I not Eleanor, and Frank, and their chil-
dren, and dear Alice, with her ardent, self-forgetting, too
partial love? and by-and-by, when Archibald Lisle is her
husband, I shall get the better of his prepossessions, and,
alas ! his just judgment against me, and conquer his brotherly
affection.” But it was not merely in a selfish point of view
that Grâce Herbert contemplated her future. She knew
that God had instituted relations, and human dependencies,
had so bound man to man, had made the happiness of one
so dépendent on the happiness of another, that no one could
sunder the tie and live, in the highest sense of that signif-
iant word ; and having withdrawn her maiden méditations
from their natural subject, she was surveying, with character-
istic ardor, the vast fields of dignified occupation and blessed
benevolence patent to a single woman. We rather think
that this sincere mapping of the future was suspended by
the insidious pleasure of the long morning walk with Lisle.
Before they returned from their mission to Goddard’s,
Alice and her mother, having disposed of their domestic
concerns, met in the sitting-room, where Daisy, on a low
chair, in the midst of rejected play-things, was fretting as
usual. “Alice,” she said, pettishly, “Pixie is getting to be
such a naughty dog—he does not mind me a scrap ; I hâve
told him, ever so many times, to bring me my doll, and he
won’t.”
“ Here it is, my darling ; don’t scold Pixie. Poor Pix, he
is a little lame, and very dull, since we came home.”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
197
“Pixie lame! How happened that, Alice?” asked lier
mother.
“ Oh ! did I not tell you that I saw le père (looking signif-
icantly at the child) in New York. It was just as I was
going into that horrid prison, where poor Max was, that a
man passed, muffled in his cloak up to his eyes : Pixie ran
after him, and I suppose snapped at his heels, for the man
turned and gave him a brutal blow with his cane ; and that,
together with something the good matron, Mrs. Barton,
told me, made me think it must be he.”
“ I hope not,” rejoined Mrs. Clifford ; “ but I should not
wonder if he were waiting, and watching there for the op-
portunity of a violent revenge.”
“ Mother ! do you think so ?” exclaimed Alice, in a tone
very different from the cool one in which her mother had
suggested an every-day probability.
“ Why, Alice,” said the child, over whom Alice wasbend-
ing, “ hâve you got your tooth-ache again ?” Her mother’s
words had shot a sharper pang through Alice’s heart than
the touch of the nerve of a tooth inflicts.
Her mother did not see her suffused face, and she pro-
ceeded, without suspicion. “Why, my dear child,” she
asked, “ did you say any thing to Max about that person ?
You know we agreed on perfect silence as the only security,
and Max is so reckless.”
Alice explained that her brother’s mention of Maltby was
in another connection than their’s with him, and reminded
her mother that she had never relieved their neighbors’
curiosity, in relation to the mystery of the child. “ I think,”
she said, “it has died out, of inanition.”
“You hâve been a miracle of prudence, my dear child.”
Mrs. Clifford was yet to learn that this, like many other as-
sumed miracles, was explicable by natural causes.198
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ Oh dear !” excîaimed Daisy, “ I wish they would not
corne back.”
“c They’—who do you mean, Daisy ?”
“ Why, they ? she replied, pointing to Grâce and Archi-
bald, who had j.ust emerged from the wood; “you don’t
play with me ail the time when they are here.”
“ ]STo, Daisy, you hâve a rival now,” said Mrs. Clifford ;
“ and to tell the truth, I wish her away as much as you do.”
“ Mother—dear mother !” excîaimed Alice.
“ I can’t help it, my dear child ; I beg your pardon, but
I do. What does this mean ?” she added, looking ont at the
door, a little Benny is with them. How did they find their
way to Goddard’s ?”
“ I directed Archy. I knew you wanted to send up the
croup-syrup you made against Benny’s next attack ; I was
sure they would hâve a lovely walk this delicious morning
along the lake, and it would not much matter if they did
lose their way.” Mrs. Clifford looked, she did not say it,
“ Oh, my child, you are losing your way !” After a mo-
ments silence, “ See, mother,” excîaimed Alice, “ Archy has
made little Ben a bow and arrow—how kind ! Aren’t they
altogether a lovely picture ? if you would only see Grâce
with my eyes.”
Grâce had sat down in a rustic chair under a sugar-maple,
whose massive foliage excluded every ray of the August sun.
Her cheek crimsoned by exercise, and her expressive face,
lit up by happiness, justified Alice’s exclamation. Archibald
was half recumbent on the turf at her feet. The rustic boy
was kneeling before them, aiming his arrow at a bird on the
wing. “Ah,” murmured Mrs. Clifford, “if Archy were
only as safe as the bird !”
“ Archy is not aimed at, mother.”
“ I am not so sure of that, Alice. I heard you repeating
to Miss Herbert Archy’s extravagant admiration of herMARRIED OR SINGLE?
199
voice, and his telling you that he once heard her quote and
‘set to music’ by her delicious voice Bryant’s ‘Waterfowl.5
If I do not mistake it is your Bryant she is now reading to
him—she is a practised woman.” Mrs. Clifford shook her
head distrustfully.
“ Mother, you do misunderstand her. She is not reading
from vanity, or to charm Archy, except by the poetry ; she
maintains that Bryant is our ‘ truest poet and our best to
this Archy assents, but he is not quite prepared to agréé
with her that there is not a poet in the English language
who mirrors nature with more absolute truth and beauty.
Like our deep still mountain lakes,he gives back the sky, the
trees, the least little floweret on their brim, without changing
the tint of a leaf, or deepening a shadow ; not presuming to
improve by artistic élaboration the divine work. This
Grâce said, mother, and she took the poems with her to-day
to test them in their own atmosphère, as you would a por-
trait by its original.”
“ Vanity is ‘ the most subtle beast of the field,’ my child ;
a complex artifieial character like Miss Herbert’s is quite out
of your ken, Alice.”
“No, mother; it is you that hâve dimmed your mental
eye-sight by straining it to look too far. Grâce has infinité
variety, but that does not involve dissimulation or affectation
of any sort. She has not our air-line, unadorned ways, but
she is as true as we are. She is ail sweetness, nobleness ;
she is—she is glorious.”
Mrs. Clifford listened coldly, and Alice felt as if she were
plunged into a snow-bank, when her mother interrupted her
with, “ Don’t rant in such a school-girl fashion, Alice ; you
are quite carried away with the condescensions of this town-
bred belle.”
“ ‘ Belle !’ what a name to apply to Grâce Herbert. ‘ Con-
descensions !’ that’s' hardly kind or just, mother. Has she200
MABBIED OB SINGLE?
not always treated me as if I were every way her equal ?
Poor little me !—hâve I not always loved her ?”
“ Yes, as girls love and worship the idols of their imagi-
nations. You were but a chit when y ou were together at
Canda’s, and you then adored her as girls do a young lady
senior, especially if she hâve the advantage of beauty and
fashion. Your correspondence since has had the interest of
intimacy without the disenchantment of personal intercourse.
I hâve no faith in amies inconnues.”
“‘Inconnues!’ mother; hâve we not maintained a con-
stant correspondence ? Grace’s letters are a history of her
life, and a perfect révélation of her character.”
“Like some other révélations—made only to the be-
lieving.”
“ You know why I hâve not shown them to you, dear
mother ; there was always something confidential in them.”
“I know—about that fellow Copley. Why don’t they
wind up their affairs? Such shilly-shally does not argue any
great superiority on Miss Herbert’s part.”
“ If I could only tell you ail about that affair, mother—
but I must not. Thus much I may venture to say, I am
sure it will never corne to any thing.”
“ I am very sorry for it.”
“ Mother,” said Alice, playfully, laying her hand on her
mother’s shoulders and looking steadfastly in her face, “ has
not some conjuror changed my generous, candid mother for
a purblind old lady ? ISTow you know Copley is not worthy
of Grâce, and you know it from your oracle, Archy who,
long ago, gave you such a mean opinion of him.”
“ And I still hold that opinion ; but ‘ he belongs,’ as we
say,4 to Miss Herbert’s congrégation.’ In the trashy society
she lives in, I doubt if she could do much better.”
44 You forget that your paragon makes one of that so-
ciety.”MAKRJLED OB SDSTGLE ?
201
“ That is accidentai. His relations with it began with the
accident of a professional service for the Herberts.”
“ And has been a long time maintained, dear mother, by
a ‘ casual concurrence of calamitous circumstances.’ ” She
smiled archly ; her mother in no wise returned the smile.
“The crowning ‘accident’ of their acquaintance,” con-
tinued Alice, “is their meeting here—cthere is a tide in
the affairs of men,’ you know, dear mother, and of women
too.”
“Poor child!” thought Mrs. Clifford, “can she be in
earnest in persisting in this idea ?”
Alice was in earnest. Many a warm, true-hearted young
girl’s love for another girl approximates, as did Alice’s, to
worship. To her ardent fancies there was one other mortal
not to be graduated by an ordinary scale, and that other
being a captivating young man, and now brought with
Grâce to the romantic accessories of Mapleton, at the mo-
ment that she was providentially unshackled, the hour had
corne when they were to go straight forward to that goal,
to which heaven as well as she, poor little Fate, Alice, had
predestined them.
The pause in the mother’s and daughter’s colloquy was
broken by Daisy calling out to Alice, “ Do please carry me
out where that little boy is. I don’t want to sit here for-
ever.” Alice lifted the helpless créature in her arms, and
caressed her tenderly. “ You forgot me,” she said, “ did
not you, Alice ?” Alice reassured her, and removed her and
her playthings to join the group under the maple-tree. Her
mother looking aller her said mentally, “ Yes, poor foolish
child, she forgets even herself. At this critical moment,
from a mere girlish fondness, she is playing into the hands
of that potent woman of the world, who, indeed, could win
the game without my poor little girl’s help. Oh, Alice !
Alice ! you are throwing awav the richest chance of your
9*202
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
life ; and I hâve wasted so many hopes and purposes, and
little plottings—heaven forgive me !”
So much has been said and written against “ manœuvring
mothers,” that it requires some boldness to betray the fact
that Mrs. Clifford had hoped to promote the union of her
daughter with Lisle, by bringing them together at Mapleton.
A mother may plod and plot day and night to secure for her
daughter an advantage of éducation ; she may compass sea
and land to promote her health, and toil and save to aug-
ment her fortune ; but when it cornes to the great event on
which her character and true prosperity, the welfare of soûl,
body, and estate, mainly dépend, the mother—the heaven-
appointed guardian—must not lift a finger, but must stand
back, and wait on time and chance.
Mrs. Clifford had loved Archibald from his boyhood, and
after the death of her son Arthur, this affection became
as strong and sensitive as if a maternai instinct, and as
sacred as a religious duty. She had watched with infinité
satisfaction over Lisle’s career. She had gathered from his
letters—the almost preternatural sagacity of a woman in
such affairs being rendered more acute by her personal
interest—that Miss Herbert’s intimacy with Copley had, in
breaking Lisle’s confidence in her, dispelled her charm for
him ; and now that at the moment a fair field was opened
for Alice, when it seemed so natural, inévitable, that her
favorite, prepossessed in her favor, finding ail he had loved
in the child ripened in the woman, her domestic éducation
answering to his wants, her qualities and tastes so in accord-
ance with his own ; that her sweet and loveable child should
be overshadowed, her mild effulgence dimmed in a more
dazzling light, was more than Mrs. Clifford could bear,
human as she was, without some injustice to her who was
tbus thwarting her,MARKIED OR SINGLE?
203
We feel bound, as we hâve been compelled to expose
Mrs. Clifford’s préjudices, to say that they were not wholly
Personal to Miss Herbert. She regarded her as coming
from an “ infected district.” She looked upon the fashion-
able society of New York much as it has been portrayed
by certain popular writers, and if she did not believe that
every fashionable woman is a “ Mrs. Potiphar,” she did hold
them ail to be vain, vapid, wearisome, and superfluous, and
honestly believed that the world would be ail the better if
they were swept out of it. And therefore, independent of
her secret deprecation of Miss Herbert’s visit at this junc-
ture, she dreaded the contagion of the fine-lady tastes
and habits that would in no wise harmonize with Alice’s
life.
Mrs. Clifford, too, was shy of new friends. She loved her
old ones, often for no better reason than that they were a old
ones.” She loved the country, as a child loves its mother.
She loved old books ; like dear “ Cousin Bridget,” she
“ browsed” on old English literature. Johnson and his club,
Pope and his cotemporaries were to her like familiar friends.
Her romantic reading did not date later than the blessed era
of the “ great unknown it was a joke among her gossips
that the only time she ever fainted was, when she discovered
a novel of Madam George Sand in Alice’s hands. She rather
thought it lost time to read any later poet than Pope, except
Bryant. A copy of his poems, that had belonged to her son
Arthur, was kept with her Bible on the table of her private
sitting-room.
Her social préjudices were nurtured by the charming
society of Mapleton, small, but eclectic, consisting, as in most
of our New England villages, chiefly of women ; sorae few
living in happy conjugal life; some honoring the pnst by a
modest and dignified widowhood ; and some maidens, “ not
young,” who, as was pithily said of them by a married oo-204
MARRIED OR SINGLE ?
temporary, “ having as much happiness and more usefulness
than usually belongs to married life, were occupied in the
certain good of relieving the poor mortals alrëàdy here, in-
stead of the uncertain benefit of bringing others into the
world, who might not find it well to be in it.”
But this vicarious maternity was not their sole occupation.
There was a healthy vigorous intellectual life among thera,
free from literary ambition, but not without adornment.
Accident having thrown some political exiles of the highest
order, upon their kindness, the young women u followed the
arts,” and while acquiring music, German and Italian, they
naturally imbibed the generous political creeds of which
their teachers were the apostles and martyrs.
Mrs. Clifford, in regard to Alice, gave in to these “ foreign
trimmings,” as she called them, not that she valued the gar-
niture, but that she thus gave “ material aid” in the most
délicate mode in which it could be imparted. So it became
common law in Mapleton that the credential of a foreign
teacher there must be a diploma from an Austrian fortress
prison.CHAPTER XVII.
“ It is a good divine that follows his own instructions*”
Those are said to be the happiest days of our lives of
which there is least to record. Least, perhaps, to be pub-
lished, but not least to be cherished in grateful remembrance.
Who counts the drops that compose the shower which sus-
tains the vitality of nature ? And who sets down the bright
“ good-mornings,” and the peaceful “ good-nights” of family
life ?—the morning prayer, and the evening blessing, the
interchange of innumerable good words, and offices of affec-
tion ?—the look-outs into the beautiful and ever changing
face of nature?—the three times gathering round the table,
where mind and heart, as well as body, find their food ?—the
meetings and the partings enriched by love?—the books
that vitalize and cheer the lives of high and humble ?—the
responsive smiles, the récréative laughs, the shouts, caresses,
and fresh sayings (original poetry) of children ?—the arrivai
of friends, and the coming in of the daily mail ? Where are
the blanks but in the thankless heart ?
There were no startling events during the three happy
weeks that foliowed Archibald’s arrivai at Mapleton. The
earth is still, and may seem dead, when beneath its surface
are elaborating processes that are to deck it with blossoms,
and hang fruit on its trees. These three short uneventful
weeks, if measured by the æsthetic mode of sensations, were
the longest in the lives of our friends. The busily idle days
were never tedious. They wiled the hours away over their206
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
favorite authors, equally content whether they agreed or
difFered. Village hospitalities were exchanged without the
gène of ceremony, or the folly of pretension. The early
dewy mornings found Lisle and Alice mounted for a ride.
Alice was a famous horse-woman—Grâce remarked to her
now thrice happy mother, that none of her accomplishments
were lost on Lisle. The evenings were passed in moon-lit
strolls, or gatherings on piazzas, where sorae talked, and
others listened to music. Every house had its piano, and
Grâce frankly confessed, that her vanity had been rebuked
by finding in a rural district those quite as accomplished as
herself, in the “ art and mystery” of music.
Tête-à-tête rides and drives in countries of an older civili-
zation than ours might be excepted to, but it seemed not
even to occur to the most fastidious spinster in Mapleton,
that there was the slightest impropriety in their young
friends charming away the hours among the hills. So they
went, Archibald and Alice, or Archibald and Grâce, or
ail together, unscathed by gossip’s tongue,
“ To the beautiful streamlet by the village side,
That windeth away from the haunts of men,
To quiet valley and shaded glen
or they winded up through the forest path to that
whence
“ Narrow battlement”
“ Sheer to the vale go down the bare old clififs,
Huge pillars that in middle heaven upbear
Their weather-beaten capitals.”
It must be confessed there was an atmosphère about these
scenes very favorable to the growth of that little flower
called “ Love-in-idleness.”
Lisle’s position with these two young women, each su-MARRIED OR SINGLE?
20V
premely charming in her own way, would seem a very
dubious one, but it was quite plain that no vulgar observer
could liken him to the vacillating animal between the two bun-
dles of hay. It was apparent wkich he bad elected for his
“ daily food.” If there were moments when the old habits
of his heart mastered him, and when as the blood rushed to
his cheek, and an inévitable smile played on his lips at some
beaming charm of Grâce, he found himself involuntarily
at her side, oblivious of Alice’s presence, ail his dévotions
aforethought were to Alice, and Grâce, for the first time in
her life was left to enact the subordinate part of an observer.
Lisle’s predetermined, and therefore now duteous dévo-
tion to Alice, left Grâce much to Mrs. Ciifford’s companion-
ship. The mother’s préjudices were fused and transfused in
her felicitous assurance of the fulfilment of her hopes. From
doubting the justice of her préjudices she soon came to
wonder she had ever entertained them. The moment the
obstruction was removed, the natural sympathy between the
young lady and her elder was manifest. They both be-
longed to the family of the “ Great Hearts.”
One evening, just before the serving of tea, the letters
and papers were brought from the mail. Lisle, with the
keen appetite of ail American mankind for works of this
genus, had seized a newspaper, and was running his eye
over it.
