THE HEEDLESS EXPOSURE. 
 
VILLAGE LIFE IN THE WEST. 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS 
 
 A STORY OF THE PRESENT DAY. 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT DALE OWEN. 
 
 From seeming evil still educing good, 
 And better yet again and better still, 
 In infinite progression." 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 1870. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 
 
 *i ,fe/j,iPPi&ct>:rT;$ <:cf., 
 
 In the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the Unitec! States,* for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 LIPPINCOTT S PRESS, 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 
*sir 
 
 8 97S 
 
 TO AN EXCELLENT FRIEND, 
 
 IN WHOSE LIBRARY THE FIRST OF THE FOLLOWING CHAPTERS WAS WRITTEN, 
 
 FERDINAND J. DREER, OF PHILADELPHIA, 
 
 THIS STORY 
 
 IS INSCRIBED. 
 
 M182184 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 "From seeming evil still educing good; 
 And better thence again, and better still, 
 In infinite progression." THOMSON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 THE ACCUSATION. 
 
 IT was in the old days, now almost 
 forgotten, when bits of gold and sil 
 ver passed current among us as money. 
 As we mortals reckon time, it was some 
 twelve or fourteen years ago, but if one 
 estimates by thick-crowding events and 
 revolutions, social and political, there 
 has passed a generation since the inci 
 dents that are to be related occurred 
 in the sober Quaker State of Pennsyl 
 vania. 
 
 One cold, rainy evening, late in the 
 spring, there sauntered into a tavern kept 
 in Water street, Philadelphia, a man not 
 beyond middle age and somewhat shab 
 bily dressed. It was a tavern, not only in 
 the strict old sense of the term to wit, a 
 resort of the thirsty, where wines and 
 sundry hot potations might be had at re 
 tail, as eighteen hundred years ago they 
 were in the thermopolia of Pompeii 
 (whose marble tabula are cup-stained 
 still) but also taken according to the 
 modernized American phraseology ; for 
 its hearty, bright-eyed owner furnished 
 
 to the emigrant and to the chance trav 
 eler board and lodging, as well as grog 
 and punch. Terence O Reilly was an 
 Irishman, every inch of him : one saw 
 that at a glance. The high cheek-bones, 
 the ruddy color, the touch of the brogue, 
 came unmistakably from the Green 
 Island. The world had gone well with 
 Terence. He liked it : he thoroughly 
 enjoyed life, and sought to make it as 
 pleasant to others as to himself. He 
 had selected a sorry mode of doing so, 
 it is true, not being satisfied to dispense 
 Cowper s cups that " cheer but not in 
 ebriate." I dare say he had not heard 
 Gough lecture, and probably had never 
 taken a serious thought as to whether 
 the world was the better or the worse 
 for the gin and the whisky that are made 
 in it. He had imbibed, with his hardy 
 mother s milk, her careless, thoughtless, 
 hopeful temperament. His father, hail- 
 fell ow-well-met with every one, had not 
 improved his son s habits by suffering 
 him, when he had outgrown the mater 
 nal beverage, occasionally to taste a lit 
 tle of the potheen that had the sweet 
 ness of stolen waters about it, being 
 
 9 
 
10- 
 
 OXD THE BREAKERS. 
 
 manufactured of nights in a small under 
 ground still, of which the masked en 
 trance could be reached only through the 
 intricacies of an Irish bog, and so had 
 escaped, for years, the argus-eyed reve 
 nue officers. The lad grew up light- 
 hearted, jovial, but not intemperate, nor 
 yet without a wholesome ambition to 
 better his condition, and attain the res 
 pectability which he saw that money was 
 wont to bring. 
 
 His first step in life had been as hos 
 tler in a country inn. There the hard 
 working fellow served faithfully, finally 
 attracting the attention of a young offi 
 cer in the Guards, the eldest son of the 
 Honorable Patrick Halloran, a wealthy 
 landed proprietor, on whose property 
 Terence s father lived. Captain Hallo- 
 ran, pleased with the lad s spirit and good- 
 humor, took him into his service as 
 groom, promoting him, in gay livery, to 
 a seat behind his stylish curricle when 
 he drove that fine-stepping pair of black- 
 limbed bays of his in Hyde Park. It 
 was not a situation to improve the young 
 groom s morals ; for those of his master 
 were none of the best, especially in his 
 relations with women ; and the white- 
 cravatted, black-clothed valet whom the 
 Captain had picked up in Paris, and who 
 stood high in his confidence, pandered to 
 vices from which the scoundrel well 
 knew how to profit. But here again, as 
 in the article of potheen, Terence es 
 caped any serious contamination. This 
 happened partly because of the fact that 
 though the young man s ideas on ethics 
 were of the vaguest sort, he had a sturdy, 
 rude-fashioned sense of the fair and the 
 honorable ; partly because he had an in 
 born dislike of anything French, and 
 barely tolerated his fellow-servant, who, 
 on his part, looked down with supreme 
 contempt on the- rough young Irishman. 
 
 Had Terence been less of a favorite 
 with Captain Halloran, this mutual aver 
 sion would probably have cost him his 
 place within the first few months ; but 
 Louis Villemont so the valet was 
 called was a man to bide his time, and 
 let his revenge sleep till the moment 
 came when it could be safely indulged. 
 He was rewarded for his patience after 
 
 enduring Terence nearly a year and a 
 half. Reckless self-indulgence, long con 
 tinued, readily hardens into vice when 
 the tempter is at hand to encourage and 
 facilitate. So it was with Captain Hal 
 loran. Aided and prompted by Louis, 
 he committed an act of villainy from 
 which, in the early part of his career as 
 a young man of fashion, he would have 
 shrunk with abhorrence. His victim, an 
 interesting and accomplished young girl, 
 fled, one night, in an agony of despair, 
 no one knew whither. Terence, getting 
 to know the main facts, and stirred by 
 that spirit of rude chivalry which is not 
 unfrequently found in his class and na 
 tion, broke forth upon Louis, calling him 
 names which caused the Frenchman s 
 dark eyes to flash with fury ; and not 
 satisfied with that, his indignation once 
 fairly roused, he proceeded to denounce 
 the master himself in no measured terms. 
 Thereupon Louis wrath subsided into a 
 sinister smile. " Tu me le payeras," he 
 muttered under his breath, as his mas 
 ter s bell rung. Half an hour later he 
 returned, and, with a civil leer, handed 
 the groom his wages to date, with a 
 handsome gratuity and a message from 
 Captain Halloran that he had no further 
 occasion for his services. Terence found 
 himself possessor of a sum sufficient to 
 pay a steerage passage to New York, and 
 leave him a hundred and fifty dollars to 
 begin life with in the New World. Nor, 
 up to this stormy May evening, had he 
 ever once had cause to repent his change 
 of country. 
 
 The shabby stranger sat by the stove, 
 leaning forward, drying himself; his 
 white hands (for they were white) rest 
 ing on his knees, and gleaming through 
 the dull steam that rose from his wet 
 clothes. Handsome, most people would 
 have called him ; yet it was a bad coun 
 tenance, furtive and gloomy. The large 
 gray eyes were well formed, but they 
 seemed not to look straight at any one ; 
 the features well cut ; brown curling hair 
 and whiskers of the same color. One 
 could see, however, that there was power 
 about the man. Though the forehead 
 was low, it was a fair-sized head, fully 
 developed above the eyes and behind the 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 i r 
 
 large ears, of which one was somewhat 
 disfigured by a purple line across it, as 
 from an old wound. The features bore 
 the stamp of self-indulgence and some 
 thing of the flush of dissipation. A 
 sullen frown passed over them from time 
 to time, prompted, it was evident, by 
 thoughts that were anything but pleasant. 
 
 After a time he rose and approached 
 the bar. "A glass of grog, landlord," 
 he said : I want it stiff. A hell of a 
 wet night I ve had of it !" 
 
 "In a minute," replied the other: 
 then to a man with whom he had been 
 conversing: "You haven t got that last 
 sack of potatoes down : how much is 
 the bill, altogether ?" 
 
 " Seventeen dollars and a half, Ter 
 ence ; but I don t want the money now 
 if it isn t just handy." 
 
 " Never handier," said Terence. " I 
 don t buy till I have the cash ready." 
 And producing,, from an inner breast 
 pocket a stout linen bag, he poured on 
 the counter its entire contents, consist 
 ing of. a number of eagles, together with 
 a few half-eagles and bank-bills. "Is it 
 gold you ll be wanting ?" 
 
 " Well," said the other, " city bills are 
 good enough, but I m going South to 
 morrow, and you may as well give me a 
 couple of those half-eagles." 
 
 " Heartily welcome," said Terence, 
 paying him, and taking a receipt in re 
 turn. 
 
 If the two men who happened at the 
 moment to be the only occupants of 
 the bar-room except the stranger, had 
 chanced to notice the eager, sidelong, 
 persistent look which the latter cast on 
 the gold that still lay scattered on the 
 counter, it might have been interpreted 
 to his discredit ; yet one ought not to 
 think hard of the hungry vagrant who, 
 as he passes the brilliantly-lighted win 
 dow of a pastry cook s shop, casts wist 
 ful glances at tart and cheese-cake. 
 
 As it was, Terence was scarcely con 
 scious of the man s presence, until the 
 latter repeated his request for a glass of 
 brandy and water. 
 
 " Faith, an I clane forgot ye," he 
 said, pouring out a liberal portion, as 
 if to atone for the delay. 
 
 The man tossed off the potent dram 
 with a relish. 
 
 Several lodgers came in. Then he 
 asked : " Can I put up with you, Mr. 
 O Reilly, to-night ?" 
 
 Terence stopped in the act of closing 
 the bag whence he had poured the gold, 
 looked hard at the questioner, and hesi 
 tated. The man spoke, as if in answer 
 to the hesitation : 
 
 "You wouldn t be turning a poor man, 
 and a countryman of your own, out in 
 a stormy night like this ? I m from 
 Tipperary." 
 
 "What s your name ?" 
 
 " My name ? Byron Byron Cassi- 
 day." 
 
 "Well, Bryan" 
 
 " It s Byron, not Bryan, I told you," 
 retorted the other, more sharply than the 
 occasion seemed to call for. 
 
 " Well, Byron, then : ye needn t flare 
 up. Bryan s a better Irish name, any 
 way." 
 
 " If you re afraid of the pay, there s 
 my watch," pulling a silver one from his 
 fob. 
 
 " Who said I was afraid ? Put up 
 your watch. It s an ugly night, and I ll 
 not turn you from the door," pushing the 
 register toward him, in which the man 
 entered his name, with the address, 
 " Port Richmond," and the remark : 
 " I ve been working in the country, but 
 I came last from Port Richmond." 
 
 " He can write, any how," said the 
 landlord to himself, glancing at the name : 
 "maybe he s dacent ;" and he led the 
 way to a small bed-room, setting a can 
 dlestick on the washstand. 
 
 Left alone, Cassiday sat down on a 
 straight -backed, rush-bottomed chair, 
 tilted it back against the bed, and sank 
 into moody thought. Half an hour 
 passed ere he stirred. At last, mutter 
 ing, "A man must do something for a 
 living : nothing venture, nothing have," 
 he rose and examined the fastenings of 
 the bed-room door. There was a lock, 
 with the key inside. It locked readily, 
 but that did not seem to satisfy him. 
 Unlocking it, he wrenched the key for 
 cibly to the left. Something snapped. 
 Then he tried repeatedly to lock the 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 door again, but failed each time. The 
 lock was evidently spoilt. Finally he 
 relinquished all effort to secure the door, 
 took the candlestick from the washstand 
 and placed it on the floor of the passage 
 outside, undressed partially, and, after 
 tossing restlessly for an hour or two, 
 and gazing occasionally around the room, 
 dropped into a heavy sleep. 
 