“ Do you fînd any news, Archy ?” asked Mrs. Clifford.
“No, nothing of any conséquence,” he replied, as people
usually do, who first get possession of a fresh paper, unless
it chance to contain something as startling as a révolution,
or a murder among one’s acquaintance. “ Oh, yes,” he
added, “here are ‘readings for the ladies,’ a description
of a ‘ fancy bail’ at Newport ; shall I read it ?”
“ Do read it, Archy,” replied Alice, eagerly.
“Alice has not got beyond 4readings for very young208
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
ladies,’ ” said her mother ; 44 but y ou may read it, Archy ;
Grâce and I will endure it.”
Lisle exchanged smiles with Alice, and proceeded to read
the details of the royal, sacerdotal, and heroic characters as-
sumed by the beaus and belles of our cities congregated at
the watering-place of highest fashion. The initiais only of
the real names were given, and as Lisle read them, Grâce,
who was fainiliar with the names of most of the notorieties
of the fashionable world, filled up the blanks. “ Decidedly
the most dazzling star in this brilliant galaxy”—we quote the
paragraph, whose style might be termed adjective—44 was
the fair young lady who personated the superb Queen Eliza-
beth. The ugly old Queen would hâve bartered ail the un-
matchable jewels of her regalia for the youth, grâce, and
beauty of her counterfeit. The choice of this character,
much criticized by certain coteries, was (we humbly surmise)
determined by its relation to the noble Leicester. The
beauty, brilliancy, gorgeousness, sublimity, and set of the
earl’s costume, were never exceeded in any country. The
diamonds were said to be of the first water, and the point
lace, and ermine were beyond dispute real—”
44 Oh, pray stop, Archy,” cried Mrs. Clifford ; 44 what fools
our people are.”
44There is ever so much more, Alice—ail the romance—
but your mother won’t hear it. Oh permit me, Mrs. Clif-
ford—just this.” He read on : 44 4 As in our happy land theré
are no musty laws, or malicious lieges to impede royal con-
nubial happiness, rumor reports that the hymeneal altar will
soon be lighted to unité the fortunate Mr. C---------y to the
beautiful Miss C------n.’ Who should they be, Miss Her-
bert?” honestly asked Lisle. A painful pervading blush
overspread Grace’s cheek. Lisle saw it, and wished his
question unasked. Grâce saw that he observed it, and per-
haps she divined the rapid process of his mind, for sheMARRIED OR SINGLE?
209
answered, and withoüt faltering, “ Mr. Copley and Miss
Carlton.”
Alice, when Lisle hesitated, had risen to see for herself,
and was looking over his shoulder, lier eye riveted to the
paper, when the “speechless messages” passed betweenhim
and Grâce. Not at the trashy report of the bail was she
looking ; another column of the paper had caught her eye.
The color faded from her cheek, and.Lisle might hâve heard
the beating of her heart. She rushed out of the open door,
and sank down upon the seat under the maple-tree. Neither
her mother nor Grâce observed any thing unusual in her
exit. She was habitually sudden and rapid in her move-
ments. Lisle followed her. He seized her hand ; his was
tremulous, his voice choking, as he said, “ Tell me, dear
Alice—for heaven’s sake tell me—”
“ Oh not now,” she cried, interrupting him ; “ don’t ask
me now. I will, perhaps, another time.” And snatching
away her hand, she sprang from him, and entering the house
by another door, went to her own room, locked herself in,
and gave way to anxieties she could not repress, and dared
not betray.
“ What a cowardly wretch I am !” exclaimed Lisle, as he
walked off to the lake-side. “ Shall I ever again hâve cour-
age to ask if that cursed engagement is suspended, or if
any thing has happened to it? No—nothing can. What
weakness to let this silly gossip open* the door for a moment
to thoughts, to hopes, that I had shut out fore ver.”
Some one says that every human being is alone, however
intimate may seem the fellowship in which he lives with
those around him. Certain it is, that each of the persons
but just now gathered around the bay-window, had within
their own minds a solitary cell. It was an hour that invites
to confidence. When the outer world grows dark, one is
more inclined to throw open the Windows and doors of the210
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
inner. Grâce drew a brioche to Mrs. Clifford’s feet, sat
down, laid her liead on Mrs. Clifford’s lap, and sighed.
Was the sigh drawn forth by the too vivid recollection of
the past suggested by the fancy bail ? or was there “ a little
cloud no bigger than my h and” rising in her spirit’s clear
heaven, at the thought of Alice’s “culminating felicity?”
“ My dear Grâce,” began Mrs. Clifford, and paused ; but
feeling sure of herself, sure that her curiosity was not sharp-
ened by any dread of Grace’s interférence with her child’s
future, that it was only prompted by pure concern for this
lovely young woman’s happiness, she was about to proceed,
when Grâce looked up, her eyes brimming with tears, a
smile quivering on her lips, and said, “ Well, what would
you say to me ? pray say it.”
“ I will, my dear child, and you shall answer me or not,
as you like. I will make no inferences—think no thoughts.
I fear you hâve been pained by that newspaper trash ?”
Grâce did not find it quite so easy to reply as she had
imagined it would be. If she answered according to her
first impulse, “ not in the least,” Mrs. Clifford would natur-
ally rejoin, “what then has disturbed you?” a question
she dared not answer to herself. Time was when she would
hâve playfully equivocated. She was less of a world’s wo-
man than she had been, much less easily tempted from the
narrow way into little convenient détours. As she hesitated,
a way of escape opened, and she plunged into it. She raised
her head and began, not without faltering, but with a firm
purpose to go on. “ When first I came to you, Mrs. Clifford,”
she said, “ Alice begged me to explain to you my relations
with Horace Copley ; I could not. I did not know you
well enough, and I saw plainly that you did not like me.”
“ My dear Grâce !” exclaimed Mrs. Clifford, interrupting
her, “ that was not because—it was because—”
“ Never mind why it was, or why it was not,” said Grâce,MARRIED OR SINGLE?
211
smiling, but dreading more to hear the explanation than
Mrs. Clifford to make it ; “ my, why, was very simple. You
know we shrink from exposing our follies to those who do
not love us. You did not then even like me ; but taking to
myself the sweet comfort that you do now love me, I will
tell you ail about the great moral blunder of my life, and
then you may judge for yourself how much I can care for
that silly gossip.” Here both ladies were startled by sounds
from Alice’s room. “ Is that Alice’s voice ?” âsked Grâce.
“ I thought she was out walking with Mr. Lisle ?”
“ I thought so too,” said her mother, and concerned at the
sorrowful tone of Alice’s voice, she was going to her, but
returned to her seat, saying, “ Oh, I understand it. She is
soothing Daisy—I can not see into her dévotion to that
child. She is, to be sure, a piteous little object, but this dé-
votion is so engrossing. There is no personal interest, how-
ever strong, that she does not suspend at the call of that
child.”
“ Pity stronger than love, Mrs. Clifford ? that was never
heard of.”
Mrs. Clifford shook her head, smiled, and said, “ Go on,
Grâce ; we will not let them interrupt us again.”
(We use our privilège to make a parenthetical visit to
Alice’s apartment.
“ What ails you, my Alice ?” said the fond child, as Alice
threw herself on the bed, and hid her streaming eyes on
the child’s bosom. “ Nothing ails me, Daisy,” she replied,
“ nothing.”
“ Nothing ! what a story, Alice. Only foolish little chil-
dren cry for nothing, not grown-up ladies ; and you know
who said so when he shut me in the closet. Don’t cry, my
own Alice.”
“I will not, darling,” said Alice, smiling, or trying to212
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
smile through her tears ; “ we’ll neither of us cry, till we
must—poor Daisy.”)
At the conclusion of Grace’s relation to Mrs. Clifford,
which was made without any glosses, she said, “ There it is,
dear Mrs. Clifford—the history of my lost years.”
“Lost ! don’t call them so. You hâve reaped a precious
harvest, and thrown the chaff away.”
“ No, Mrs. Clifford, not so ; my convictions are too strong
to yield to the soothing of your affection, wise and good as
you are ; and so good that you cannot understand the evil
nurtured by such a life as mine has been, the subordination
of every noble aim to frivolity, self-indulgence, and little-
nesses of ail sorts. You may allow something for the spell
the man wrought upon me, which truly I cannot conjure
up again by any effort of imagination, or even of memory.
I was the victim of an illness that could only prevail in a
vitiated atmosphère. I saw through my step-mother’s poor
little artifices to blind me, that she was trying to circumvent
me. I knew it was the ambition of Anne Carlton’s life to
marry Horace Copley, and worst of ail, he played her off
against me, and made me a party to the wretehed game.
And I went on, from year to year, fancying and trying to
find the qualities, the virtues that should justify me to my
own self-respect. It was the common childish folly of self-
blinding, self-cheating.”
“ Thank God, you were saved, dear Grâce.”
“ I do thank God for it, Mrs. Clifford. How long I re-
pelled the teachings and aids of His providence. There was
the admonition of my sister’s life, of her true marriage, and
yet I looked down upon her Christian course as a very
humble career, no model for me. True, there were few men
in our set calculated to instruct my judgment or elevate my
taste.”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
213
“ But you knew Archibald Lisle ?” interposed Mrs. Clif-
ford, involuntarily recurring to her paragon.
“ Yes, he was occasionally thrown in my way”—Grace’s
voice sensibly faltered—“ and I confess light and darkness
are not more different than he and Copley. I did not heed
the contrast ; no, it was not till Mrs. Tallis’ disclosure, when
my own follies were mirrored in hers, as in a magnifying-
glass, that I recoiled. A fountain of life sprang from her
sorrow, and in her darkened chamber we both 4 saw light.’ ”
Mrs. Clifford had been tempted to interrupt Grâce, to re-
monstrate against her self-condemnation, to give words of
her own conviction of the nobleness of Grace’s nature, which
impressed her far more than the weaknesses she so courage-
ously unveiled, but she had too much respect for the offices
of conscience to interfère with them, so she stifled the W’ords
that her heart sent to her lips, and said, “ So, my dear child,
you and poor Mrs. Tallis dropped your c load,’ and pressed
on to the délectable city.”
“ This is our purpose. She has helpful company—I must
go the long way alone.”
“Alone, Grâce! You surely hâve not made a vow to
that effect ?”
“ No, not a vow, but a resolution springing from convic-
tion. After my âge, you know, Mrs. Clifford, the affections
lose something of their flexibility, the réquisitions are more
severe, and the chances of marriage much more rare.”
“ You are three-and-twenty, I believe ?” said Mrs. Clifford,
with a dissenting smile.
“ Yes, just three-and-twenty.”
“ Well, upon considération, I believe you are right. The
chances are fewer, but, like the Sybil leaves, the richer for
those that are lost.”
“ But you admit there is small probability of such a mar-
riage as now would alone content me, a marriage like that214
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
of which our Alice is on the threshold, where to the en-
chantements of love is added a trust in character so secure
that there can be no after falling from that grâce.”
“ My dear child, the world would soon corne to an end
with this refining. Would y ou prohibit ail inferior unions ?”
“ If I could ? No, marnage is a general law, and divine,
and therefore with ail its abuses far more good than evil
cornes of it.”
“ Yes, yes, Grâce,” exclaimed Mrs. Clifford, the sudden
clouding of her face betraying the pang of grievous mémo-
ries, “ if one must go through life with the ever fresh sense
of irréparable loss, there is left the blessed compensation of
children, the holy relation of brother and sister, the vital
cliarities of home. And after ail,” she continued, her voice
resuming its ordinary tone of cheerfulness, “ after ail, I be-
lieve matrimonial disturbances are for the most part among
idle people. They rarely occur in the middle classes. To
be sure, marriage is rather a coarse partnership there, but it
is surprising how evenly they trudge on through life together.
Why, Grâce, our rustic people generally regard single life
as not only helpless and joyless, but almost ridiculous.”
“ Then, dear Mrs. Clifford, is it not high time that better
opinions should prevail? As slaves must be trained for
freedom, so women must be educated for usefulness, inde-
pendence, and contentment in single life. They must look
forward to it, not quite as I do, perhaps, as the only alter-
native to the happiest married life—that is my idiot-sjncrs.sj
as you would term it—but as a mode of life in which one
may serve God and humanity, and thus educate the soûl, the
great purpose of this short life. So considered, single life
would not long be regarded as either ‘helpless, joyless, or
ridiculous,’ and that dreaded stigma, ‘ old maid,’ would soon
cease to be a stigma, and in the lapse of âges possibly become
obsolète.”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
215
44 Oh, as to that, Grâce, I know as many of the real scare-
crows, the idéal 4 old maids’ among pretentious, sickly, fussy,
gossiping, crabbed wives as can be found among single
women from Maine to Georgia. And I hâve known old
maids who hâve sustained to the end the doctrine of4 persé-
vérance of (single) saints,’ inclining me to the opinion of one
of my married friends, who says, that it is because matches
are made in heaven that some of the loveliest women are
exempted from the—curse, she called it. That is going a
little further than you do, Grâce ?”
44 Yes, I only ask that single life should be made a bless-
ing.”
44 And a choice, Grâce ?”
44 Yes, a choice in many positions, the chances being
against a satisfactory marriage.”
44 Oh, my dear child, what is quite satisfactory in life ?
it’s ail a compromise.”
441 hâte compromises, Mrs. Clifford.”
“Just what I heard Archy say, yesterday, and just so
emphatically, not to say bitterly ; and here he cornes, and
you may finish the discussion with him, while I go and look
for Alice.” 44 She,” thought the joyful mother, 44 is sure of
the happiest married life, and Grâce—well—if single, her
life will be a beautiful one, but it’s rather prématuré at three-
and-twenty to set the seal upon it.”
44 Finish the discussion with Archibald Lisle ?” thought
Grâce.
She did not allude to it, or to any thing that bore the
remotest relation to it. It mattered not what trifle 44 light
as air,” she and Lisle now talked of when they were tête-à-
tête, there was a certain thrill and mellowness in the tones
of their voices that, if our readershave ever felt or observed,
they know how much more is expressed than meets the
ear.216
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
Grâce sat looking out at one window, Lisle at the other.
The twilight deepened into night. Nothing more startling
was said tlian, “ The dew is heavy this evening ;” “ There is
a new moon;” or, “Is that plan et Jupiter?” Yet they
sat immoveable, dreading an approaching footstep. An
opened paradise would not hâve tempted either to leave the
other, and still, Archibald felt much like the poor wretch
who knows the péril of Üngering near the draught he has
forsworn. Grâce had the solace of believing that she
periled no one’s happiness but her own.
But Archibald Lisle was not a man to be turned from a
purpose he had deliberately and conscientiously formed, nor
voluntarily to yield himself to the charm of one woman
wThen he had indicated allegiance to another ; and when
Alice opened the door, and instinctively drew back, and
then, to cover her involuntary movement, said, “How
stupidly you are sitting here he replied, “Waiting for
yo u, Alice. The evening is lovely; will you take a row
on the lake ?”
“ The boat is not there, Archy. Mother lent it this after-
noon—she is always lending it.”
“ I know the large boat is out, but Max’s sulky is there.
That carries two.”
“ And we are to go, and leave Grâce ?”
“Miss Herbert just remarked the dew was heavy,
and—”
“ Oh, that won’t do, Archy. My life, in a way, is of some
value too.” Then changing her play to earnest, “ You will
go, dear Grâce,” she said. “ I will bring your shawl.”
And with her fleet foot, she was running to Grace’s room,
when she called out, “ Corne back, Alice. I shall not go
out this evening. And,” she added, in a tone which Archi-
bald thought superfluously frigid—to Alice’s ear it betrayed
pique—“ I beg you not to abridge Mr. Lisle’s pleasure. IMARRIED OR SINGLE?
217
hâve letters to Write, and shail not see you again. So,
good-night to you both.”
Alice whispered emphatically,
44 Oh, Grâce !”
And as she impressed on her friend’s cheek a “ good-
night” blessing, she thought 44 how tiresome of them to keep
up this childish play of 4 hide and go seek.’ ”
Not only fate and reason had seemed to Lisle to govern
his decision in his first evening’s méditation at Mapleton, but
he felt impelled to it by providential suggestions. It was
plain to him, and so would hâve seemed to any observer,
that Alice’s affection might soon be ripened into love. She
was certainly more than he deserved, and he persuaded him-
self that, in addition to ail others, 44 most excellent reasons,”
loyalty to his departed friend demanded that he should
throw himelf at the feet of that friend’s sister, and not sülkily
turn his back upon so rich a destiny.
But, alas ! what weak auxiliaries are reason and reflection
against the absolutism of a long indulged love. From his
first meeting with Grâce Herbert, to the présent moment,
she had been to him like the sun of a polar summer ; and at
Mapleton, unclouded by the obstructions of her town life,
her light had çontinually shone, giving an enchanting lustre
to his world. Still, 44 she is not what she seems,” he inces-
santly repeated to himself, 44 and if she were, she is lost to
me. Once pledged to Alice, duty will strengthen me, and I
shall break these bonds that I now struggle in vain with.”
So for the last three days he had sought an opportunity of
asking what he felt quite too sure of getting. Opportunities
came, and were permitted to pass. Now, out on the lake
he looked up to the polar star, and mentally symbolizing,
thought there could not be a truer guide than the dear little
girl beside him. She sat, too, pensively looking at the stars,
making of them, also, perhaps, types of her heart’s mysteries,
vol, n.	10218
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ Alice,” Lisle said, in a low voice.
Alice started, recalled from a world of lier own fond
dreaming, and as he hesitated,
“ Well, Archy, what is it ?” she asked.
“ Is that star just setting, Mars ?”
“ Mars ! Why, Archy, what are you thinking about ?”
That was just what he, for the last half hour, had been
trying to tell.
“ No, indeed,” continued Alice, “ that is the evening-star,
Venus. I hâve been watching her, and wondering if in ail
the latitudes of our continent she is now the evening-star.
Can you tell me ?”