 Next morning, after breakfast, he was 
 again in the bar-room, where he sat 
 watching the demeanor of his landlord. 
 Terence was behind the counter, ex 
 changing jest and banter with two or 
 three early customers, and his bold 
 cheery voice rung out from a happy and 
 careless heart. The embodiment of 
 good-humor, he was, notwithstanding, a 
 man whom it might be dangerous to irri 
 tate. There was a flash in his laughing 
 eye, and his broad shoulders and brawny, 
 large-fisted arms would not have dis 
 graced the prize-ring. 
 
 Cassiday eyed him closely, seeming 
 about to address him ; then, as if he had 
 thought better of it, sauntered around 
 the room, examining various marvels of 
 art with which it was adorned. In the 
 centre of the principal wall was " Wash 
 ington s Deathbed," the garments and 
 the countenances of the attendants alike 
 lugubrious ; and this was flanked, on the 
 one side, by a portrait of the wonderful 
 horse with white legs the pride of the 
 English race-course that was foaled 
 during the great eclipse, taking his name 
 from his birth-day ; and on the other by 
 a print setting forth, in startling colors, 
 the fight between Crib and Molineux 
 that Crib, as the landlord delighted in 
 relating, who at the close of a fair stand- 
 up fight, in which he had battered in 
 three ribs of the black giant that was 
 pitted against him, turned a standing 
 somerset on the ground, in proof that 
 wind and pluck were alike untouched by 
 the exertions of the terrible contest. 
 
 Finally, when he had sufficiently ad 
 mired these ambitious productions of 
 fancy, and when all the customers had 
 departed, the stranger slowly approached 
 the counter. 
 
 "I wish I had stayed in the country," 
 he began. 
 
 " I didn t ax ye to leave it," said 
 Terence. " What s the matter ?" 
 
 Matter enough ! Bad luck to your 
 city taverns !" 
 
 " Ye re uncivil, stranger : ye had a 
 clean bed and a good breakfast," his 
 color rising. If the accommodations 
 don t suit you, pay for what ye ve had 
 and be off with ye." 
 
 " I ve paid pretty dearly for them 
 already." 
 
 " What does that mean ?" 
 
 It means that when I went up to 
 your bed-room last night I had a hun 
 dred and seventy dollars in my pocket, 
 and that I came down this morning with 
 just ten cents to pay for my night s 
 lodging." 
 
 Terence flushed scarlet, but he re 
 strained himself: 
 
 "Oh, that s the dodge, is it? I 
 thought the chance was a poor one, but 
 ye looked tired and wet. Well, it s only 
 a half dollar thrown away. A hundred 
 and seventy dollars, and ye wanted to 
 pledge your watch ! Why, man, ye 
 should make one part o your story 
 tally wi the rest." 
 
 "It tallies well enough. Do you 
 think I was going to show my hand be 
 fore all your lodgers ? It wasn t quite 
 safe, it seems, to let them know there 
 was a hundred and seventy dollars to 
 be had in my bed-room for the fetching 
 of it." 
 
 "Look ye here, Mister Cassiday," 
 said the landlord, "you d best be gone 
 while the play s good. I ought to send 
 for a police officer and have ye taken up 
 for a swindler ; and I will, if you say 
 another word about my lodgers. I ex 
 pect the next thing will be, you ll be 
 telling me I stole it myself." 
 
 " Likelier-looking men than you have 
 done the same before now. I advise 
 you to bridle your tongue, or maybe 
 you may make acquaintance with the 
 police yourself, sooner than you think 
 for." 
 
 Terence just touched the counter with 
 his left hand, and was over in a single 
 bound. With the right he throttled his 
 man, forced him back, as though he had 
 but a child in his grasp, to the street 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 door, which he flung open, and there re 
 leased him, at the same moment dealing 
 him a hearty kick, which sent him stag 
 gering down the steps, over the sidewalk 
 and half-way across the street, where he 
 fell prostrate, but where, luckily for him, 
 no vehicle was just then passing. The 
 whole transpired in less time than it has 
 taken to relate it. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 THE ARREST. 
 
 AN hour and a half had elapsed ; and 
 Terence, the scuffle of the morning al 
 ready forgotten, was standing at the 
 street door, somewhat anxiously await 
 ing the arrival of the owner of the house 
 he occupied, with whom he hoped, that 
 morning, to conclude a purchase of the 
 premises, when a police officer stopped 
 before the door. A cloth cap, turned up 
 with gray fur, which the young man 
 wore, seemed to attract the attention of 
 the officer, who, after eyeing him for a 
 few moments, said : " Is this Terence 
 O Reilly ?" 
 
 "At your service." Then, as the 
 other hesitated, he added, cheerily, It s 
 sort o chilly, if it is most summer. 
 Come in and warm yourself." 
 
 The officer entered : Terence drew a 
 chair for him before the stove, and they 
 sat down together. 
 
 " I m sorry," the policeman said, after 
 a pause " I think there must be some 
 mistake but I have a warrant for your 
 arrest." 
 
 " A warrant !" Then, with a smile : 
 " Oh, for sault and battery. So the 
 rascal bears malice, does he ? Well, if 
 he didn t deserve the kick I gave him, 
 nobody ever did." 
 
 I wish it were nothing else," said the 
 officer, gravely ; " but it s on a charge 
 of larceny. The man lodged information 
 at our station that you robbed him last 
 night of a hundred and seventy dollars." 
 
 For a moment the poor man was 
 utterly confounded. But he rallied: 
 " It s me lodgers he charges it on. But 
 a man isn t a thief because money s 
 stolen in his house." 
 
 " He didn t say a word about your 
 lodgers. He swore, point-blank, that 
 you came into his room in the middle 
 of the night and took his money, and 
 that he saw you and knew you." 
 
 The Lord above !" 
 
 " I ll have to take you before the 
 mayor." 
 
 Terence sprung from his chair. The 
 officer also started up and stood between 
 the door and his prisoner, but the latter 
 did not even notice the action. He had 
 turned to a lad who was tending bar for 
 him : 
 
 " Pat, d ye like my service ?" 
 
 " Is it your service, Mister O Reilly ? 
 And don t ye know I do ? I d go through 
 fire and water for ye." 
 
 " I ll never forgive ye the longest day 
 I live I ll send ye packing afore the 
 day s out if you say one word o this 
 to Norah. It would kill the lassie." 
 Then to the officer : " At your service." 
 
 They walked some distance in silence. 
 At last O Reilly asked : 
 
 Can they send a man to prison for a 
 thief, that never did a dishonest thing 
 since the day his mother bore him ?" 
 
 The question was a deeper one than 
 the young man thought for. The officer 
 evaded it : "A man that s accused of 
 larceny need not go to prison till he s 
 tried and convicted. This is a prelimi 
 nary investigation, and they ll take bail."- 
 
 " They must prove it on him, then ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 Terence stepped out more freely 
 almost with unconcern. But at the 
 mayor s office there was delay till sev 
 eral petty charges were disposed of; and 
 these, with their sordid details, some 
 what sunk the poor fellow s spirits again. 
 He felt the humiliation of the associa 
 tions into which, for the first time, he 
 had been brought, and he looked some 
 what dispirited when placed at the bar. 
 
 Is this the charge of larceny ?" said 
 the mayor. 
 
 " Yes, your honor." 
 
 " Has the prisoner been searched ?" 
 
 " No." The officer proceeded to 
 search him, and the bag of money with 
 which we are already familiar was taken 
 from an inner pocket. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Cassiday was then called as witness. 
 Terence started as the man came for 
 ward ; then involuntarily drew up first 
 one sleeve and then the other, exposing, 
 as he did so, a ring of white on each 
 wrist above the large, tanned hands. 
 The mayor s quick eye detected the 
 movement, and he turned to the officer 
 apparently to give an order ; then glan 
 cing again at the prisoner, from whose 
 face the flush of anger was fading, he 
 seemed to think better of it, and merely 
 said to the witness, " Go on." 
 
 Cassiday deposed that, the previous 
 night, he had lodged in No. 36, a small 
 front hall bed-room on the third floor of 
 the house kept by the prisoner ; that in 
 the middle of the night he had been 
 awakened by the sound of some one 
 moving about in his room ; that he re 
 cognized the prisoner by his general ap 
 pearance, but especially by his cloth cap 
 trimmed with fur ; that at the moment 
 he first saw him the prisoner was stoop 
 ing over a chair, just beyond the wash- 
 stand, where he (the deponent) had laid 
 his coat before going to bed ; that he 
 (the prisoner) remained for some time 
 in this stooping position, as if searching 
 for something, then turned to the wash- 
 stand, so that he (the deponent) could 
 distinctly see his side face, took up a 
 candlestick which was standing there, 
 and passed out of the room on tiptoe ; 
 that in the inside pocket of the coat he 
 (the deponent) had a hundred and sev 
 enty dollars in a stout linen sack, and all 
 in gold eagles, which, on rising after 
 ward to search his coat, he found was 
 gone. 
 
 Terence sat like one in a stupor, till 
 awakened by a question of the mayor 
 addressed to the witness : 
 
 Did you lock your door before go 
 ing to rest ?" 
 
 " No ; I tried to, but I found the lock 
 wouldn t work." 
 
 That s a lie !" burst forth Terence. 
 Divil a lock out of order in my house 
 from garret to cellar !" 
 
 "Wait your turn, prisoner," said the 
 mayor, a little sternly: "you shall be 
 heard in defence." Then to the wit- 
 
 " You say you saw the prisoner. Had 
 you left your candle burning ? There 
 was no moon last night, I think." 
 
 No, your honor, but there was a 
 lamp in the street just opposite, and 
 there was no curtain to the window ; so 
 I could see well enough." 
 
 "Why did not you stop him and raise 
 the alarm at once ?" 
 
 " I was scared, just waking up, and 
 I was afraid he might murder me if I 
 stirred." 
 
 The contempt on the prisoners bold, 
 frank face was something refreshing to 
 see. " The chicken-sowled, perjured vil 
 lain !" he muttered, under his breath. 
 
 " Look at that money-bag," said the 
 mayor to the witness : " is it the one 
 you had ?" 
 
 After what seemed a careful examina 
 tion the man answered " No." 
 " Officer, see what it contains." 
 Seventeen gold eagles, ten half-eagles 
 and twenty-two dollars in bank-notes 
 two hundred and forty-two dollars in 
 a ll were the contents. 
 
 "Prisoner, where did you get these 
 seventeen eagles ?" 
 
 "A peddler paid me fifteen of them, 
 to-morrow will be a week." 
 " For what ?" 
 
 " For a gold watch and chain and some 
 jewelry." 
 
 " How came you to have a watch and 
 jewelry for sale ?" 
 
 " Sure, an I took them from one of 
 me boarders, for a debt of two hundred 
 and twenty dollars, bein I could get 
 nothin else." 
 
 "And you have kept the money in 
 that bag in your pocket ever since ?" 
 " Till this blessed day, yer honor." 
 "Was any one present when you 
 traded with the peddler ?" 
 