“No, I am sure I can not; but why do you wish to
know ?”
“ Oh if I could tell you, Archy !” she exclaimed, her man-
ner becoming intensely earnest. “I wish I could,” she
added, and her tears flowing ; “ but I cannot now—I can
not.” Archibald was sorely perplexed; occupied with his
own anxieties (forgive an egotism rare to him), he fancied
she must hâve some, he knew not what reference to him,
and he was relieved when she added, “ Do let us go home,
Archy. We hâve both been verÿ stupid, and now we are
something worse ; but don’t speak to me again, Archy—I
had rather you would not.”
Lisle did not, and he rowed to the shore, feeling (it is a
simile some what must y) like a shrinking, cowardly wretch,
who hears at the dentist’s door, “ He’s not at home.”CHAPTER XVIII.
“ There’s mischief brewing.”
We return to poor Amy. The humblest hâve their own
world of day and night, sunshine and storm. Amy had
gone on quietly with her duties since her encounter with her
father at the mill. Conscious that her anxieties implied dis-
trust of her father, she buried them in her own bosom.
When Goddard, knowing the rectitude of his child, had en-
deavored to exact a promise from her to give up Seymour
forever, she, with the caution which our Puritan people sel-
dom lose sight of, replied, “ I promise. to give him up, sir,
for as long as father lives—or as long as he feels to wish me
to give up Martin.”
“ That will do,” replied her father, with fearful emphasis.
“Providence may open up a way for us,” thought Amy,
“and if He don’t, we must submit.” Neither sage nor
Christian could teach better philosophy than Amy’s.
Seymour bore his trials as he could—he was no philoso-
pher. He no longer met Amy at the accustomed places.
She came not to the “ Sabbath evening singing-school,” the
village lovers’ common meeting-ground ; “ not even,” as
Martin despairingly remarked, “ when they were preparing
the anthem for the cattle-show.” “ When, before this,” he
said, “ was there ever a donation-party at the Reverend Mr.
Smith’s, and Amy not there ?” He “ guessed the minister
missed the comforter she knit for him, and the little boys
their stockings.” “Well, may be she’ll go on the Cochin-220
MARRIRD OR SINGLE?
China mission, affcer ail. Folks think Mr. Blight has inten-
tions—or may be she’ll marry Rufus Bradley ; he’s lost his
third, and the Street thinks he’s looking out again for per-
manent help—looking towards Amy!” This seemed too
intolérable an hypothesis for Martin ; after a sigh or two, he
turned short about. “No,” he said, “she won’t take up
with three ^omen’s leavings, I know. It’s ail Uncle Nat.
He always was a despotf, and now he’s kind o’ deranged, and
what can Amy do ?”
What poor Amy could do, she did. She tapped at Mrs.
Clifford’s door in the early morning, and appeared at her
bedside pale, and woe-begone.
“ What now, Amy ?” said her mistress, starting from
heavy sleep, “ has any thing happened at the mill ?”
“ Oh, ma’am,” she replied, “ one of the children brought
me a note from mother last evening, saying he had left in
the morning more so than usual, and had not corne home—
it was long past supper-time ; I surmised, and went straight
to the mill. There he was ! I hâve had the dreadfullest
night holding him back ; I prayed, and begged, and tried to
reason with him ; but what’s the use when folks hâve no
reason to speak to ? But I gained something ; I staved off
harm till daylight, and when people began to stir, he went
home, and I corne to you for advice, feeling I ought not
to leave with our house full of company.”
“Never mind my company, Amy—Alice and I can do
y our work.” It is one of the felicities, as well as humani-
ties of household life in New England, that ladies can per-
forai domestic service when an exigency occurs ; nor need
the family wait for breakfast, or eat a bad one, because a
cook or waiter falls out of line. “ You must go back to your
father, Amy,” continued Mrs. Clifford, “ and stay by him
for the présent—your mother has no power over him ?”
“No, ma’am, none—not half so much as Benny.”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
221
“ Then go, Amy ; you will be botb firm and gentle with
him. Humor him, and tell him—for thongh Seymour wished
that neither you nor your father should know it, yet in this
exigency it may do him good—it certainly will you, poor
child—tell him, then, that it was Seymour, not I, that was
surety for him.”
“ Was it Martin!” exclaimed Amy, starting from her de-
jected posture, leaning on her elbow, her eyes downcast and
dropping heavy tears ; as she turned, her face shone as if
sunshine passed over it. “ Was it indeed Martin?” she re-
peated. “ Oh, it seems as if that must melt father.”
“ I believe it will. So go straightway to him, good child,
and do not fear or falter.”
Goddard’s dwelling was a mile from the village. Amy
took the shortest way to it, a “ cross-lots” path through a
birch and maple wood, where there was a full choir of the
few birds whose notes last iîito August. The air was filled
with happy insect life. The still leaves were dripping from
a shower that had just passed. The breezy clouds were Ait-
ting over the sky, alternating with the brilliant gleams of
sunshine that penetrated to the stems of the trees with their
dark shadows. Amy, not much given to observe or inter-
pret nature, noticed this pretty play of light and shade.
“ It’s the passing clouds make the sunshine seem so bright,”
she thought ; “ and the silence, darkness, and despair of
last night make these pleasant sounds so musical, and I
guess it’s father’s awful State makes Martin’s nobleness shine
clear down to the bottom of my heart. What a différence !
Father cares for nothing but gain—gain—gain ; and Martin’s
altogether above it.
Insensibly she caught the cheerful spirit of the morning,
and she began building a small castle in the air hovering
near the mill-stream, and was just settling it on a firm foun-222
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
dation when, coming in sight of her father’s homestead, it
toppled down.
Goddard was sitting on Jiis own door-step, his eye fîxed
on the ground, the image of sullen melancholy. Benny,
his pet boy, was lying on the grass at his feet, playing with
a garter snake.
“ Oh, Amy,” cried the child, as Amy drew the gate-latch,
“ corne and see this cunning little snake—I can’t make father
look at it.”
Goddard, startled by Amy’s approach, rose, and feeling
the reptile at his foot, crushed the life out of it, muttering,
“ I hâte them—snakes in the grass.”
“ Oh, father !” cried the child, “ how could you ?”
“ I am sorry,” said the father, patting the boy’s head, the
muscles around his mouth slightly relenting, “I was not
thinking when I did it.”
“But you should think, sir, before you do things, and
then you would not hâve to be sorry afterwards.”
“ Benny is right, father,” said Amy, looking steadfastly
into her father’s eye.
“ Amy,” said Goddard.
“ What was father going to say ?” asked Amy.
Goddard’s voice had softened—it resumed its monotone.
“No matter, no matter, we both know what we’re think-
ing of ; there’s no use wasting breath talking.”
“ Father does not know what I hâve to tell him—’twill
make him feel different.”
“ No, Amy, nothing will—you’ve tried, mother has tried,
and,” he added, his voice faltering, “ Benny has tried.”
“ Tried what, father ?” asked the petted child, who had
slipped into his lap, and put his arm around his neck, cling-
ing to him when every one else recoiled from his dreary
aspect.
“ You can’t do it, child,” he said, “ you can’t ail do it—MARRIED OR SINGLE?
223
it’s a cursed load that’s crushing me, and I and it must go
down together.”
“ Oh, father don’t know ail,” cried Amy.
“ What is it I don’t know ?” he asked, turning fiercely
upon the gentle girl ; u are you keeping company with him
again ; are you married to him ?”
“ Oh, no, sir ; did I not promise, father ?”
“ You did, and you never broke your word yet, child.”
Goddard drew his hat over his brow, his lips quivered. It
seemed a gracious softening, and Amy ventured, with some
circumlocution, to communicate the fact of her lover’s gene-
rosity. Once only he raised his eyes to her, and a gleam of
light shot from them, but he settled back into his habituai
gloom.
“ Why father,” said the boy, clearing his way to the only
idea he could gather from Amy’s communication, “ I think
Cousin Martin is very good—don’t father think he’s good,
sir ?”
u No, no, no—did not I tell you I hated snakes in the
grass ? A thousand dollars surety is he ?—hum ! I should
hâve owned the mill but for his underhand work, and I
should hâve made five hundred dollars out of it year by
year. He has wronged me, he has !” and setting the child
down, he walked off toward his potato-field. There he con-
tinued till late in the afternoon, hoeing steadily, except when
once he came to the bars, beckoned to his boy, took him in
his arms, embraced him vehemently, and without speaking,
left him.
Towards evening he was seen in a neighboring village-
shop buying a considérable quantity of gunpowder. An
acquaintance seeing he had no fowling-piece with him, asked
what he was going to do with it ? “ What is that to you ?”
he gruffiy replied, and walked out of the shop.CHAPTER XIX.
—-—“ Why is your cheek so pale ?
How chance the roses there to fade so fast ?”
A change had corne over Alice from the hour she had
inspected the newspaper over Lisle’s shoulder. This change
was obvious to ail her family, but by none referred to the right
moment, or traced to the true cause. She had been so uni-
formly sparkling with vivacity since Grace’s coming, and she
was habitually so frank and bright in her outer life, that in
respect to the inner, one might hâve made the child’s infer-
ence, who said, on looking up at the starry firmament, u if
the wrong side is so beautiful, what must the right side be ?”
But alas ! now both inner and outer were often clouded. It
became evidently necessary to her to hâve forethought and
predetermination about the little, hourly, gracious hospital-
ities of home that had been spontaneous, and therefore
charming. The roses were fading from her cheek ; she was
moody and pensive, and fell into reveries, and would sigh,
or smile, or blush when startled from them. She would
sometimes try to make an excuse for them ; but poor Alice
was no masker, and as these sighs, from seventeen to
twenty, hâve an accepted interprétation, it was not strange
that Mrs. Clifford’s family—including u the strangers within
her gates” should corne to one conclusion. Max, in boy
fashion, rallied her in season, and much out of season, his
mother thought, when, in the sweet security of happinessMABBIED OR SINGLE?
225
long waited for, she smilingly interposed her shield ; and Lisle,
and he was no self-exaggerating coxcomb, determined to ac-
cept his manifest destiny, and not by further procrastination
make himself more unworthy of a love next best to that
which, to him, was unattainable. As many an ignorant sea-
man is wrecked by disregarding the magnet, and relying on
his own “ observation,” so are men by submitting their in-
stincts to what they deem their sober judgment.
Lisle had periled the happiness of more than one, when
he tore himself away from silent communion with Grâce,
and invited Alice to go to the lake with him, with a purpose
—whose firmness he magnified—of putting the seal and
superscription to his fate. He had been as muck puzzled as
relieved by Alice’s recoil. “ It could not be caprice,” thus
he reasoned, “it was mere girlishness. Well, my affairs
will soon be settled, and these useless agitations over for-
ever—corne modération ! corne tranquillity !” What a level
dull prairie of a future was this to the possible paradise that
had floated before his younger vision !
The old wholesome custom of an early dinner, an hour’s
advance of the “ meridian” of Queen Elizabeth’s time, ob-
tained at Mapleton, and that family rite having been duly
performed, and a thundergust having passed away, leaving
the air fresh and fragrant, Lisle and Alice were awaiting
Grâce to take a long ramble to a certain “ Prospect hill”—
(the Puritan proscription of fancy extends even to names)
that overlooks a long sweep of the Hudson, and hills,
valleys, and lakes, to where the Kaatskills
“ Shut in the exploring eye.”
There was some delay on Grace’s part. Alice did not
take the hindrance placidly ; she put on her mantilla, threw
it off, drew her gloves on and drew them off, and finally
10*226
MAEEIED 0B SINGLE?
snatched a skein of silk from her work-basket to wind by
way of sédative. Archibald extended his hands to bold it.
Alice’s eyes met his—“ What are you smiling at, Archy ?”
she asked in ail simplicity.
“ At you, dear Alice. I never shall understand woman-
kind.”
“ By ‘ womankind,’ you mean Grâce or me, or perhaps
both. But I comprehend you, Archy, and I will tell you
what you are like—like a man who has a book in his hand
with a puzzling problem which he might solve by turning
the leaf, and he stands playing with his thumb and finger,
instead of turning it.”
This was not the fîrst time that Lisle had recoiled from
Alice’s frank, direct way of going to the point. It was ré-
pulsive to his sensitiveness and reserve ; but “ no shrinking
now,” he thought, and he replied, with a courageous
effort, “ I would hâve turned the leaf last evening, Alice,
when we were on the lake, but you would not let me.”
tc Why, Archy, I don’t see what you mean, nor what last
evening had to do with your problem. I was very wretched.
I am sure you know me well enough to know I do not like
concealments. You know I love, like the birds, to spread
my wings in broad sunshine, you know I do, but—” she
hesitated.
“This is rather plain speaking,” thought Lisle. He in-
voluntarily looked searchingly at Alice to see if she could
mean what her words implied to him, and a blush so evi-
dently painful fiushed her face, that he averted his eye, and
both were sensibly relieved by the appearance of Amy, who
was passing through the room.
“ Do, Amy,” said Alice, “ see what keeps Miss Herbert.”
And as Amy, without a word, or the movement of her pale
face, obeyed, Alice exclaimed, “ Poor Amy ! I can not stand
seeing^her so pale, and petrified; it is a wretched out-of-jointMARRIED OR SINGLE?
227
world ; but there cornes Grâce at last ; take care, Archy,
you are letting the silk slip. There,” she added, tossing it, a
hopeless snarl, into her work-box, “ it’s like every thing else,
every thing in life is snarled.”
“ Why, what is the matter, my child ? What has hap-
pened ?” asked her mother, as she entered from the garden,
following Grâce.
“ Oh, enough, Mrs. Clifford,” replied Lisle. “ Alice has
just been spelling Amy’s face, and run her head afoul of the
great question of evil.”
“ And, like most people, under twenty, Miss Alice proba-
bly expects to solve it. Stop where you are, my child ; do
ail you can to avoid evil, and lessen misery, and accept and
endure what you can not cure ; a philosophy I hâve just been
practicing under my plum-trees. Let those theorize about
evil that hâve nothing else to do ; it has been a good puzzle
for idle brains ever since Adam’s time, and is like to last as
long as there are men and women—and curculios. But, my
dear friends, it is quite time for you to be off; you will be
late at home.”
“We hâve been waiting for Grâce, mother. It’s hard wait-
ing even for you, Grâce ; truly, c those serve who wait.’ ”
“ Those of your restless temper, Alice. While you hâve
been impatient, Miss Herbert has been helping me to fill a
basket with our late raspberries.”
While Grâce went for her hat, Alice asked “ why she was
not summoned to the raspberry-picking ?”
Mrs. Clifford well knew why ; she was feeling, too, the
weary task of waiting, and she would not interrupt any
opportunity that seemed to indicate its end. She did not
notice Alice’s question, but said, “ The raspberries are for
old Mrs. Denham—just leave them, in your way, Alice, and
take this lovely bouquet which Grâce has tied up for me, to
the sick girl at Smith’s.”228
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ Ah, mother, you find Grâce is not quite the superflu ous
fine lady you took her for one little month ago.”
“ No, indeed, Alice,” said Mrs. Clifford, who had not only
righted a wrong judgment but had enough candor (the
rarest of the virtues) to confess it. “ I knew that tempéra-
ment and training were against Grâce, and I did not believe
that she was strong enough to master them. I hâve not the
prevailing habit of deferring to my juniors, but in regard to
Grâce, your instincts, Alice, were truer than my judg-
ment.”
“ Dear, generous Mrs. Clifford,” thought Lisle, “ it is plain
that you are as ignorant as the rest of the world of Miss
Herbert’s engagement ; if you were not, such praise would
be keen irony to one who, instead of ‘mastering,’ has
weakly yielded to the worst and weakest of temptations.”
Grâce came from her room equipped for the walk. “ Now,
dear mother,” said Alice, “ your last directions.”
“ After you hâve dropped the bouquet, and the raspber-
ries, you may leave the last Edinburgh at Crofts’. Poor
fellow ! he is on his crutches y et. Time was, Archy, when
it would hâve gone hard to send off a fresh Edinburgh, but
now—”
“ Oh, mother,” interrupted Alice, “ is there any other
errand ?”
“ Nothing, but just to step round (“ mother’s ‘ step
round,’ ” whispered Alice to Archy, “ is a half mile’s circuit’),’
to Goddard’s, and see if ail is going right there. Poor Amy
is so troubled ; and stay, don’t you want to take the * Heart
of Mid Lothian’ to Mrs. Goddard; she says ‘nothing ap~
peases’ her like one of ‘ Mister Scott’s novels.’ And when
you are there, tell Goddard, or leave word for him, that he
may hâve the calf.”
“ Mother ! Clover’s calf?—your Ayrshire ?”
“ Yes, he fancied it, and it may divert his mind.”AT A T?.~R,T~RT> OR SINGLE?
229
“ No doubt any thing he can convert into five dollars will
divert Goddard’s mind. Is there any thing else ?” added
Alice, springing from the door-step, and looking back smil-
ingly at her mother.
“ Yes, one thing, Archy ; be kind enough to drop in and
tell the Clarkes we expect them to tea.. Ask them to bring
the children—they’U amuse poor Daisy. And, oh, just one
thing more ; take up the little whip I bought for Benny.”
It was thus, by diffusing her thoughtful benefactions
noiseless, and nurturing as the dews, that Mrs. Clifford had
become the general providence of Mapleton. There were
no “ poor” there in the technical sense, but wherever hu-
manity is, there is its lot—wounds, into which the healing
balsam of sympathy may be dropped, and diseases of mind
and body that thoughtful wisdom may alleviate.
There had been sorrowful passages in Mrs. Clifford’s life ;
griefs that hâve few parallels ; but no egotistic murmur, or
useless wail escaped her. They were indicated only by her
quick susceptibility to the sorrows of others ; if these did not
admit relief she shut her eyes to them, and genially partook
the happiness of the happy.CHAPTER XX.