 " I disremember exactly, but I think 
 not." 
 
 "What was his name !" 
 " I never axed him." 
 The mayor reflected, then made a few 
 memoranda in pencil and handed them 
 to the police officer: "Bring me word 
 whether the lock in room 36 of the house 
 occupied by the prisoner works well or 
 not. Observe whether the window of 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 that room has a curtain, and whether 
 is opposite to a street lamp. Then as 
 the chambermaid of the house if sh 
 found a candlestick in No. 36 when sh 
 went to make the bed. Prisoner, w 
 shall have to detain you till the office 
 returns. In any event, the offence yo 
 are charged with is bailable, and yo 
 may send by him for any of your friend 
 in case bail is required." 
 
 In an hour the police officer returnee 
 reporting that the lock of No. 36 woulc 
 not work, that the window of that room 
 was uncurtained, that there was a street 
 lamp just opposite to it, and that the 
 chambermaid declared that when she 
 went, after breakfast, to do up the room 
 instead of finding the candlestick there 
 as she expected, it was on the floor of 
 the passage outside. 
 
 After listening to this report, the 
 mayor again called up the case, askec 
 the prisoner what he had to say for him 
 self, listened patiently to his vague, in 
 coherent protestations of innocence, and 
 then ordered that he find bail for his ap 
 pearance to stand trial at the next term 
 for larceny, and that the money-bag and 
 its contents be meanwhile retained. 
 Two of his associates, whom he had re 
 luctantly sent for, came eagerly forward 
 with the requisite bail, and Terence was 
 released. 
 
 Among his friends once more, Ter 
 ence soon regained, in a measure, the 
 habitual flow of high spirits which had 
 contributed to make him the general fa 
 vorite he was. 
 
 Norah," he said to his wife, from 
 whom it had been impossible to conceal 
 the transaction" Norah, me darlint, is 
 it cryin ye are ? Hold up your head. 
 Ye know yer husband isn t a thief. Ye 
 would swear to that any day, wouldn t 
 ye, mavourneen ?" 
 
 The young wife threw her arms about 
 his neck, hid her face on his shoulder 
 and sobbed out: "Afore the throne 
 o God, Terence afore the throne o 
 God !" 
 
 " Then she s the true grit," said her 
 husband, kissing her. Now hearken to 
 what I tell ye : I axed that officer he 
 was a dacent man, Norah, and a civil- 
 
 spoken, if he was a policeman I axed 
 him could they put the darbies on and 
 make a prison-bird o me me that never 
 stole a red cent in me life. And he said, 
 says he, No, SIR, they can t; they 
 dar n t touch a hair of yer head till they 
 prove it on ye. Them was his very 
 words. An sure ye know, Norah, that 
 they can t prove what never was. Could 
 they prove that I wasn t yer lagel hus 
 band, acushla, or that them two children 
 ye bore me wasn t mine ? Tell me that !" 
 That was putting the case strongly, 
 but the wife s lingering fears suggested a 
 contingency : 
 
 " What if that bad man swears a lie 
 to get yer money ?" 
 
 "And isn t there the judge sittin on 
 the bench, with his gown and his larn- 
 in ?" (Terence s ideas of judicial dig 
 nity were somewhat old-country-fash 
 ioned.) D ye think a low, lyin scoun 
 drel like that can chate him out o the 
 face ?" 
 
 So Norah dried her eyes and was 
 comforted. For didn t Terence know 
 best? 
 
 Six weeks later the trial came on be 
 fore Judge Oswald Thomas. He wore 
 neither wig nor gown, but, as he turned 
 to look at the prisoner who had just 
 taken his place in the dock, Terence s 
 heart was lightened of a load : it was 
 an honest, kind-hearted face. " It s all 
 right," was his thought, and that helped 
 to bear up under the infliction of the 
 Dublic gaze. 
 
 The usual question as to whether he 
 was guilty or not guilty was repeated 
 twice before Terence had collected his 
 senses to answer : " Is it whether I stole 
 he money ? The rascal knows I never 
 did." 
 
 A smile passed over the audience as 
 he clerk recorded the plea " Not Guilty." 
 Who is your counsel, prisoner ?" said 
 he district attorney. 
 
 Me counsel ?" with a vacant stare. 
 Yes : what lawyer have you engaged 
 o defend you ?" 
 
 " Is it a lawyer ye re axing after? I ll 
 eave it all to his honor, there. It s only 
 thief that needs a lawyer, and do ye 
 ake me for a thief?" 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 "This is a very grave charge," said 
 the prosecutor, addressing the court : 
 "the prisoner ought surely to have 
 counsel." 
 
 "Have you no money with which to 
 pay a lawyer, prisoner ?" said the judge 
 to Terence. 
 
 "They took me bag with more n two 
 hundred dollars, but I ve four hundred 
 in the bank yet." 
 
 " Then you had better take a part of 
 that four hundred and get a lawyer to 
 attend to your case ?" 
 
 "Does your honor think I m a thief, 
 too ?." 
 
 " Never rnind what I think. Take 
 my advice : it s kindly meant The 
 court gives you three days for prepara 
 tion. Call the next case." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 " I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy 
 with a voice which I took to be that of a child, which 
 complained it could not get out. I looked up and 
 down the passage, and seeing neither man nor woman 
 nor child, I went out without further attention. In 
 my return back through the passage, I heard the same 
 words repeated twice over ; and, looking up, I saw it 
 was a starling, hung in a little cage. I can t get out, 
 I can t get out ! said the starling." STERNE S Senti 
 mental Journey. 
 
 TERENCE fell into good hands. Carrol 
 Bagster was an upright man and an 
 earnest, eloquent advocate. He ran his 
 eye rapidly over the notes of the case. 
 "Terence, my good fellow," said he, 
 " this is a bad scrape. Three days only, 
 and the court will probably adjourn in 
 two days more. Look here ! I should 
 have to charge you a hundred dollars : 
 it will take every hour of my time till 
 the trial comes on ; and its only throw 
 ing good money after bad. Plead guilty : 
 then the sentence will be light maybe 
 three or four months only. m It s your 
 best chance." 
 
 " Does everybody think I m a thief?" 
 " I didn t say I thought you took the 
 money. The evidence is strong against 
 you, but I ve known it to be stronger 
 against an innocent man. And I ve seen 
 more than one such convicted in my day. 
 I advise you to plead guilty." 
 
 "You want me to say I m a thief?" 
 " Well, do as you think right. I only 
 tell you how I believe you can shorten 
 the term of your service if it goes 
 against you." 
 
 " And Norah is to be a thief s wife ! 
 And the blessed young ones are to be a 
 thief s childher ! And the ould man 
 there in Connaught, that used to nurse 
 me on his knee, and was just beginnin 
 to be proud of his son 
 
 Here the poor young fellow fairly 
 broke down, and he sobbed till his sturdy 
 frame shook like a child s. The lawyer 
 looked at him compassionately and with 
 a mingling of curiosity till the gust was 
 over. Then he said : 
 
 " I do believe you never touched the 
 money, Terence." 
 
 " The Lord in heaven reward you for 
 that blessed word ! Then ye don t want 
 me to be after telling the lie and making 
 a thief of myself?" 
 
 "No: I ll stand by you and do my 
 best to show that you told the truth 
 when you pleaded not guilty." 
 
 " It was a lucky day for me when 
 Lawyer Hartman wouldn t look at me 
 case " 
 
 " Ah ! you applied to him ?" 
 " Yes, and he told me to go to the 
 divil, and so I came straight to your 
 honor." 
 
 " Much obliged to you for the com 
 pliment." 
 
 " Sorro a bit ! It s little me and 
 Norah that s me wife can ever do for 
 .the likes of you, but we ll never darken 
 the door of the church without prayin 
 for you and yours. Maybe it ll help a 
 bit up yonder." 
 
 Bagster smiled. " Wait till you see 
 what I can do for you. But now to 
 business." 
 
 Terence, questioned by the lawyer as 
 to whether Cassidy knew he had the 
 money by him, related what happened 
 the evening before the arrest. He re 
 membered to whom he had paid the 
 seventeen dollars and a half the only 
 witness to the heedless exposure of the 
 gold b u t the man had gone South : no 
 clue could be obtained to his address, 
 and it was uncertain whether he would 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 return. The peddler, too, who had paid 
 the fifteen eagles to Terence for jewelrv. 
 had left the city, and all trace of him 
 was lost. So of the lodger who }-.id 
 given the jewelry in payment of his 
 board-bill. 
 
 Nor were the efforts to obtain some 
 knowledge of Cassiday s antecedents 
 any more successful in their results. It 
 was on the ninth of May that he slept 
 at Terence s tavern. He had recorded 
 Port Richmond as the last place he 
 came from. No one there knew any 
 thing of Byron Cassiday. His name was 
 not on the register of any adjacent 
 tavern, nor on that of the police station, 
 which Bagster carefully looked over. 
 
 He began to be discouraged. He was 
 good lawyer enough to know that the 
 only reliable defence was one backed by 
 an array of facts rebutting the testimony 
 adduced by the prosecution, or at least 
 explaining away suspicious circum 
 stances. Nearly two days were gone 
 and nothing obtained. If I had but a 
 week," he said to himself, it would go 
 hard but Fd get on the rascal s tracks ; 
 but with a single clay only left, I must 
 trust to general testimonials of good 
 character, a touch on circumstantial evi 
 dence, and then a warm appeal to the 
 jury. Weak enough but what can I 
 do ?" 
 
 He spent the night before the trial in 
 searching out from the Causes Celebrex 
 and other authorities examples in which 
 innocent men had been convicted and 
 suffered imprisonment or death. 
 
 On the trial the principal witness, Cas 
 siday, adhered, point for point, to the 
 evidence he had given before the mayor ; 
 nor did a searching cross-examination 
 elicit any thing contradictory or sus 
 picious. He never lost his self-posses 
 sion. Interrogated as to whether he 
 could swear positively to the identity of 
 the prisoner, he replied emphatically in 
 the affirmative, adding that he had a view 
 of his features for as much, he thought, 
 as half a minute, at first in profile 
 afterward, as he turned to leave the 
 room, his full face ; and that he (wit 
 ness) was absolutely certain he was not 
 mistaken in the man. When asked 
 2 
 
 where he got the hundred and seventy 
 dollars which he alleged to have been 
 stolen. from him, he replied that he had 
 worked for two years and three-quarters 
 on the farm of a rich German named 
 Gottlieb Bauerman, living in the western 
 part of Berks county, with whom he had 
 stipulated that the money paid to him 
 should all be in gold ; that the hundred 
 and seventy dollars were the savings of 
 these two years and three-quarters ; that 
 he had left Mr. Bauerman s on the 
 second day of May last, and had come 
 to Philadelphia to deposit the money in 
 a savings bank. The man s look was 
 not in his favor, but his testimony was 
 given with great clearness and an ap 
 parent desire to be strictly exact. His 
 demeanor was far from being that of an 
 illiterate laborer : the Irish accent was 
 readily to be recognized, but his lan 
 guage, with slight exceptions, was cor 
 rect and to the point. 
 