—........u And wherefore doth Lysander
Deny your love, so rich within his soûl,
And tender me, forsooth, affection ?”
Our friends were proceeding on their walk through the vil-
lage Street, embowered with sugar-maples and far-stretching
elms, and sweet with the thousand flowers that were exhaling
heavenward in delicious incense the showers that had poured
on them at mid-day when they were met, and ail romantic
associations were rudely broken by a distinguished person,
who, with a full stop facing them, glanced his eye from Alice
to her comparions, plainlv indicating a duty for her to do.
Alice comprehended, and introduced him as “ Major Hart.”
The Major was, in no way, a man to be dodged ; he was full
six feet two inches in height, and with shoulders as broad as
a porter’s, and strength of limb in proportion. His face was
round as the full moon, and as jolly as that to the reveler’s
eye ; his hair was jet black, abundant, and curling, and his
whiskers, and elaborately-tended moustache of the same
character ; in short, as our reader must perceive, if our dé-
linéation does him justice, he bore a pleasing resemblance to
the blocks exhibited in barbers’ shops, the beau ideals of the
gentry of the razor and brush.
After expressing his regret that he had been absent dur-
ing Mr. Lisle’s visit to Mapleton, and his fear that it had
been very dull for him, he patronizingly added, “ If you are
not going too far, Miss Alice, I will accompany you,”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
231
“ Oh, Major Hart, we are going too far—I—I mean, we
are going very far—down to Prophet Crofts’, and round by
Goddard’s, through the glen, and up to Prospect hill.”
“ Bless me ! through the glen—why it’s like penetrating
a chaparral. I don’t shrink from the walk ; after my Mex-
ican life, you know, it’s a mere skirmish ; but I hâve
an engagement with a client at seven, and it’s now four
o’clock.”
The Major stood deliberating, with his ponderous watch
in his hand, and chain and seals depending thereto that must
hâve drawn heavily on a Californian remittance of gold.
Unfortunately the good nature of our people does not allow
them to profit by the short process of snubbing, so thor-
oughly understood in the fatherland ; and Alice said, in a
tone of subdued impatience, “ It is not possible for us to get
home by seven, Major Hart ; not before eight or nine, per-
haps ten.”
“ Ah well, we professional gentlemen must make sacrifices
to the fair sex, Mr. Lisle,” replied the major, not doubting
he was bestowing a boon in infficting his tediousness. “ You
are of the profession, Mr. Lisle?” Lisle bowed. “ Yes, so
I thought ; I hâve seen your name in the law-reports in the
Daily Times—capital reports they are—and in the Boston
Law Reporter, quite a compliment to a tyro in our profession,
Mr. Lisle.”
Lisle bowed again—not at ail as if his head were turned
by the “ compliment and Alice whispered to Grâce, “ The
fly in the ointment ; how shall we get rid of him ?”
Chance came to their aid. The daily coach passed, with
a single passenger, a lady with a fearful amount of baggage,
huge trunks, portmanteaus, and boxes. The coach was pass-
ing rapidly with the impetus it usually receives on approach-
ing a country inn. The lady put out her head, bowed, and
waved her hand.232
MARRIED OR SINGLE ?
“ Was that bow to y ou or to me, Mr. Lisle ?” asked the
Major.
“ Indeed,” replied Lisle, hemming, stammering, and biting
his lips, “ I do not know for which of us the honor was in-
tended.”
“ Well, what do y ou say, ladies ? Ladies, as we of the pro-
fession know, Mr. Lisle, are the best witnesses.” The ladies’
veils were down. They had not observed the stranger, nor
seen the salutation. “ Such a polite and pleasant bow as
that,” resumed the Major, “should not pass like a cwild
goose’s feather, unclaimed of any man,’ ” and chuckling at
what he considered his brilliantly apt quotation, he added,
“ I conclude, on reflection, that must be a lady I met at the
President’s levee in Washington, two years ago. I wonder
what she can hâve corne to Mapleton for ?” The Major’s
further “ reflection” had brought him to some other conclu-
sions, and to a rather satisfactory solution of his wonder ;
and after walking a few paces further, he said he “ was sorry
to excuse himself—it was a pity the ladies should not hâve a
beau a piece—but, on second thought, he felt it would be
wrong to disappoint his client ;” and so he took his leave.
“ Then you hâve bores, dear Alice,” said Grâce, “ even in
these purlieus of Paradise ?”
“ Yes, Grâce, indigenous bores. But who can this blessed
lady be who wrought our deliverance ?”
Archibald went manfully up to the stake, and replied, “ A
very particular friend of mine, Alice, and an acquaintance
of your’s, Miss Herbert—Miss Adeline Clapp.”
“ Your hobgoblin, Archy, as you called her in a letter to
my mother.”
“ Poor Mr. Lisle,” said Grâce ; “ there’s nothing for you
but to drown yourself in Lily pond !”
“ Oh ! she would bring me to life again ; c water won’t
drown, fire won’t burn ;’ no elemental power can save meMARRIED OR SINGLE?
233
from her omniprésent clutch—there’s no way of escape.
Don’t speak of her again—don’t allude to her ; the thought
of her tears my nerves.” There was a real tragedy on Lisle’s
countenance, which seemed very comical to his companions,
but they forbore, except by the exchange of merry glances,
any further allusion to the subject, and he forgot its annoy-
ance. The présent was to him one of those rare and downy
passages in human life that are perfèctly satisfactory. !No
thought wandered back to the past—no restless dread
pointed to the future.
They were soon in the lovely woodland paths beyond the
village, Alice having left them, here and there, to do her
mother’s errands, saying, as she did so, “ Go on, I will over-
take you,” or, “ I will join you at the top, or the bottom of
the hill,” as the case might be. Poor Archibald—these short
passages alone with Grâce, the last perhaps he might enjoy
unfettered, seemed to him, like some moments between wak-
ing and sleeping, to comprise a life-time of thought andfeeling.
“ Now one more détour and I hâve done,” said Alice ;
“ give me the book and the whip, Archy, and I will meet
you at the foot-bridge, below the dam—you remember it ?”
“ Remember it ! Did Alice ever tell you, Miss Herbert,
how she tumbled off that bridge when she was a little thing
—not quite so tall as she is now ?”
“ Yes, she told me, long ago—at school, you know, Alice
—and how you fastened your arms round Mr. Lisle’s neck,
and came near to drowning him ; and do you remember
what else you told me about it ?” added Grâce, with a sig-
nifiant smile.
“ Oh yes, indeed, some foolery about my being in love
with Archy, as silly girls will be, ever so young. But now
we hâve corne to something more substantial, a grown-up
friendship—hâve not we, Archy ?” and she playfully kissed
her hand to him, as she ran off towards the Goddards.234
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ How subtle is self-love !” There was something grating
to Lisle in Alice’s perfect self-possession. He had certainly
nothing warmer than friendship to offer her ; but he expected
something more. Men, the least selfish men, expect more
than they give.
44 It’s very thoughtful of your Mar,” said Goddard’s wife.
“ Benny will enjoy the whip ; but my plate’s upside down.
I always told him he was too worldly-minded—toiling and
toiling o’ days, and reckoning up o’ nights. Says I, 4 God-
dard, it’s the blessing of the Lord,’ says I, 4 that maketh
rich but he did not think much of that kind of riches, and
went on, and on, till it’s corne to where it has—I ain’t super-
stitious, but it looks dark. Ile has not tasted victuals to-
day ; he has not corne in from the potato field. He’ll hoe,
say half an hour, and then stand stock-still as a scare-crow,
leaning on his hoe. He even sent Benny away from him ;
poor Benny, he’s like a weaning child—fret, fret.”
44 But, Mrs. Goddard,” said Alice, cheerily, 44you must
not fret, fret, too. Put away your sewing, and try and
divert your mind with this book my mother has sent you—
the 4 Heart of Mid Lothian ;’ perhaps you hâve not read it ?”
44 La ! Miss Alice, I hâve read it twice over ; but that’s
nothing. I always say Mister Scott’s writings are like light
—you can’t hâve too much of them. I am ready enough to
put aside my sewing ; I feel sewing is aggravating. Thank
your Mar—she knows what will lift a body right out of the
mire.” Alice understood her people well enough to receive
this as a burst of enthusiasm from a Yankee woman, and
she left Dame Goddard, blessing Sir Walter in her inmost
heart for the charm that charms wisely, surely, and uni-
versally.
Alice rejoined her friends at the foot-bridge. They ex-
pressed no uneasiness at her delay. As they were passing
over the bridge, Lisle paused midway to point out the pre-MARRIED OR SINGLE?
235
cise spot in the narrow, but deep stream where Alice fell in.
The sight of the place recalled forgotten incidents. He re-
lated them circumstantially, and turning to appeal to Alice,
he saw that she was leaning on the railing, apparently not
listening. She started, and turned suddenly. There were
tears in her eyes. A shadow came over Archibald’s face,
and his voice changed from its animated tone to one of ten-
der sympathy. He took her hand affectionately ; “ dear
Alice,” he said, “ forgive me. I was not thinking of Arthur
—you were.” Alice’s tears reminded him of the passionate
tenderness with wliich Arthur, when they met him on their
way home, had taken his little drenched and half-drowned
sister into his arms.
Alice was the truest of human beings. Nothing like éva-
sion, or subterfuge, or false show of any sort was tolerable
to her. She could not take the crédit to her sisterly feeling
which Archibald had given to it, and with a tremulous voice
and averted eye, she said, “ I was not thinking of Arthur.
Please,” she added, hurriedly, “ don’t ask me what I was
thinking of.” Lisle did not ask, he only guessed—to blush
before the walk was over, for the unwonted conceit of that
guess.
“ You are a little taller than you were then, Alice,” said
Grâce, smiling, “ but not a whit less a child.” And Grâce
sighed as she made the same inference that Archibald had ;
both were at fault. To what volumes of feeling may a
smile or a sigh be a key ! Alice was startled : “ Hâve I,”
she thought, “ betrayed any thing to Grace’s keen eye ?”
But as she met that eye, there was no “ spéculation” in it—
Grâce was reading the painful secrets of her own heart.
They proceeded, winding along the beaten path that fol-
io wed the mill-stream, and passing through the romantic
“ glen,” a deep ravine sunken between hills (by courtesy,
mountains), where their wild path winded around or sur-236
MAREIED OR SINGLE?
rounded huge rocks covered with mosses, lichens, and fera ;
and then ascending, through dense woodland, and along the
rocky edge of a précipice overhanging harvest-fields, they
came out on “ Prospect hill,” the smooth summit of the
landscape.
There they sat down, and forgot the time, as young peo-
ple will forget it and throw off its trammels, who are bound
together by a strong and developing interest. They were
tired, and rest was sweet. They looked down on a scene
characteristic of New England, and though familiar in our
hill-country, it has always a fresh and soothing charm, from
its repose and affluence of rural prosperity and contentments.
There were white villages, with their ever-attendant acad-
emies, and church spires pointing heavenward from hill-top
and valley ; orchards with their reddening fruit, and pasture-
fields with their herds ; brooks gleaming, like silvery paths,
along rich green meadows ; lakes looking out, like sweet,
blue eyes, from beneath the brows of overhanging hills, and
the Hudson, which in the far distance looked like a ray of
light playing around the base of the Kaatskills. There they
lingered to see the sun set, and to see the moon rise. The
scene was new to Grâce, and the finest chords of her being
responded to it, like an instrument to the touch of a master.
The spirits of both Grâce and Archibald were so raised
above their ordinary level, that material things were glorified
médiums to them ; poetry alone seemed a fit response to the
outward influence. Grâce would recite a favorite passage
from a favorite poet ; Lisle responded with another—the
smallest phrase she uttered had its “ prosperity in his car,”
an undefinable charm. Poor little Alice was restless. She
wandered ofî* and plucked wild flowers, and returned to
deck Grace’s hair with them ; if she spoke, it was of some
fact or circumstance that seemed to Lisle not in harmon}
with the présent scene of enchantment. She withdrew andMARRIED OR SINGLE?
237
sat apart. Suddenly it occurred to Lisle that she had felt
the embarrassment of being a third party, and be started to
his feet with a compunctious pang. “ Ah, you do hear the
nine o’clock bell, Archy,” called out Alice, in a tone not the
least querulous, but whose playfulness might indicate that
he had appeared quite beyond sublunary sounds; “itis
quite time we were on our way home,” she said ; “ but, be-
fore we go, please, Archy, run down into that hard-hack
field and get me a bunch of fringed gentians—they grow
like weeds there—I promised dear little Daisy to bring her
some.” These were words of small import, but they pro-
duced a sudden révolution in Lisle’s mind ; they awoke him
from a delicious dream, and broke like a knell a spell of en-
chantment. He went to do Alice’s bidding, and in that
short walk he felt the unmanliness of suspended resolution,
and deferred duty ; and resolved, at the very first opportu-
nity, to pledge his loyalty, and give into the hands of another
the reins he felt too weak to hold. Alas ! duty is a bungler
at heart’s work !
The flowers were plucked, and they set out on their re-
turn. Varying their route, in order to shorten it, they
entered a long strip of woodland, by a footpath, in which
Alice, who was familiar with it, led the way. Grâce halted
at a quagmire, over which Alice had leaped dry-shod. u Oh,
Alice, I can’t do that feat,” said Grâce, with a dismay, half
tragic, half comic.
“ Ho, do not attempt it,” cried Archibald, with theeager
deference a man instinctively pays to graceful impotence
in a beautiful woman. “ Is there any way of getting round
this ?” he called to Alice, who was going on, quite uncon-
scious she had achieved any thing difficult to be done.
“ Round ! Ho, Archy, of course the path lies in the only
place where it is easy to pass it ; but you corne over, Archy.
Here, just by, is a pile of eut wood, and we can soon make238
MAEEIED OE SINGLE?
a bridge for Grâce to pass over this great gulf !” Before he
was at her side, she had thrown down a bit of wood, saying,
playfully,
“ There be some sports are painful, but tbeir labor
Deligbt in them sets off.”
Lisle took up the quotation, and throwing down billet
after billet, said,
“ Some kinds of business
Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters
Point to rich ends/’
“Thanks!—enough,” cried Grâce. “Now, you, Ferdi-
nand, corne on this side, and take one of my hands, and
you, Miranda, the other, and so I shall make this perilous
passage, and c love’s labor’ shall not be lost.”
Perhaps Archibald was disconcerted by Grâce placing
them so distinctly, by her allusion to their quotation from
Ferdinand, in the relation of lovers, or it might be the
grasp of Grace’s hand ; he blundered, his foot slipped.
Grâce instinctively pulled away her hand, the bit of wood
on which she stood so turned, that one of her feet was
submerged. Archibald, adroitly, and with confused apol-
ogies, lifted her to the dry ground, and both he and Alice
stooped to wûpe the mud from her boot; Alice exclaim-
ing, “ French boots ! and an absurdly little foot, Grâce, for
a country scramble,” and Archibald admiring, as men will,
without any reference to its capabilities, the small beautiful
foot 46 bien chaussé.”
Grâce was glad of time to recover from what she fancied
was a slight sprain of her ankle, which she was eager to con-
ceal, that it might not hinder their walk. She struggled on,
sitting down as often as a fallen tree, or moss-covered stone
afforded her a pretext.M A T?.T?.TTÏÏO OR SINGLE ?
239
44 This is very pleasant,” said Alice, 44 but we must go on ;
it’s nearly ten, and my mother will be anxious.” Grâce was
obliged to confess the cause of her lingering. Archibald at
once proposed to go to the village for a conveyance. 44 The
road could not be far from them, and while he was gone,
Miss Herbert might manage, with Alice’s assistance, to reach
it ; or, still better, he would bring a man from the village to
assist in bearing her to the carriage.” Alice opposed this.
44 It was at least two miles to the village by the road.”
44 She knew a much shorter cross-cut—Archy could not
fînd it.” Archy proposed attending her. 44 Poor Archy,”
said Alice, 44 it is a harder problem than the ferriage of the
goose, the corn, and the fox. But corne, we will compro-
mise—compromises eut ail the gordian knots now-a-days.
You shall corne with me, Archy, to the end of the wood,
and then return to Grâce, while I go to the village.” This
was agreed on, Grâce protesting herself particularly pleased
with the novelty of her position.
Archibald and Alice traversed the wood in silence, and in
a much shorter time than they expected, for they seemed not
to hâve gone far beyond Grace’s hearing, when tbeyreached
the end of it, where the trees appeared as if they had filed off
on each side to encircle a natural vestibule or entrance. They
were startled by the beauty of the place, and paused for a
moment, in a flood of moonlight, to look at the quivering
shadows, and the stems of the white birches glistening in the
light.
Alice was the first to move. When she reached the fence,
where it was so broken that the topmost rail was but a step
from the ground, she put her foot on it, and turning, said,
44 Now is your time, Archy,” with such simplicity, that it
was strange he could misunderstand her.
But Lisle was befogged, and he did misunderstand her ;
and retaining the hand he had taken to aid her, he said,240
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ Corne back—stop one moment—let it be my time. I will
c turn the leaf’ now, and you must solve c my problem’ for
me. Alice, do you ?—I mean, can you—that is, will you
love me ?”
“ Why, Arcby !—why, wbat do you mean ? Why, cer-
tainly, you know I do, and can, and always hâve loved you.”
“Alice, you surely understand me. You know what I
mean ; what I am offering ; what I am asking.”
“ I—I—I am not sure I do,” she replied, half frightened,
and half laughing. “ You seem to be moon-struck, Archy.”
“ I never,” he replied, with a deadly serious smile, “ was
more rational. It shall be the study of my life to make you
happy, and better to deserve the boon I ask.”
“ But, Archy, you are not in earnest ?”
“ Indeed, I am.”