 The policeman gave the same testi 
 mony which had been contained in his 
 report to the mayor touching the lock of 
 the room and the street lamp immedi 
 ately opposite. The chambermaid of 
 the tavern, Arrah O Neil, an unwilling 
 witness, whose testimony was elicited 
 only by direct questions on the part of 
 the prosecution, testified that she found 
 the candlestick, on the morning after the 
 alleged theft, on the floor of the passage 
 outside ; that she did not remember such 
 a thing ever to have happened before in 
 the year and a half she had been in the 
 house ; that the lock was found to be 
 out of order when she took the police 
 man to the room ; that, to her know 
 ledge, it worked well two days before ; 
 that she had sometimes arranged room 
 No. 36 for a traveler, after night, by the 
 light afforded by the street lamp alone ; 
 and, finally, that she had heard her mas 
 ter, on the Sunday morning before his 
 arrest, when conversing with his wife at 
 breakfast, say that his landlord had of 
 fered him the house he was living in on 
 very favorable terms, provided he could 
 pay a thousand dollars down within a 
 week : that he told his wife he would 
 jump at the offer if he had orconld bor 
 row a couple of hundred dollars more, 
 
i8 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 but where to find that he didn t know. 
 This testimony produced the more effect 
 upon the jury because it was evjdently 
 wrung from a witness who was particu 
 larly anxious to say nothing that might 
 prejudice the case of the prisoner. 
 
 For the defence several tradesmen and 
 others, chiefly Irishmen, were examined 
 as to the general character of the ac 
 cused. Nothing could be more lauda 
 tory than the statements they made, but 
 the effect of these was weakened by the 
 very warmth and transparent zeal with 
 which they volunteered their commenda 
 tions. Beyond this point of good pre 
 vious character nothing was proved by 
 the defence. 
 
 The prosecuting attorney behaved 
 tolerably well. He pressed his points, 
 indeed, sharply, but not more so than 
 might have been expected from pride of 
 profession in a young man ambitious of 
 distinction, speaking in a large court 
 room that was crowded to its utmost ca 
 pacity. How little men usually consider 
 what a terrible thing it is to set the sat 
 isfaction of professional success against 
 a human reputation or a human life ! I 
 think that an attorney prosecuting in the 
 people s name fails in duty if he conceals 
 from the jury whatever may have come to 
 his knowledge in extenuation or defence 
 of the accused ; since, though this be more 
 especially the province of the prisoner s 
 counsel, or of the judge in delivering his 
 charge, every officer engaged in judicial 
 proceedings ought to feel conscience- 
 bound to aid, to the full extent of his 
 knowledge, in bringing to the surface all 
 facts bearing on the case. Is this a fas 
 tidious refinement in morality ? So is a 
 slack world wont to regard many other 
 bounden duties in social life. 
 
 In the present case the prosecutor 
 probably considered the young Irishman 
 guilty. He reminded the jury that 
 the identity of the prisoner had been 
 most positively sworn to by the witness 
 Cassiday ; that no attempt had been 
 made to prove whence the prisoner had 
 obtained the large amount of gold that 
 was found on his person on the morning 
 after the larceny ; that the prisoner s oc 
 cupation, that of retailing ardent spirits, 
 
 was not one calculated to encourage or 
 preserve a high tone of morality, espe 
 cially when slrong temptation presented 
 itself; and that there evidently was in 
 the prisoner s mind a motive such as 
 might tempt, and had often tempted, to 
 crime even those who had hitherto borne 
 a fair character before the world 
 namely, a craving desire to become the 
 owner of the house he lived in. Such a 
 desire, he remarked, was often the one 
 absorbing ambition of a man s life, par 
 ticularly of one born in humble rank in 
 a country where the possession of land, 
 monopolized by the rich, was an almost 
 hopeless prize to persons of his condi 
 tion. But the points which, to judge by 
 the countenances of the jurors, chiefly 
 told upon them were contained in the 
 closing argument of the prosecutor. 
 
 " Gentlemen," he said, " in cases of 
 secret crime, committed under the veil 
 ing cloud of night, small incidents, such 
 as are usually called accidental, often ex 
 pose and convict the most wily criminal. 
 Of this truth two striking proofs present 
 themselves in the present case. The 
 accusing witness lost a sum of money : 
 the exact amount was a hundred and 
 seventy dollars : the exact form in which 
 the witness possessed that sum was in 
 gold-pieces of ten dollars each. Now 
 precisely that amount, in precisely that 
 denomination of gold-pieces- seventeen 
 eagles was found on the prisoner s per 
 son a few hours after the scene by the 
 washstand. Was this chance? What 
 a strange chance ! Supposing the wit 
 ness a perjurer, how could he, an entire 
 stranger to the prisoner, possibly guess 
 that the prisoner had precisely that num 
 ber of precisely that denomination of 
 pieces of gold in his pocket ? -What an 
 infinite number of chances against such 
 a coincidence ! Was it accidental ? Is 
 it not rather to be believed that it was 
 ordained by Providence that the intatu- 
 ated man should retain on his person 
 this mute witness of his guilt ? Nor 
 is the finger of God, which reveals so 
 much of hidden wickedness, less evident 
 in another apparently unimportant acces 
 sory to the deed. The prisoner, intend 
 ing, no doubt, to cloak his retreat from 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 the scene of his iniquity (in case some 
 eye should spy him), picks up the candle 
 stick and carries it from the room ; but 
 he does not take it to his own bed 
 chamber, lest it should testify against 
 him. Finding everything quiet in the 
 hall outside, he deposits it on the floor. 
 A trifle light as air in itself, if you will ; 
 and yet even such a trifle has ere now 
 brought home to the conscience of the 
 blood-stained criminal the truth of the 
 adage, that < Murder will out. The 
 witness O Neil, the chambermaid, re 
 luctantly confesses that, during the 
 eighteen months she had spent in the 
 prisoner s house, such a thing had not 
 happened. Why should it happen ? 
 What imaginable motive could any one 
 have to take that candlestick from the 
 washstand and deposit it on the floor 
 outside ? what imaginable motive save 
 the whisperings of guilt ? God moves 
 in a mysterious way in bringing sinners 
 to punishment. The Great and the 
 Small the revolution that unseats a ty 
 rant, and the veriest act of insignificance 
 which enables us to track crime through 
 the darkness in which it seeks to en 
 shroud itself are alike of His ordaining 
 whose finger appears in all." 
 