“ Why, Archy, it seems to me so absurd, so strange—a
dream ! It never occurred to me that you had a thought of
me. Why, no, dear Archy, I ain very fond of you, but I
don’t love you in the least—in that way I mean—I never
did, and I never can.” They both stood silent for a mo-
ment, surely a moment of sharper suffering to Lisle than
was his desert. Alice’s arms hung down, and her hands
were tightly clasped. Suddenly, with that inspiration of
which the finer sense of woman is capable, she touched the
truth. Archibald saw the blood flow back in flood-tide to
her blanched cheeks ; her glance pierced his soûl. “ My
dear Archy,” she said, “ you hâve wronged me and wronged
yourself—why, I can not tell, I can not guess. Men tell
true love without speaking, never with such faltering, freez-
ing speech as yours—hesitating—weighing your wcrds—
urged on by some delusion, and held back by your own up-
right soûl ! Oh, I am so sorry, Archy !” Turning away, she
sprang like a fawn over the fence, and disappeared from his
sight. She hurried on, feeling much like one who shouldMARRTTCD OR SINGLE?
241
see the sun rise from the west, or any other imaginable con-
travention of the laws of nature. She hastened forward
through bush, through brake, across fields and fences, till
she came to the foot-path along the outlet of Lily Pond.
By this time clouds had gathered and obscured the moon.
Alice had no fears ; her mind was preoccupied, and she was
familiar with the way. She saw the light glimmering from
the village, and the risks from an irresponsible foreign popula-
tion were y et unknown in Mapleton. She was not therefore
in the least startled by dimly descrying the figure of a man
a few paces ahead of her. He paused for a moment. She
thought he observed her, for after springing over a fence
into an orchard that was parallel to her path, and a small
distance from it, he crouched down ; Alice stopped ; he rose
again, and proceeded so rapidly that she lost sight of him.
His stealthy movement excited her curiosity. Suddenly it
flashed upon her that the man must be Goddard going again
to the mill to carry out his insane purpose. She forgot her-
self, forgot Grâce, and thinking only of averting the wretch-
edness impending over poor Amy and her people, she hast-
ened on. Her way now ran along a bank on a level with
the mill dam and above the road. She saw the man
scramble down the bank, cross the road, and enter the mill.
When she reached the end of the bank, she paused, recoil-
ing from encounterig a wretch wrought up to desperate
deeds. While she hesitated, a candie was lighted within
the mill, and through a window, opposite to her, she clearly
saw Goddard walking up and down, and violently gesticu-
lating.
u He is certainly about to do some horrible thing,”
thought Alice ; “ burn the mill !—perhaps burn himself in it
—poor Amy !” She tlien saw him take a parcel from his
pocket, and pour its contents on the floor. “ Merciful God
help me !” she exclaimed, and brave in the faith of her in-
VOL. Il,	11242
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
stinctive prayer, she slid down the bank, crossed the road,
and entered the mill by an outside stairway, that led up to
the mill-loft. Goddard stood in the middle of the floor
with a candie in his hand, and a pile of gunpowder at his
feet. Alice seized the candie and held it at arm’s length.
Goddard recoiled, awed, and overpowered. It must hâve
been a strange sight, this brawny man with his frenzied eye
and coarse, distorted features, recoiling before a slight girl,
who, for the moment, was a heavenly presence, a resistless
force like that the painter has given to the light figure of
the angel Michael in his triumph over the man of sin.
But it was but a minute’s pause, and Goddard rallied.
“ Who the devil sent you here ?” he said.
“ God sent me,” she answered ; “ God sent me to save
you, Goddard !”
“No, no,” he said, recognizing her, “Amy sent you.
Save me !—you can’t do it, nor Amy, nor ail the powers
above !”
“Oh, don’t talk that way, Goddard—think of y oui* family!”
“ Think of them ! I hâve thought—I hâve done nothing
but think—what’s the use ? We should ail be beggars to-
gether. Hark ! there cornes a wagon ! Clear out—I’il not
be stopped again ! Don’t you see the gunpowder ? Clear
out, you little fool, or by Him that made us, you’ll share
and share with me !”
“ I’il not leave you, Goddard—you dare not murder me.
Oh, corne away, go home to little Benny.”
Goddard’s heart-strings still vibrated to that name. His
head dropped ; “ pool* little boy !” he murmured.
“ Oh, you will go home to him ? he will be so glad.”
“ No, no—there you’re out!” he cried, his fierceness re-
turning ; “ no, he left me to-day howling—I could not coax
him back—he’s dropped off too ! I am alone in this cursed,
black world—disappointed—ruined ; they ail watch me—MAKRIED OR SINGLE?
243
they ail hâte me—my woman, Amy, Benny—and I hâte
him more than they ail hâte me—she may marry him now,
there’ll be none to hinder. They’re coming—away with
you !” He snatched at the candie ; Alice shut her hand over
it, and as she felt the darkness close around them, she
shrieked for help. Goddard laughed ; his laugh sounded
like the bellowing of a brute.
“You can’t stop me !” he said, and thrusting his hand into
his pocket, he pulled out a package of matches, and lighting
a single bunch, and throwing it into a pile of rags and old
cotton garments that were stowed under the roof, “ We’ll
soon hâve light enougli !” he cried, and while he said it, the
tire took, and the fiâmes streamed upward to the roof.
No human power could now save the determined man. A
flood of terror came over Alice ; she sprang to the door
and opened it. How she descended the flight of stairs, she
knew not ; nor in what direction she went. Her instincts
alone were left to her, and she obeyed them. She could
only afterward recall her increasing terror as the light from
the mill increased, and the horrible shock of its explosion,
when she fainted and fell by the road-side. Her next per-
ception, and it seemed to her like the strange vicissitude of
a dream, was of being slowly driven in an open vehicle by
a man who supported her head on his breast, whose arm
sustained her, and whose warm large hand gently inclosed her
little cold one. It still seemed a dream. She was yet but half
conscious, and made no motion till she felt lips on her cheek
and heard a low whisper of “ my beloved Alice !” Her
senses returned at once and perfectly; she lifted up her
head, looked in her friend’s face, and with a joyous sense of
escape, and a far more joyous sense of the dawn of infinité
happiness, she clasped her arms around his neck, and drop-
ping her blushing face on his bosom, cried “ It is you !
thank God !”CHAPTER XXI.
“ Les cartes ont toujours raison.”
In the open-door life of Mapleton it was soon known that
Alice Clifford was at the mill on the evening of the explo-
sion. Consequently half the Street (as Seymour would hâve
worded it) poured into Mrs. Clifford’s the next morning to
get an explanation of what (as Seymour said again) “ the
Street thought mysterious.” Some came by right of intimacy,
and some who substitute social cravings for social rights.
Of the latter class, was Miss Clapp, who was attended by
Major Donalphonso Hart. She inquired for Miss Herbert,
and on being told that she was with her friend, who was
too much indisposed to see company, Miss Clapp asked for
Mr. Lisle. He had gone off trout-fishing with young Mr.
Clifford. “Well, I guess,” said Miss Adeline turning to
her escort, “ we’ll go in, and see the old lady ; ’twill seem
friendly.”
The Major bowed acquiescence, saying, “That just meets
my feelings, Miss Adeline. I don’t approve of ceremony.”
Neither did Mrs. Clifford, except as a necessary wall to
defend her castle from just such intrusions as she was now
compelled to endure. She was never in a more unfit humor
to receive unwelcome visitors. She had been a good deal
shaken by her child’s appalling risks. She had sent poor
Amy off to her mother, and of course had an accumulation
of household affairs to dispose of, and to tell the truth,MARRIED OR SINGLE?
245
gracious and humane as she was, she had a general shrinking
from new people, and a particular antipathy to the genus
Clapp, so that Miss Adeline’s réception was rather chill.
“ I can’t wonder, ma’am,” she said immediately upon her
introduction, “ you appear solemnized ; sudden events are
solemn, as I observed to the Major when we heard the ex-
plosion. We were sitting, the Major and me, talking over
Washington, and saying what an interesting place it is, so
many intelligent members, and such affable foreign ambassa-
dors, and then we went off to speaking of Mrs. Tallis ; at
least I was telling the Major—he had never heard of her
before—how they had located in a lovely spot not far from
Grace’s sister Esterly, and were after ail—you know, ma’am,
probably what I allude to ?”
“ I hâve heard Mrs. Tallis’ naine,” replied Mrs. Clifford,
shrinking from Miss Clapp’s unshrinking style of dilation.
“ Well, how uncommon, that Grâce has not told you about
her, but I suppose she has feelings in that direction. Well,
I was just remarking that the Tallises after ail were living
like two doves—as married couples ought to live—(her eye
appealing to the Major) when bang went the mill. ‘ Mercy,’
says I. * Major, was that a thunder-clap ?’	‘ Oh, no,’ says
he, ‘no Clapp ever produced so unpleasant a sensation.’
A pretty compliment, wasn’t it ma’am?—so quick and
original.”
Mrs. Clifford was relieved from the necessity of replying,
by the entrance of her son Max, who, in his frank, cordial
manner, shook hands with the Major, and on his presenting
hini to “ Miss Adeline,” said, “ Miss Clapp is not the stran-
ger to me, that I am to her. I hâve frequently heard her
spoken of.” The good-natured créature detected no sinister
meaning in the mischievous curl of Max’s lip. She nodded
graciously to him, and when he went on to say, “ I suppose
we owe the honor of Miss Clapp’s visit to Mapleton to her246
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
friend, Mr. Lisle,” she actually blushed. This phenomenon
was followed by another. The Major was disconcerted, and
a-hemed, and “hoped Miss Clapp would not owe ail her
pleasure in Mapleton to Mr. Lisle ?”
“ Oh, no, Major,” rejoined Max, “you know the military
candidate always carries the day in our élections, and who
shall dare contend with him, who can wield both i pen and
sword.’ ” And thrumming on the open piano, he hummed,
“ I’il make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.”
Miss Adeline’s white teeth radiated through her smilmg
lips.
“By the way, Major,” resumed Max, “has any one
apologized to you for Mr. Lisle’s spontaneous appropriation
of your carriage, last evening ?”
The Major said, “It neededno apology ; whatever he had
was at the service of the ladies ; it was ail just right.”
“ Precisely,” Max said. “ Never did horses appear more
opportunely. Poor Miss Herbert had sprained her ankle
coming down Prospect Hill—she has a touch of the heroic,
and she dragged along, upheld by Archy, to the road-side,
where they were met by yonr man passing with your sub-
lime ponies. So Lisle took possession, and drove Miss Her-
bert home. The girls are pretty well done for with the
walk, and the upshot at the mill. Mother,” he added, “I
am sure you are impatient to go to them ?” She was as im-
patient as a bird caught by a rash school-boy. “ Miss Clapp
will excuse you. She does not stand on ceremony.”
“Would to heaven, she did,” thought Mrs. Clifford; but
Miss Clapp was not to be headed.
“ No, to be sure,” she said. “ I make no account of cere-
mony, and I will excuse your ma with pleasure, after I hâve
spoken a few words in private to her. Gentlemen, you canMARRIED OR SINGLE?
247
go out, and walk round. I shall soon make an end,
Major.”
Ther.e was no escape ; the enemy had possession of the
citadel. The gentlemen retreated, and Mrs. Clifford sub-
mitted.
To do Miss Clapp justice, she was slightly abashed. Our
gracious Mrs. Clifford could be, on occasion, as stately as
Minerva. But Miss Adeline felt tkat it was an opportunity
not to be lost, and after a small hésitation, and a few pre-
liminaries, such as may be imagined from Miss Adeline’s
indigenous style of conversation, she repeated to Mrs. Clif-
ford the “ views” and “ daims” reported in a former part
of her history. Mrs. Clifford manifested her impatience by
parenthetical interruptions, ringing the bell to give various
domestic directions, calling out to Max to drive the hens
from Alice’s “ flower-beds,” etc., etc. Adeline Clapp was
as persistent as an east wind, but there was an end, and she
concluded with “ now, ma’am what do you advise ?”
“Nothing, raadam. I do not see why you hâve selected
me as your confidential counselor. My only possible advice
to you would be to forget this childish idea as soon as possi-
ble, and give over the disgusting persécution.”
“ Well, now ma’am, I can’t conceive why you should be so
roiled. I thought of speaking to you, because Mr. Lisle is,
as it were, a son to you, and I hâve always heard you spoken
of, ma’am, as a worthy old lady, and I, being an orphan, I
thought you would take an interest. I ain’t touchy, and I
don’t feel affronted, but I must say you don’t use quite the
right words when you mention 4 childish ideas,’ and 4 persé-
cution.’ I know gentlemen—attorneys at law, too—who
would not hold it 4 persécution’ to hâve $200,000 thrown
into their hands without conditions—for where I give my
heart, ma’am, there I give my fortune.” Miss Clapp felt
that she had taken a proud stand-point, and she went on.248
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ I hâve been constant, and I hâve had more than one strik-
ing temptation to be otherwise.” She cast a glance out
the window at the Major’s stalwart figure, and adcjed, “ I
may hâve still more, but, as my lawyer says, says he, ‘ It is not
an open question, Miss Clapp ; or rather,’ says he, ‘ I had
ought to say, Mrs. Lisle ; for,’ says he, c you are the lawful
wife of Archibald Lisle, Esquire.’ ” The party thus named,
was, at this moment, coming from the entry through the
open parlor door, and heard distinctly (for Miss Adeline had
not “ that excellent thing in woman,” a low voice) the last
clause of her sentence.
“ I will leave Mr. Lisle to adjust his own legal affairs,”
said Mrs. Clifford, curtly, and she withdrew, leaving Adeline
Clapp, plaintiff, literally versus Archibald Lisle, défendant.
Miss Adeline, for the first time in her life, shrank from her
position. Her all-sufficiency quailed. She rose from the
sofa, put down her veil, put it up again, and fidgeted with
her gloves, till Mr. Lisle said, with perfect composure, “ Miss
Adeline, will you be so good as to explain what you hâve
just said ? Perhaps I did not hear aright. You are too
kind to jest on so serions a subject, and I am sure too just
to impute to me an aspiration to the honor of imparting my
name to you.” Archibald’s tone was serious. Miss Clapp
was perplexed, for though she was too obtuse to penetrate
the thinnest veil of irony, she could not quite understand
the smiles in Archibald’s eyes, and certain movements of the
muscles of his face that were apparent, though he covered
his mouth with his handkercliief. But whatever was the
character of his émotion, he w^as firm, and determined, now
that the “ hobgoblin” had assumed a tangible form, to clutch
it.
“Really, Miss Adeline,” he said, “ you must explain. I
must be absolved from pretensions that, in my wildest fancies,
I never conceived. Speak out, Miss Adeline, it is not yourMAEEIED OE SINGLE?
249
style to speak in riddles.” Lisle threw down his hat, folded
his arms, and stood with an air of such absolute tranquillity,
that Miss Clapp took heart of grâce, and believed ail was
coming out right. “ Well, I am sure, Archy, I don’t like
riddles. I am always in favor of plain speaking—tbe Clapps
ail are. We mean to deal honorable, and above-board, and
if I bave kept dark, and seemed mysterious, it has been
owing to peculiar circumsta?ices. You know the fair sex
are expected to hâve their lips buttoned up upon some sub-
jects—to be retiring, as it were—and I hâve always felt as
if it would appear prettier if you were the first to put in the
claim.”
“ Claim,” interrupted Lisle. “ For heaven’s sake, Miss
Adeline, tell me what you mean by ‘ claim,’ and c peculiar
circumstances ?’ ”
Fortunately for Lisle, for his heroic coolness was giving
way, the Major tapped at the door, and without waiting for
an answer, opened it, and perceiving, as he afterward ele-
gantly expressed it, “that his finger was not wanted in that
pie,” he bowed and retreated.
“Ail I ask, Miss Adeline,” said Lisle, resuming his good-
natured tone, “ is that you should unmistify our relations as
briefly as possible, and relieve the Major as well as myself ;
for I perceive that he fears, as he might professionally ex-
press it, that I am taking 4 the shot out of his gun.’ ”
“Well now, Archibald Lisle,” she replied, “that sounds
like old times, familial* and pleasant. Now sit down,
friendly. I wish you had a stick to whittle—it would relieve
your embarrassment.”
Lisle assured lier that he was not in the slightest degree
“ embarrassed,” and the intrepid woman proceeded, after a
slight préfacé of wonder that he had not “ understood her
hints last winter in New York,” when she confessed she had
“ ail but spoken out,” to detail minutely the grounds on
11*250
MAKKIED OR SINGLE?
which she placed the legality and inviolability of a marriage-
contract with Lisle. She did not falter, or look down, or
look aside from beginning to end. Lisle listened without
interruption, as he would hâve listened to the case of a
client. She proceeded to State the startling amount of her
fortune, and the productive mode of its investment. Still he
was silent. She expressed her thorough disapprobation of
the “Women’s Rights” movement, and her cheerful ac-
quiescence in his unshackled control of “ principal and inte-
rest.” And then as she paused, he spoke, and not in an
exultant tone, for Lisle’s chivalry toward woman in the ab-
stract extended to woman in the concrète. “ Your genero-
sity is prodigious, Miss Adeline,” he said, “ but I assure you,
you are completely unfettered, and I hâve no more right than
hope in the case—no lien whatever on your bonds and mort-
gages, and factory stock. Your c at the very least $250,000*
—she had thus specified the gross amount—are destined to
more fortunate hands than mine. The castle in the air, you
hâve so kindly built for me, must dissolve before one small
fact. I was not of âge, my dear Miss Adeline, on the
mémorable night of that mock-wedding, and I a little wonder
your brother c Dates’ should hâve forgotten that as I was
leaving Cambridge, his hospitality anticipated by two days
the date of my majority. And even if the stringent ad-
ministration of the law in Massachusetts held you bound, in
spite of my minority, the fact that Judge Eastly had retired
from the magistracy prior to the ‘broomstick’ marriage would
prevent it being binding—in ail events I should doubt the
security of my happiness, as it would still dépend on the
precedents alleged in my behalf by your legal adviser being
substantiated by a legal tribunal. So I congratulate you, my
dear Miss Clapp, on your escape from these fancied fetters,
and trust that love is forging others, for you more fitting !”
“ Archy ! Archy !” called out Max from the lawn.MARRIED OR SINGLE?
251
Lisle obeyed the summons, and sprang to the door like a
released prisoner.
One should be familial’ with certain tempéraments to
understand the exact State of Miss Adeline Clapp’s feelings
at this juncture. Like the child with his magic lanthorn,
there was one sigh for the picture that had passed, and a
bright look-out for the next to corne. Not one pang of the
“ woman scorned,” for, as she afterwards expressed herself
in a letter to “ Dates,” Archy was fair, and above-board,
and very polite too !
“ Every one was liable to mistakes. Lisle was something
uncommon, but then there were good fish in the sea yet.
Major Donalphonso Hart was taller than Lisle, and of a
handsome build, and if he were not a New York lawyer, he
stood high at the bar in his own county ; and she had offcen
seen his name in the papers during the Mexican war ; and
after ail,” she concluded, “ he seems more like one of our
sort of folks than Archy did !”
Miss Adeline’s was homéopathie practice ; her philosophy
was adapted to her case. “ Similia similibus /”CHAPTER XXII.
What think’st thou tlien of me, and this my state ;
Seem I to thee sufficiently possessed of happiness or not ?”
When Grâce went to her room after the eventful walk to
Prospect Hill, she found a letter from lier sister on her table.
Eleanor wrote as follows :
44 My Dear Grâce :—
“Uncle Walter came home yesterday; for home, my
house is to be to him henceforth, unless y ou steal him from
me. The children were in transports at seeing him. 4 You
shall never go away from us again !’ cried May, sitting on
one of his knees, while Nel stuck, like a burr, to the other.
41 never will, May,’ he replied, 4 if your mother can find a
place in her little box for me ; be it in attic or closet.’ 4 A
place for you, Uncle Walter, I guess she can—and if mother
can’t, I can ; you can double up and sleep with me in my
trundle-bed !’ Ne 1 put in her claim, 4 You can double up
double, Uncle Watty,’ she said, 4 and sleep in my tib.’
Uncle Walter laughed; Nel brushed a tear from his cheek,
saying, 4 How funny you are, Uncle Watty! to laugh and
cry too !’ 4I hâve a room ready for dear Uncle Walter,
girls !’ I said, whereupon May shouted,4 Oh, I know, mother,
I know it’s for Uncle Walter you hâve been fixing the din-
ing-room ; you might hâve told me, mother, when I asked
you what you got the new paper and paint for ; and the new
bedstead and book-case, and easy chair, and every thing.MARRIED OR SINGLE?
253
It was not fair, mother, not to tell me!’ cI only waited,
May, till Uncle Walter consented to the arrangement—let
him corne and see if he can manage in our narrow quarters.’
Uncle Walter, the girls at his heels, followed me. I con-
fess, that as I opened the door, I thought the room looked
pleasant with its pretty new carpet, fresh chintz curtains
and covers, and the little décorations with wdiich I had en-
deavored to set off the few comforts I had been able to stow
in a space fifteen by twelve. After looking round with the
sweetest satisfaction, Uncle Walter seized a vase of fresh
flowers, and on pretence of smelling them, with childlike
guile, hid his tears ; he need not. The soft émotions be-
come his robust, manly face. I remember y our once telling
him that his ever-ready smiles and tears denoted his latent
youth, and became him, as blossoms do a rugged old tree.
His countenance changed, 4 But Eleanor,’ he said, * this was
your dining-room ?’	4 It was, Uncle Walter, and I am get-
ting, in the place of a mere convenience, a living, loving
soûl.’ 41 accept it, my child,’ he said,4 as freely as you give
it, and we won’t quarrel as to which has the best of the bar-
gain, the giver or the receiver. My spirit will hâve rest
with you, and in this 44 fifteen by twelve,” space for its freest
breath. It has been starved, pinched, and chilled long
enough in those big Bond-street room s, where downy beds
did not rest me, nor cushioned chairs give me ease. I hated
the place from the moment Grâce left the house ; and to
return to it—pah ! it would be the wilderness without the
manna !’
44 He has just gone to his room for the night, after talking
much of you, and more of himself than I hâve heard him in
his wThole life before ; and think of it, dear Grâce, he has
explained the rnystery of the letter we found in the green
trunk ! Poor Uncle Walter ! You are burning to hear it ?
Well—when he was a senior in Yale College (then only nine-254
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
teen), he lodged in the house of a widow, who had with her
a relative, sent there from the interior in search of health.
She was a beautiful young créature, educated far above ber
condition, as many of the women of New England are, and
thus destined to marry ill-mated, or live unmarried. Uncle
Walter describes her as of a poetic tempérament, suscepti-
ble, and truthful, 4 a Juliet in years, and passionate and sud-
den love,’ he said, 4 and yet with the shyness of her north-
ern breeding.’ He fell desperately in love with her (and
he is yet a lover !) They went on blindly happy, till a sum-
mons came from her home. While the chaise that was to
convey her away was waiting at the door, impelled by his
generous temper (inconsiderate as you and I well know it
to be), he persuaded her to take the only surety he could
give her that he would be true to her, in spite of his youth,
of their necessary séparation, and of the abyss between the
orphan child of an humble Yankee farmer, and the son of a
pre-Revolution gentleman of New York—that surety was a
marriage before starting. So suiting the imprudent act to
the hasty word, while her escort was waiting, they went, on
pretext of his buying a book for a farewell gift, to a magis-
trate and were married. In lieu of wedding-ring, he put on
her arm the fellow of the bracelet he gave you—do you re
member Mrs. Herbert’s curiosity about it ? They parted
immédiately. Uncle Walter wrote to her regularly, but re-
ceived no replies, till one came saying she was forbidden to
Write, or to receive his letters. He went directly to New
York to confess his marriage to his father, as a preliminary
to claiming his wife. He arrived on the very evening of
Aunt Sarah’s tragedy, and he shrunk from adding a shock
and perplexity to his father’s calamities. His wife, he knew,
was in a comfortable home, and that 4 no evil,’ as he said,
4 half so bad as the torture of his own feelings could resuit
from a few weeks’, or, if need be, months’ delay.’ How char-MARRIED OR SINGLE?
255
acteristic of dear TTncle Walter, Grâce ; he always puts off
the evil day. His constitutional indolence extends to the
decisions of his mind—even impedes the action of his great
heart. In less than three months he received a parcel con-
taining the bracelet, with a scrap eut froin a country news-
paper. He took out his pocket-book, from that a small
paper box, and opening it, said,4 Here, I hâve kept them
ever since.’ He put them into my hand, and turned away.
The printed scrap contained only these words : 4 Died, in
this village, on Sabbath morning, Helen Dale, aged sixteen
years and six months. 44 The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken
away—blessed be the name of the Lord /” ’ The words I hâve
underscored were italicised ; it struck me there was some
intimation in this, and I asked Uncle Walter 4 if he knew
any thing of her friends?’ 4Very little,’ he replied; 4she
sometimes spoke of a sister Judith ; and I remember once
saying to her, 44 You seem to stand much in awe of that
sister of your’s ?” She answered gently, 44 She is much older
than I—a good sister, and a mother as well.” But Eleanor,’
he added, 41 thought nothing of her accessories—we were
treading on flowers ; our présent was our world, and it has
fîlled mine ever since with sweet and bitter memories—it
has been the one thing real, the rest but shadows.’ He con-
tinued for a long time to wTalk up and down the room, his
head bent forward, and his hands behind him, as is his way,
you know, when he is pensive. I think our poor trifling
Aunt Fanny is of the shadows he alluded to, and his dear
and only love, the 4 substance of things hoped for.’
441 gave him your last letter to read. He read it, taking
off his spectacles repeatedly and wiping them, and returned
it to me without any other comment than a heavy sigh. I
understood him. He is as easily seen through as a simple
child. At the moment of your rupture with H. C., his old
hope revived ; your news of the lovers at Mapleton extin-256
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
guished it. I said, c I believe you hâve seen the litlle girl
Archibald is to marry ? How will you like it ?’
u ‘ Like it ? oh, if he likes it, I shall, of course.’ After a
short silence, he exclaimed (one may easily guess the train
of thought that led to the exclamation), ‘ Thank God, she
was saved from Copley ! That was a greater good than one
could look for in this blundering world.’ Then he went on
ejecting his thoughts as they rose, as if unconscious of my
presence. ‘With her instincts, her high tone, her clear-
sightedness, to fancy such a fellow ! I don’t understand it.
A fellow with passion without feeling, mind without cul-
ture ; living here the contemptible life of an old-world idler ;
turning his fortune and position to no one good purpose or
account. And there was Archy. Good Lord ! what a dif-
férence. He is an exponent of our institutions. He had
no vantage-ground to start from, and he has made himself a
man among men ; a gentleman—a Christian gentleman. Oh,
Grâce, Grâce, what a miss you made of it !’
“‘ But, dear uncle,’ I said (I could not help putting in a
word for you, Grâce), ‘Archibald was never Grâce’s
lover.’
“ ‘ He would hâve been, Eleanor, but for that fellow—I
hâve seen the infallible signs ; but there is no help for it now,
and we must learn wisdom from old Di, and not “ cry for
spilt milk.” ’
“Poor Uncle Walter! he looked as if it would be a long
lesson for him to learn. ‘ How do you like,’ I asked him,
‘ the fashion in which Grâce casts her future ?’
“ ‘ I heartily approve it—God speed her ! We are an un-
lucky family in marriages—your exception only proves the
rule. No one can hâve more than one chance in that line ;
I had mine, Grâce her’s : we both threw them away. Grâce,
if she married at ail, would of course marry her inferior ;
and Milton’s Adam spoke for ail his children, when he said :MARRIED OR SINGLE?
257
“ ‘ Àmong ùnequals, what soôiety
Can sort, what harmony or true delight ?” ’
After a dreary pause, while his mind went back to tbe sad
disparity that has marred his life, he brightened, and said,
c Thank God, Grace’s star has not set—such a light as her’s
cannot be hid ; she has lost the best prize in the lottery.
The “ next best” is for her to live a true single life ; an
example much wanted in these times, when the in-
crease of luxury, and the frightful increase of the nec-
essary expense of living, multiplies, at a fearful rate, the
number of men and women who are restricted to single
life.’
“ Dear sister, it is a consolation (excuse the word) that
your example may send a thrill of courage or of résigna-
tion to many hearts. One noble single woman, who devotes
her faculties (her ten or her one talent) to the service of God
and humanity—it matters not whether it be by maintaining
hospitals, reforming prisons, succoring and educating out-
cast children, or by the noiseless healing visit to the obscure
sick, or helpless in mind or body—redeems single life from
waste, and from dread and contempt. Let women, who
hâve not a home with a master, and a nursery in it, make
themselves welcome in many homes, by making them the
brighter and happier for their presence ; let them, if so
gifted, be artists, poets, sculptors, or painters ; let them be
leeches, or nurses ; let their mission be to the ignorant poor,
or the poorer rich ; let them fall on any wise and profitable
occupation, and the prim and ridiculous maiden-aunt will
vanish from our novels, and the Lucretia Mactabs from our
comédies, and, what is better, the single gossip will disappear
from town and village, and the purring 4 old maid’ from gar-
rets and chimney corners. Why, Grâce, dear old Efîie is a
rebuke to whining wives and careless mothers, with her self-258
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
denying, lavish dévotion to children, her gentle, kind doings
of ail sorts to her general family of human kind, and her
cheerful économies of her small means of happiness.
“If I sigh with Uncle Walter over what I must regard
as your great loss, I, with him, too, dwell with satisfaction,
with hope and pride, on the mapping out of your future life
in your last letter. When I look at your high aims, and
survey the great harvest-fields to which you point, ready to
the hand of the single laborer, I am almost willing to admit
that your’s is the highest calling, and to receive St. Paul’s
opinion, as still of authority, that 4 the single are happier if
they so abide.’ And further, that it is merely to guard the
social relations and dependencies that marriage is so fenced
about with honor, respect, and good report.
“ You see I am not a pharisaical wife; with Uncle Walter
I bid you 4 God-speed !’ and y et, and y et, blessed as I hâve
been and am, the thought of being unwived and unmothered
makes me shudder.
“ And this brings me to my dear husband, from whom I
hâve just received letters. His health is perfectly restored,
and he is merely prolonging his stay to complété his exam-
ination of the schools of France and Germany. Having once
consecrated himself to teaching, he says he will not with-
draw from that vocation. He loves young people, and be-
lieves he shall work more to his own mind (and as acceptably
to his Master) with plastic school-boys than with a congréga-
tion. He proposes to give you a high salary as his musical
professor. I hâve answered him that your ambitions are
higher—that you will organize a 4 ragged school,’ or some-
thing of that sort. Was I right ?
“ Uncle Walter proposes to go himself to fetch you home,
and to take May with him ; so with the promise of this dis-
creet escort, farewell till Saturday.
“ Ever yours,
E. E.”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
259
“ P. S. They say a woman always leaves her most import-
ant subject for her postscript. I hâve y et to tell y ou that
Augusta Tallis and her husband came to see me last week.
Never in my life hâve I seen two people so completely
changed. The soûl has corne to Undine, a soûl full of
peace, and love to God and man : the right love, and
the right man. As to Rupert Tallis, he is as different
from the fretted, pétulant, cynical man he was, as is a
ripe day in June from one cloudy, sleety, teasing, stinging,
and out-of-season in March. Augusta’s ‘ countenance betok-
ened her heart in prosperity.’ She is beautiful now, Grâce ;
the sweet serenity of her expression harmonizes with her
délicate features, and a rich bloom has taken place of the
soupçon of rouge that used to soit her cheek. She asked to
go up to my nursery, and there she poured out her heart to
me. I reserve details till we meet, but such a capacity of
love and happiness as she had discovered in Rupert, in her-
self. ‘ No other man had ever been so magnanimous in his
forgiveness—never by word or look did he recal 1 her past
life.’ She dilated on the contentments of their présent
quiet life—c such richness in home ; such interest and beauty
in its simple accidents and incidents.’ Oh, Grâce ! it was a
blessed commentary on her past and présent. She has kissed
the rod, and it has budded.
u After caressing my little girls, who, toucliing the spring
of painful memories, called forth inévitable tears, she looked
up brightly through them, and with a smile full of sunshine,
asked me for ail sorts of patterns of baby-garments, saying,
‘If it please God to fulûl my hope, I shall look to you,
Eleanor, for other models than these—patterns by which to
fashion mind and heart !’
“E. E.”CHAPTER XXIII.
11 For others say thou dost deserve, and I
Believe it better than reportingly.”
The moral atmosphère that surrounded our friends at
Mapleton during the two days that followed the explosion
of the mill, might be fairly typified by what in vulgar par-
lance is termed a “ dry storm when the wind stands due
east, and does “ stand,” not a whiff stirring to relieve the
stagnation, and blow away the heavy, dark, dreary mist that
settles over and spoils every thing. But toward the close
of the second day the “ clearing-up” began. Walter Her-
bert and May arrived, the wind decidedly changed, and “ the
sun came out.”
The fresh guests were cordially welcomed. Mrs. Clifford’s
house retained that elastic quality, still characterising a few
country homes, by virtue of which they expand at the will
of the owner. She harbored none of those small selfish-
nesses permitted to decîining âge ; numbers did not burden
her, noise did not annoy her, exigencies and expédients did
not perplex her. She could give up her own apartment,
turn her only son out of doors, or do any thing a pedantic
house-keeper would not do, for a guest that she or Alice
loved, or Max desired, or that needed the succor of her hos-
pital ity.
The first bustle of arrivai was over, and May’s noisy dé-
monstrations of gladness were subsiding, when ArchibaldMARRIED OR SINGLE?
261
entered, and was met by his honest old friend (his lieart be-
trayed him !) with an air of résignation very different from
the feus de joie that usually marked his meetings with his
favorite. However, he summoned courage for the sympathy
due, as he supposed, to Lisle’s happy prospects, and looking
from him to Mrs. Clifford, said, “ I do not see the young
lady whom I too am corne to fall in love with.”
Mrs. Clifford blushed, as if by proxy for Alice, and replied,
u My daughter would hâve been here to welcome you, but
an accident happened the other evening, which threw her
off the hinges, and she has not been well since. I hâve just
sent for the doctor,” she added in a lowered voice to Grâce ;
“ I don’t understand Alice’s condition—she is not ill, but she
seems fluttered, and flighty, and just now she was quite irri-
tated at Max because he delayed in bringing her a letter
from the mail—of course there was no letter of any spécial
interest to expect ; and when Max brought one, she did not
even break the seal while I was in the room—that dreadful
fright has put her ail out.”
“ She has seemed very cheerful since,” replied Grâce.
“Yes, but,” persisted the anxious mother, “her spirits
hâve alternated with a deep pensiveness. I wish you would
coax her to corne down—perhaps seeing your uncle will give
her a fresh start.” .
Grâce went on her errand. Her uncle’s eye followed her.
“ My child is looking not quite well,” he said, “ pale and
drooping—and you, Archy, hâve you too lost ground since
you came here ? or is it this accident that has knocked you
ail up ?”
Lisle made no reply.
Mrs. Clifford looked toward him, smiling with a sweet
secret satisfaction at her heart, not doubting the cause of
his éclipsé, and said, “ My daughter Alice is our mainspring
—nothing goes quite right with any of us when she is away.”262
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
46 Ah, yes ; I understand !” said Uncle Walter, and clap-
ping Lisle on the shoulder, he hummed,
“ 1 When I came roun’ by Mauchline town,
(for Mauchline, sing Mapleton, Archy),
“ ‘ Not dreading any body,
My heart was caught before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.’
Why, Archy, you are falling back into your old trick of
blushing like a girl. I thought you had outgrown it.”
Archibald murmured something unintelligible, which con-
veyed but one idea—that he had something to blush for.
His eye glanced at Mrs. Clifford. There was a sweet mo-
therly smile on her lips—it was a dagger to poor Lisle.
“ Would to heaven,” he thought, “I had made an opportun-
ity instead of waiting for one, to tell her of my weakness
and presumption, but here I am, wearing false colors before
my best friend.”
u Alice !” said Grâce, as she entered her friend’s room,
“ you do not look as if you needed the doctor !”
Alice did not ; her cheek was like a fresh-blown rose,
and her eyes were moistened with such tears as well up
from nature’s deepest fountain of happiness. She seemed
fluttering with the joy before her, like a bird at the open
door of its cage. She held two letters in her hand, one
open, and written ail over, margins and corners full.
“ A love-letter ?” asked Grâce.
“Yes; but how could you guess it—and from whom?
Guess me that guess, dear Grâce.”
The gravity of Grace’s face was a striking contrast to theMARRIED OR SINGLE?
263
playfulness of Alice, as she replied, “Is it from Mr.
Lisle ?”
“ Oh !” exclaimed Alice, throwing up her hands, “ an
Egyptian darkness has settled upon this house! No, no, it
is not from Mr. Lisle—it has nothing to do with Archy. If
you will let that ring be quiet, that you hâve taken off and
put on twenty times in the last twenty seconds, and listen to
me, I will tell you from whom it cornes.” No listening
could hâve been more satisfactory than Grace’s now became.
“This letter you see, Grâce, is directed to my mother. You
must take it to her for me ; and you must give her some ex-
planations before she reads it, which I will now make to you.
Poor dear mother, she will feel horribly at fîrst, I know, for
she had set her hopes in another direction ; but that was not
fore-ordained, and cannot corne to pass. I hâve my love-
story to tell you, Grâce—it’s very short, just begun indeed.
I shall only give you a few facts, your fàncy shall do the
filling-up. A year ago, last June, I went with some friends
to Rye-beach. The morning after our arrivai there, I saw
this dear little Daisy of ours on the beach, with her nurse,
who told me the child had been brought there with her
mother, both for the benefît of sea air. The mother was ill at
the hôtel. I made friends with the child, and the next morn-
ing she brought me an invitation to her mother’s room. I
found her, a little woman, wasted and very ill, and made
almost perfect through suffering. She had married—oh,
long ago—and married for love, Grâce, a sort of wild Irish-
man, who took her by storm. He was handsome and élo-
quent, she said. She had quite a fortune from an aunt, and
no parents, no protector, only one brother—a boy then. Her
husband turned out a drunkard, and every thing horrid.
He squandered her fortune. In the first three years of her
marriage, she had two boys born. Seven years ago Daisy
was born, the half-alive, suffering child she is now. Well,264
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
dear Grâce, in this fiery furnace of affliction, there was an
angel—Mrs. Maltby’s brother Charles—Charles Fletcher.”
“ The writer of these letters, Alice ?”
“The same—the saine—the same; the best, the most
charming—the noblest—”
“ The 4 facts,’ if you please, my dear child ; I am to weave
the 1 filling-up,’ you know.”
Alice, smiling, reverted to her narrative. 44 Charles
Fletcher was getting on as a lawyer in Boston when his
sister’s affairs came to the worst. He wrote for the papers,
translated for the booksellers, worked day and night, to sup-
ply her necessities, and the wretch, her husband, drained
her of these precious earnings, by threatening to take her
children from her. Her health failed, and her fears lest this
poor little helpless Daisy should fall into her father’s hands
drove her near to insanity. Her brother got possession of
the boys, and sent her, with Daisy, to Rye-beach. The day
after I first saw her she suddenly became much more ill, and
begged me to write to her brother that she felt her death
rapidly approaching. She had no help or comfort on earth
but Charles, she said. I wrote, and he came. She lived a
month ; we took care of her together. Such a brother he
was, Grâce—so cheerful, and yet so sympathizing, with such
sweet heavenly thoughts for her, 4 just the food she needed,’
she said. Her weak, wearied spirit seemed to rise on his
strong wings of faith and hope. 4 The moment Charles
opens the door,’ she said, 4 and I see his face, and hear his
voice, it seems as if sunshine and sweet fresh air came into
my room.’ Oh, Grâce, such a brother as he was !”
“And such a lover!” said Grâce, imitating Alice’s fervent
tone.
44 No, no, Grâce. The mill had to explode before we came
to that part.”
44 Ah ! I comprehend ; but go on with your 4 facts.’ ”MARRIED OR SINGLE?
265
“ Mrs. Maltby took a strange fancy to me, and would not
let me out of her sight, except for the refreshment of a drive
or walk.”
“Charles Fletcher had a simultaneous necessity of the
same refreshment ?”
“ Yes, Grâce, that is one of my facts. A few days before
Mrs. Maltby died, she was thrown into spasms by a letter
from her husband threatening to take possession of the chil-
dren. In this extremity, Charles resolved to take the boys
beyond his reach, to California, and establish them in San
Francisco. He had previously received great offers from
friends there, which he had rejected, preferring Boston, with
the slow gains of his profession, to running after sudden for-
tune. But what was to be done with Daisy ? I offered—I
could not help it, you know—to take her home with me.
Her father did not know of my existence, and would hâve
no due to her. I wrote to my mother to ask her co-opera-
tion; a mere outline—no 4 filling-up,’ Grâce. My mother
needs none ; want is the key to her supplies. We hâve
scrupulously kept our secret. One week after his sister’s
death, Charles Fletcher sailed for California.”
“ And you had no explanation before parting ?”
“ Not in words. It would hâve been neither prudent nor
honorable in Mr. Fletcher, his future being uncertain, and a
provision for the children his first duty.”
“ But there was a c filling-up’ Alice ? looks, tones, as ex-
pressive as words, and as binding to y our hearts ?”
“We could not help that, Grâce ; nor could we help
speaking when we met.”
“ Oh, no ; your romantic meeting was a fact that deserved
the ‘ filling-up’ you gave it. But how quietly we ail received
the idea that you had been picked up and brought home by
a passing traveler !”
“ Luckily for us, the parlor was dark and empty when we
VOL. II.	12266
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
came in, and Mr. Fletcher just laid me on the sofa, and made
his escape. To tell the truth, Grâce, I was more delighted
than surprised to see him. His expected arrivai with com-
mercial despatches was mentioned in a Californian letter,
which my eye strangely fell upon the other evening, when I
was looking over Archy’s shoulder at the gossip from New-
port—the time that I rushed out, and Archy foliowed me—
do you remember, Grâce ?”
Grâce nodded afîirmatively. She well remembered.
“I was in a horrid fright,” resumed Alice; “I knew
Maltby had threatened a deadly revenge, and that he was in
New York to await, as I supposed, Mr. Fletcher’s arrivai;
and feeling that Charles was near at hand, I had a most
vivid imagination of the worst that could happen. But the
fellow took advice, and instead of presenting a revolver, he
met Charles at his landing with a writ for illégal détention
of the children. Charles gave security for his appearance,
and rushed up here. He had but one night to stay. He
was delayed on his way, and providentially arrived late. We
exchanged some ten words, Grâce—-just as good as ten
volumes. Perhaps you think I was too soon won, but you
will not when you know him. Think what a good brother
he has been ; and good brothers always make good hus-
bands.”
Grâce was the last person in the world to give a faint
sympathy. “It does not matter, dear Alice,” she said,
“ whether your heart has been taken by storm or siégé, so
it has fallen into the right hands. The Eastern conjurer,
wlio makes a plant spring from the ground, bud, blossom,
and bear fruit while you are looking at it, shadows forth
such a love as your’s. But what a queer world it is ! I am
ready to rub my eyes, and ask if I am awake ?”
“Well!” said Alice, pausing, and looking steadfastly in
Grace’s eyes, and smiling very archly, M you are not wideMARRIED OR SINGLE?
267
awake yet, Grâce—but you soon will be ; it’s dawn now,
daylight is coming.”
“ Give me the letter for your mother,” said Grâce, her
heart smiling at Alice’s prognostic, if she controlled her lips ;
“Hong to hâve my task over, Alice; I dread her disap-
pointment.”
“ Oh, so do I ; but I did not suspect you knew her delu-
sion. Dear mother ! she is a poor dissembler. Who would
hâve taken me for the most discerning person of this supe-
rior family ? I am the only one that has not been stone-
blind. Go, dear Grâce ; my mother will be perfectly
reconciled as soon as she knows Charles—I am sure of
that.” Alice spoke from a natural, and, happily, a well-
founded faith in her lover. Grace’s face was turned from
her, or she wrould hâve seen the intimation in it that no man
on earth could fi 11 up the chasm made by the loss of Archi-
bald. “ Besides,” continued Alice, “ my mother must hâve
been disappointed at last—Mr. Archy has not profited by his
excellent opportunity of falling in love with me, and never
would.”
Grâce stood with the door half open, awaiting Alice’s
words ; she reclosed it. “ You are right, dear Alice,” she
said, “ and your frankness shames me. I will not hâve any
further concealment from you. When Mr. Lisle came back
to me in the wood, he told me what passed before you parted
from him ; he was forced to it, I believe, by a sense of the
wrong he had done you, and the greater wrong he had done
to his own truth.”
“ Oh, he told you more than that ! You need not confess,
Grâce—your burning cheek tells his whole story, and I can
tell it in two lines :
“ * My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of you.’ ”268
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ You are a diviner, Alice.”
“ Oh no, Grâce, we hâve been playing at child’s play—
French blindfold, and my wand alone touched the right per-
son. Why, Grâce, I hâve seen from the first day we were
together in New York that he was in love with you ; I saw
it in the glance of his eye, I heard it, Grâce, in the tone of
his voice. You see I know the signs, my dear. He was
one man when you were présent, sensitive to his fingers’
ends ; and another when you were absent, careless, listless,
quite uninspired.”
“ You are not inspired, Alice,” Grâce replied, with rather
a sad smile. “ There is a mixture of human error with your
wonderful clairvoyance. Mr. Lisle frankly confessed to me
that, from the moment my uncle told him of my engagement
to Copley, he had struggled for the mastery of the passion
that he acknowledged had mastered him; and from that
moment—he did not say so—but I saw it, plainly, I had
sunken fathoms deep in his opinion.”
“ To rise like a goddess from the waves, Grâce, as soon as
he knew you were free, and how nobly you had freed your-
self.”
“ He does not know it, Alice.”
u Does not know it !—you did not tell him ? I shall. I
am no longer bound by my old, foolish promise. I will go
this minute and tell him, and heap coals of fîre on his
head. Pli teaze him a little first, though—he deserves it
from me. I will copy his moon-struck manner, and quote
his own words in his tragic tone: ‘Do you—can you—will
you love me.’ Oh, it was shabby of him to offer me an
empty casket, but PU forgive him, and send him off to you.”
“No, no, dear Alice, Pli not hâve him challenged; he
must find out the truth before long, and then, if—perhaps—”
“ No ifs and perhapses, dear Grâce. You must hâve
your own way if you must ; it will ail soon be settled like aMAJRRIED OR SINGLE?
269
book, and then,” she added, her sweet face radiant, “ what
is to become of your fine-spun plans for your single life ? It
would hâve been great ; as Max said of Sylvia May, i you
would hâve made a splendid old maid,’ but one can’t shirk
one’s destiny, and I knew you were not to make a partie
carrée with that glorious trio of Scott’s heroines, Rebecca,
Minna, and Flora Mac Ivor. No, you and I must sink down
into the inglorious herd of married women.”
“Now go, you do not look quite so much as you did like
the 4 awful messenger that drew Priâmes curtain at the dead
of night; ’ go to my dear mother, and ail good angels help
you—and me. And oh, Heaven grant that she may never
know what a tug poor Archy has had to do the duty she
expected of him.”
That 44 it never rains, but it pours,” is an adage destined
to be exemplified that evening at Mapleton. Grâce returned
to her uncle from her long interview with Mrs. Clifford, and
told him his hostess begged to be excused till the morning.
44 Upon my word,” he said, looking into Grace’s eyes, where
he saw the marks of recent tears, and yet, in her whole ex-
pression, the serenity of the securest happiness; “Upon my
word, this is an odd place, this Mapleton—breezy, showers,
but no clouds. One wonders where the rain cornes from.”
“ You will not be left to wonder long, dear uncle. Secresy
has no affinity with Mapleton. A guest is expected to-mor-
row, and at his arrivai, whatever may now seem mysterious
will be explained to you.”
“ I am glad of it. Life is ail rather a puzzle to me, and I
am not fond of any superfluous mysteries, nor am I fond of
being left alone, as you know, my child. May has run off
to that weird little Daisy, as you call her, and poor Archy,
with ail the marks of love upon him, is musing by the lake-
side. Ah, here cornes that pleasant lad, Max.”270
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“Thank you, sir,” said Max, “ and I hope I hâve corne to
some pleasant purpose, for I hâve brought the last Boston
paper for you.” “ Hallo, Archy,” he called out to Lisle,
who was coming in from his lake-side musing, “here’s a
note for you. I’il ring for candies. I would give five dollars
to see the inside of that note, Archy.” Candies were
brought, but Lisle seemed not to partake Max’s curiosity,
for after recognizing the hand-writing, he remained as if
indifferent to open the note or not. Mr. Herbert eagerly
unfolded the paper, and at the first paragraph that struck
his eye, he exclaimed, “ Lord bless us !” and reading it
through, he finished with dropping the paper, clapping his
hands, and crying “ excellent, perfectly satisfactory !” and
he prolonged every syllable of the last word, so as to em-
phasize the full contentment of his heart. “Not that we,
any of us, care a straw,” he added, resuming the paper, “ but
it’s so fitting. Hear, hear friends. 4 Newport Items :—The
fashionables assembled at this world-renowned watering
place, hâve been startled by the announcement of Mr. H.
q*****îs (the millionaire) engagement to the beautiful,
rich, and accomplished Miss C****** (“six stars, Grâce,
after the C”). The contracting parties (with the bride
elect’s intellectual mother) hâve left for New York, and are
to be married privately in Grâce Church.”
Walter Herbert looked where he always first looked for
sympathy, to Grâce, and exclaimed, “ Why, my child, you
do not even look surprised.”
“ I am not,” she answered coolly. “ I had a letter from
my step-mother, this morning, containing the news.”
44 You had ! Why did you not tell me ?”
“ For the best reason in the world, I forgot it.”
“ That’s odd. The letter must be rich. Let me see it,
Grâce.”
She drew it from her pocket. At the first indication ofMAERIED OR SINGLE?
211
Copley’s name, Lisle’s eye instinctively turned to Grace’s
face, and fell to perusing it as one reads a document for life
or death, but he read nothing there : not a muscle moved ;
there was no change from red to pale, or pale to red, till
extending the letter toward her uncle, Lisle took it to
pass it. Their eyes met. There is a power in the eye to
transmit the spirit swifter than the telegraph, more potent
than the spoken or the written word. When the cry of
“ land ! land !” assured Columbus of his fulfilled hope, we
venture to say there was not a more effulgent joy in his face
than in Archibald Lisle’s when Grace’s eye met his.
Walter Herbert read his sister-in-law’s letter to himself.
We transcribe it for the benefit of our readers.
“ My Ever Dear Grâce :—
“ I hâve often remarked to you that the affairs of this life
never turn out according to our short-sighted expectations.
L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose.	TVho could hâve ex-
pected that Mrs. Tallis’ rash interférence with your pros-
pects would hâve led to Anne's gain. But so it is. (Then
foliowed a deal of twaddle ; k she trusted that Anne would
not be dazzled with her brilliant future, and that she herself
should “ continue humble, and occupied with her duties,” *
etc., etc.) The letter concluded, “As I hâve often re-
marked, every thing is mixed in this world, and truly, my
dear Grâce, my happiness is alloyed by the thought of your
disappointment.
“ I felt it right for obvions reasons early to apprize you
of Anne’s engagement, as you might hear it at a time when
it would not be pleasant to manifest émotion ; now, fore-
warned, you will be fore-armed.
“ I feel it also my duty as your only surviving mother,
to express the hope that you will learn wisdom from this212
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
trial, and put a rein (while you are still young) on your
too impulsive tempérament. As I often say, a wrong step
may (as in the présent case) be irretrievable. My kind love
to our dear Eleanor. Mr. Copley and Anne would add
theirs, but they are at the Yacht-race. It is a true solace
to a mother’s heart to find them so harmonious in their
tastes.
“ Think with what advantages she will make the tour of
Europe. She is wild with joy. But pardon me, dear Grâce
I would not hurt your feelings. I always say there is noth-
ing so sacred as feelings.
“ Ever affectionately, and sincerely your attached,
“Marianna Herbert.”
“P. S.—I hope to see brother Walter in town, and to
make satisfactory arrangements about shutting up my house.
I regret the inconvenience to him, but of course I do not
feel it consistent with my duty to Anne, to let her go with-
out me.”
“ Bon voyage to them ail,” exclaimed Uncle Walter,
chuckling, as he threw aside the letter ; but after a moment
his countenance assumed a graver aspect. He was not a
man to look upon a sin, or even a folly with any thing so
harsh as scorn, or so comfortable as complacency. “ Misér-
able créatures,” he said, “ of ritual religion, ritual moralities,
and human policies. We are well quit of them, dear Grâce,
Ah, friends ! many a relation is better in the ending, than in
the beginning.”
“ Much, much better,” said Grâce, with an emphasis that
startled Archibald from a reverie, in which hope beamed
from a mass of bitter feelings, self-reproaches for past blind-
ness, false judgments, fluctuating purposes, and compromiseswA'R.HT'RT) OE SINGLE?
273
with the affections—the affections of heavemy birth, and
destiny, too sacred to be approacbed by tbat genius of
universal tinkering—compromise.
12*CHAPTER XXIV.
“ Marry ! that marry is the very thème
I came to talk of—”
It was not till after a night of méditation and prayer, and
its blessed sequence, sweet sleep, that Mrs. Clifford was
able to appear with serenity before her family. It was hard
to surrender hopes so long cherished, and so nearly fulfilled ;
and very difficult to reâdjust the glass of faith to this new
point of view ; but she did it, and accepted this trial, as she
had others far more grievous, with the sweet and unreserved
acquiescence of a submissive child.
Charles Fletcher came to Mapleton, and (we borrow Max’s
expressive slang phrase) “ he pitched into ail their hearts.”
He had not been an inmate of her family twenty-four hours,
when Mrs. Clifford confided to Walter Herbert that she
could not hâve believed she should “ so soon hâve corne to
love him.” Ho one else, knowing the wealth of her affection,
and how conjoined were faith and love in her life, would
hâve doubted it. a It’s a good sign,” she said, as if to just-
ify her sudden liking, “that the young man has returned
from California unsmitten with the contagious fever that
rages there—55
“ There /” interrupted Uncle Walter; “bless your soûl,
madam, the infection has spread over the whole country, and
through every class, except children at both ends of life—
simple babes, and elderly sages, such as you and I, who, in
simplicity, hâve become like little children, and are so nearMARRIED OR SINGLE?
275
the end that we can see as well as believe, that it will not
profit us to gain the whole world and lose our own soûls.”
“ Ah, Mr. Herbert,” replied Mrs. Clifford, “ Sound health
of mind as well as of body, is the best security, at ail âges,
and in ail circumstances, against contagion ; and sound-
ness ail this young man’s conduct indicates. He went to
California for an excellent object, and having attained that,
he returns eagerly to his profession in Boston—to slow
gains, and frugal progressive life.”
“You need no studied reasons, Mrs. Clifford, to justify
your liking, or dear little Alice’s sudden love. He is frank
and manly—a man more of deeds than words—and cheerfül,
a quality we old people love as we love the light ; charming
manners, too—a rare grâce in these northern latitudes ; how
should he not enter your heart, which in one respect is unlike
the kingdom of heaven, for ‘ broad is the way, and many
there be that go in thereat.5 ”
“ I don’t know how you hâve done it, young man,” he
said to Charles Fletcher, an hour afterward, “ but your ar-
rivai has had a prodigious effect on us ail. We were like so
many out-of-tune instruments before you came ; now we are
in harmony, and play the best of music.”
“What do you mean, Uncle Walter?” asked May, who
stood beside him on the sofa, extremely puzzled—“ that you
are an instrument to play on, like Grace’s piano ?”
“No, child ; I am nothing but an old bagpipe—fit only
for weddings and such merry-makings.”
“ Weddings !” May caught the word with girlish instinct.
‘ Oh I like merry music—I’il hâve you, dear old Bagpipe,
and play on you at Miss Alice’s wedding, and Grace’s wed-
ding ! Won’t that be fun ?”
“ Grace’s wedding !” echoed Uncle Walter ; “ Grnce will
never hâve a wedding—so she says, May.” Uncle Walter’s
expressive whistle, sotto voce, finished 'his sentence.276
MARRIÏÏD OR SINGLE?
44 Oh, I don’t believe that, Uncle Walter. Grâce,” she
called out to Miss Herbert, who was intent on a passage in
a book to which Lisle, standing beside her, had called her
attention, “ Grâce, don’t you mean to be married, and hâve
a wedding?” (“ Ces enfants terribles!”) If Grâce heard, she
had no need to reply, for, luckily, May’s attention was di-
verted by Max’s entrance. He rushed in, his high color
heightened, and his eye sparkling. The coming of the joy-
ous lad was usually like letting in a fresh mountain breeze.
44 What now, Max ?” asked his mother.
44 Oh ‘there’s a good time coming!’” he sang, 44corne to
Mapleton. I expect to see ail our 4 rocks of Gibraltar,’ Miss
Looly, Miss Sarah, and ail, with wedding-rings on yet—it’s
getting epidemical.”
44 What do you mean, Max, if you mean any thing ?”
“I do ; there is more than one swallow, or one pair of
swallows, corne to make our coupling summer in Mapleton
—4 Single-side’ no longer. Martin Seymour stopped me
under the old elm, and was giving me the programme of his
affairs, when the Major drove up with his splendid greys—
and Miss Adeline, of course.”
44Let those vulgar people pass on, Max. What of Sey-
mour ?”
44 Mother ! the Major and the Clapp-trap are such good
game—but they’ll keep ; and since you will hâve it so, I’il
first tell you about Seymour, and tell you in his excellent
Yankee vernacular. He says that 4 the saw, and one or two
other trinîcets were saved when the mill blew up, and that
he calculâtes to rebuild soon, and build better than ever ;
and except that it was awful to hâve IJncle Nat blowed into
eternity, it was a providence, for now nobody disputed that
he was deranged, and that was a lasting comfort, both on
account of here and hereafter, to Amy and her folks ; and
it was healing to see how the Street pitied him. And AmyMARRIED OR SINGLE?
211
had agreed, if they were both spared, to be married next
Thanksgiving. She did not feel as if it would be consistent
to be married sooner. So, dear mother, there’s ail of your
spécial protégés, Martin and Amy. Now for the Mexican
hero ! He beckoned to me as he passed, and pointed to the
inn. I followed. He conducted me to Miss Clapp’s parlor,
and after a little hésitation, and precious little too, he said,
with a salute, à la militaire (’pon my honor, mother), to the
ever-blooming Adeline, that he had had the happiness to
obtain Miss Adeline’s affections, and the promise of her
hand ; whereupon I bowed to the bride-elect, or elector, and
complimented her in the novel phrase, ‘ Veni, vidi, vici !’
Miss Clapp informed me that her brother, Orondates, is ex-
pected this evening, and they proceed to-morrow to New
York, there to be married, and to embark for the tour of
Europe, Greece—think of Adeline reconnoitering the Par-
thenon !—Egypt, and the Holy Land ! I suppose this tour
was the Major’s bait. Was it a lover of your’s, Alice, or of
one of your friends, who, when he was rejected, whined
out, ‘Would the tower of Europe make any différence?’
By the way, Archy,” continued Max, without waiting for an
answer, “ Miss Adeline inquired if I delivered a note she
gave me for you some days ago. I did, and told her so.
She says it’s ail-important to the Major, and to her, that it
should be answered before her marriage, and she begged
me to be sure to remind you.”
Archibald started at the sound of his own name. Neither
he nor Grâce had heard one word of Max’s previous rattie,
they being bent over the honeysuckle at the door-side, and
apparently absorbed in a botanical investigation. “ A note !”
he said, as if mustering his recollections ; “oh ! I remem-
ber—I beg Miss Adeline’s pardon !” and thrusting his hand
into the depths of his pocket, he brought up an unsealed note.
“ Read it aloud, Lisle,” said Uncle Walter ; “ we ail know278
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
about your entanglement witb that native ; let’s hâve the
last of her.”
The last of her ! No, she and our ultra fashionable
friends, whose nuptials were solemnized in Grâce Church,
will be returned upon us by some foreign satirist (Thackeray,
if such méat were fit for the gods), as “ General Jeremiah
E. Bangs and lady,” or Mrs. Horace Copley—as the case
may be—a fine lady “from the States,” who shall remark
at a Baden bail that some future “ Miss Newcome’s toilette
would do at a Fifth Avenue party,” and these exceptional
people will be received, by the European reading public, as
illustrating specimens of the social results of démocratie
institutions.
Lisle did read the note aloud. It simply contained a re-
quest that he would furnish Miss Clapp with a copy of the
certificate of the date of his birth, “ to make the Major and
me feel secure,” wrote Miss Adeline.
“ Secure !” repeated Lisle, laughing ; “ providentially, as
Miss Adeline would interpret it, I can do so without delay.
In the pocket of my surtout which I had on when I received
your télégraphie despatch, Alice, there is a letter from poor
old Dr. Bay, in which is enclosed said certificate. I per-
ceived the drift of that, but hâve never read the letter, nor
thought of it since the hour I received it.”
As Lisle went into the entry for the letter, Uncle Walter
said, with a significant smile—Uncle Walter’s lips had hardly
been out of a smile for the last few hours—“Our friend Lisle
is losing his mind.”
“ Oh, no, sir,” said Alice, springing up, and whispering in
his ear “ he has just found it !”
As she bent over him, her warm dimpled cheek was close
to his lips. He kissed it, and looking at her lover with
mock gravity said, “ By Jove ! I could not help it !”
Lisle returned with the letter open in his hand. AfterMARRIED OR SINGLE?
279
glancing his eye at the contents, his countenance changed,
and asking Max to put the certificate into Miss Clapp’s pos-
session, he hurried off to his apartment. May betrayed the
curiosity that others suppressed. “Uncle Walter,” she
asked, in a low voice, “ did you see how frightened Mr. Lisle
looked ?”
“ Frightened ? no, May.”
“ I don’t mean frightened, but so different. Think Mr.
Lisle had bad news in that letter ?”
“ Pshaw î No, May ; it was an old letter from a dead man.”
uMercy, Uncle Walter! I should think he would be
frightened. Do go and ask him what is in the letter—do !”
“ I will, May ; I am one of the ‘ obedient parents’ who
hâve succeeded to the obedient children of former days.”
So, glad of a pretext, he went.
Uncle Walter was watching the drifting of every straw
in Lisle’s path. He tapped at Archibald’s door, as if in pass-
ing to his own, and called out, “ What tidings, Lisle, from
the dead to the living ?”
Archibald opened the door with the open letter still in
his hand. His face shone with a new discovered happiness.
“ Corne in, my dear friend,” he said, “ and read this letter—
it concerns you.”
“ Concerns me !” exclaimed Mr. Herbert, extremely puz-
zled, and he hurried out his spectacles, and sat down to the
reading by the deepening twilight.
“ You may skip the first page,” suggested Lisle ; “that is
merely an outpouring of the good old doctor’s affection—he
loved me from the beginning.”
“ And hâve not I loved you ‘ from the beginning,’ you
scamp? If there were any truth in instinct you should
belong to me, for I hâve loved you as doting fathers love
their ‘ dear and only sons ;’ but to the doctor’s letter.”
(We look over Mr. Herbert’s shoulder).280
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
“ Esteemed Young Friend :—
(Thus began the doctor’s epistle.)
“ Feeling the pillars of my earthly tabernacle decayîng,
I am setting my house in order, and among my relative
duties is that of transcribing the records I hâve made of the
birth of those whom it has been my happiness to introduce
upon this sublunary scene. Accordingly, you will fînd here-
in the accompanying certificate under my own hand and
seal. And truly it gives me satisfaction to say (I am no
flatterer, Mr. Archibald) that my instrumentalities hâve
been seldom so rewarded as in your case ; and it is borne in
upon my mind to attest my approbation of your life. Its
safe commencement, I may claim to be due (always under
Providence) to the skill, acquired during my studies with
the celebrated surgeon of the ever-lamented Princess Char-
lotte.
“ Three cheers for Dr. Bay !” exclaimed Uncle Walter.
“My satisfaction has been great in seeing you ripen into
a God-fearing and man-loving man—the latter being abund-
antly proved by your affectionate and dutiful conduct to
your late excellent father, your maintenance of his relict,
and your unfailing respect and kindness to her, which, she
not being a bird of your feather, was not so easy as for
water to run down hill ; and further by your éducation of
her children, not required by the opinion of society, they
being but half blood. And further, was noted by me, your
exemplary care in life and death of the interesting orphan
Letty, besides numerous benefactions to ‘ Uncle Phil’ and
others, of which my hands hâve been the trusted and secret
medium. I hâve taken pride, too, in your uncommon suc-
cess in your profession, which I foresaw ; your legal intellectMARRIED OR SINGLE?
281
being clearly indicated to rae from the first-, by a remarkable
cérébral formation ; and something better than pride I hâve
felt (and often expressed in private duty) that you hâve
maintained your integrity, and neither tarried long at the
wine-cup, or fallen into 4 the narrow pits’ abounding in a
city thick-set with temptations and flooded with vice—
44 Doctor Bay, I shake hands with you !” exclaimed
Walter Herbert. 44 Why, Lisle, he was as loving a fool as
I am ; but what is this ?”
44 I am now about to impart what I term a professional
secret, obtained in my medical walk, and therefore not to
be disclosed but for providential reasons. I hear that you
are in close friendship wdth Walter Herbert, Esq., of New
York city, and deem that my secret may be a pleasure or a
beacon to you.
“Yourmother had a sister fifteen years younger than
herself, the prettiest specimen I ever met. I attended her
through a galloping consumption that rapidly developed
after a visit to the sea-shore. She died a fortnight after
your birth. I had brought her in my arms, and put her in
your mother’s easy-chair at her bedside. She had seemed
quite comfortable that morning ; ail at once, in a breath as
it were, the paleness of death came over her ; she fumbled
at the wristband of her gown, I unbuttoned it, and a bracelet
that was too large for her arm—she had emaciated—fell
over her hand—
“ I see ! I see !” cried Uncle Walter ; 44 light your candies,
my dear boy, my eyes fail me !”
44 She took it up, Tcissed it, and said, 4 Do, sister, send it to
him !’ There was a flutter of the heart, and she was gone !
Now, Mr. Archibald, your mother was one of the silent282
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
kind, over-prudent (if that can be said of a woman) ; she
ever wore a seal upon her lips ; but sudden grief—Helen
was her idol—mastered her, and her heart gushed out like
an opened fountain, and many things, she said (taken un-
awares) not suitable to repeat ; but the amount was that
Helen had been privately married to Walter Herbert ; that
your mother, jealous of the child’s honor, had a boiling in-
dignation against Mr. Herbert, and had forbidden ail com-
munication with him till such time as he should corne and
claim his wife. Your mother was a set woman, and Helen
of a compliant disposition, a reed in her hands—I speak in no
disrespect to your honored parent, for she had the virtues
related to setness, justice, rectitude, love, etc.; and besides
she had just gone through a period of nervousness, and
what was wrong in her usually, was more so, as is often the
case with ladies in circumstances. That last look of Helen’s,
and her last action, impressed me. Her love, clearly, was
stronger than death, and it was borne in upon my mind that
your mother’s judgment had been over strict, and when I
looked upon the deceased, so meek and beautiful, so without
spot and blemish, like sacrificial doves, I felt for him whom
she had loved. And now hearing he is your friend, and
thinking he may hâve long ago repented of ail that was
wrong in this lamented marriage, you can, at your discré-
tion, inform him, that one, much his elder, pitied more than
he blamed him, and that I trust it may cheer his latter
days to find his chosen young friend is, as it were, akin to
him !”
Walter Herbert dropped the letter, and murmuring,
“Thank God, thank God,” he fell upon Archibald’s neck,
and kissed him as tenderly as the father kisses the boy at his
knee. As soon as he could command his voice, he said,
“ The good doctor is right—it is another and a blessed tie toMARRIED OR SINGLE?
283
you, Archy ; henceforth I hold you as my son. At a future
time—not now; now I am too full of both joy and sorrow—
I will tell you how my whole life has been pervaded and
colored by this early and only love.” And then, as Archi-
bald said, he raised his eyes, and extending his arms in
invocation, exclaimed, “ My angel in heaven !” and his face
was radiant as if the star of his morning beamed from heaven
upon him.
The twilight had deepened into night, the new moon had
dropped behind the hills, the evening-star had followed her,
Mars had traversed a broad space in the firmament, Jupiter
had risen far enough above the horizon to drop a thread of
light athwart the lake, and the lowest star in Orion shone
over the eastern hills, when Archibald and Grâce, who had
been in the light of these skyey processes, but not observant
of them, returned fromfloating on the lake in Max’s “sulky.”
Finding ail the family retired to bed, and oblivious of that
periodical duty, tbey sat down together on the door-step.
They had taken no note of the evening hours. These hours
had glided from them in mutual historiés of their past mis-
judgments, distrusts, blunders, and failures, and in a blending
of their présent joy that, like a rushing flood, swept them ail
away.
They were like two beatified spirits on the threshold of
another world—behind them darkness, entanglement, and
obstruction, before them a land of promise, bright with love
and faith, lights now glowing in their firmament, and there
to shine forever and forever.
A momentary silence, surpassing the offices of words, was
broken by a stealthy footstep and a low pettish cry ; and‘
turning round, they saw, by the light of the entry lamp,
little May stealing in, in her long white night-dress, looking
like one of the child-angels in St. Cecilia’s choir.284
MARRIED OR SINGLE ?
“ Oh, Grâce,” she said, “ why don’t you corne to bed ?
I hâve been awake, and waiting for you, ever—ever—ever
so long.” Grâce kissed her, and smiled, but said notking.
May looked from Grâce to Archibald : there too she met a
smile of ineffable happiness, and the bright little créature,
brightening ail over, exclaimed exultant, “ Oh, I know—
I know you are to be married, Grâce, and we shall hâve
your wedding, and Uncle Walter will be my bagpipe.”
“ You remind me, my dear child,” said Mrs. Clifford, after
a long and satisfaetory conversation the next day, with Grâce,
“of a dear friend of mine (that unnamed friend was the
great religious and moral writer who is acknowledged
throughout Christendom as a beloved master and teacher)
who, when he was a young man, addressed a letter to two
young women, his intimate friends, adjuring them to con-
secrate themselves to a single life, in order to demonstrate
how happy, beneficent, and honored it might be. He, not
long after, married one of these young women, Grâce.”
“ And, dear Mrs. Clifford, he did not ‘ love Cæsar less
that he loved Rome more.’ He did not disparage one con-
dition, by preferring the other. Am I not true to my
théories ? While I contençled that there might be golden
harvests reaped in the fields of single life, that it was not a
condition to be dreaded, scorned, or pitied, but infinitely
préférable to the bankruptcies in married life, did I not
admit there was a happier fate?—and is not that fate
miné ?”
“It is—it is ! You are ‘equal to either fortune,’ Grâce,
‘ married or single.’ May others profit by your théories.”
THE END.