 Bagster had uphill work : no witness 
 to prove that Cassiday had seen the gold 
 in Terence s possession no evidence as 
 to how Terence became possessed of that 
 gold. Then the evident importance that 
 the prisoner should obtain, just at that 
 time, the lacking two hundred dollars 
 to complete the purchase of his house. 
 All this was against his client. Again : 
 though he could suggest, and did in 
 geniously suggest, explanations which 
 seemed to strip the evidence adduced 
 against the accused of its force, he 
 could not prove these : they remained 
 unsustained suggestions only, offset by 
 direct testimony which he had failed to 
 controvert. 
 
 Taken at such disadvantage, how 
 ever, he made a brilliant defence, the 
 trial lasting two entire days. He brought 
 forward, one after another, an array of 
 cases in which, under what seemed incon 
 trovertible circumstantial evidence, men 
 and women, afterward proved to have 
 
 been guiltless as Abel was, had suffered 
 obloquy, lingering imprisonment, torture, 
 death. He painted, in- colors so vivid 
 as to bring tears to the eyes of more 
 than one juror, the terrible sufferings, 
 mental as well as bodily, of these victims, 
 guiltless of all crime, condemned and 
 punished without even the shadow of 
 offence. He reminded the jury of the 
 fallibility of all human testimony, quot 
 ing the opinion of that prince of mathe 
 maticians, La Place, that "it may be 
 said, speaking in strictness, that almost 
 all our knowledge consists of probabili 
 ties only."* Then he brought the case 
 home to themselves. 
 
 " There is not a man among you," he 
 said, " though he be law-abiding to the 
 utmost verge of religious scruple, who 
 may not himself be placed in the same 
 position now occupied by my client. 
 There is not a father or a mother among 
 the hundreds who now hear me that may 
 not find a son or a daughter entangled 
 to-morrow in the like inexorable net ; 
 appealing to Heaven for the justice 
 which men on earth refuse to grant ; 
 struggling in the meshes which sus 
 picion and abasement have wound around 
 them, till their very consciousness, taken 
 captive, turns traitor and half persuades 
 them that they really are the guilty 
 wretches which the world unites in de 
 claring them to be ; fainting, at last, in 
 direst need, and crying out like Him, 
 the chiefest of immaculate sufferers, 
 < My God ! my God ! why hast thou 
 forsaken me ? Have you ever heard," 
 he pursued, his voice swelling with emo 
 tion, till there fell on the vast audience 
 a stillness that awed himself " have 
 you ever read the terrible story of the 
 Inevitable Fate how the poor victim 
 of some tyrant s jealousy was overtaken 
 by a death the details of which hu 
 manity shudders to recall ? 
 
 Thus, in brief, it befell. He found 
 himself immured in a dungeon, some 
 twelve feet square and as many in 
 height walls, floor, ceiling all of one ma 
 terial, hard as lava, and so crystal- 
 smooth to the touch that it seemed" as 
 if a fly could scarce maintain itself on 
 
 *LA PLACE : Tkeorie des Probability, Introd., p. i. 
 
20 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 its polished surface. On the floor a 
 straw mattrass ; no other furniture. 
 When the new-made prisoner, snatched 
 from a life of light and happiness with 
 out, awoke from a trance of thought to 
 his condition, it seemed to him but a 
 murky vision of the night. He was not 
 in darkness, however: that was a grain 
 of comfort. On two sides of his dun 
 geon there were small windows near the 
 roof, two on each side, giving a dim, 
 reddish light, reflected from a lamp as it 
 seemed to him, for it did not resemble 
 the light of day. 
 
 " But where was the door by which 
 he had been carried in, gagged and 
 muffled ? He felt all over the seamless 
 walls of his cell carefully at first, ner 
 vously at last but neither sight nor 
 touch could detect even the slenderest 
 fissure indicating a possible means of 
 entrance or exit. He listened. Not 
 a sound ! Hour passed after hour, and 
 ever the same unbroken stillness. He 
 had cast himself on his pallet and closed 
 his eyes to shut it all out. But his 
 thoughts choked him, and at last, as if 
 motion might shake them off, he sprang 
 to his feet. Just before him, some three 
 feet from the ground, was suspended, by 
 a chain from the ceiling, a metal tray, on 
 which stood food and water. He turned 
 from it in utter disgust, and paced his 
 cell, impatient in his desolation. His 
 steps awoke not the slightest footfall : 
 they had placed on his feet soft, flannel- 
 soled slippers, of which the tread gave 
 back no sound ; but he scarcely noticed 
 this at the time. Again he threw him 
 self on his couch, seeking sleep in vain. 
 Whether half an hour or an hour passed 
 he knew not, but when he looked up the 
 tray and its contents had disappeared, 
 though not the slightest noise not the 
 creak of a wheel, not the clink of a 
 chain had reached his ears. After a 
 time the light from the windows waned, 
 went out, and he supposed it night. Tu 
 multuous fever-dreams, that could not be 
 called slumber, wore out the hours of 
 darkness. The lurid light gradually re 
 appeared. With it, at last, came the 
 cravings of hunger. He had refused 
 food would they leave him to starve ? 
 
 When hour passed after hour the terror 
 grew stronger. But as he turned on his 
 pallet, there again, before him, stood the 
 tray and its contents, unannounced by 
 breath of sound. Trembling lest it 
 should rise again before his eyes, he 
 rushed toward it like some famished 
 animal. 
 
 " Two days, as. the captive reckoned 
 them, passed by the second like the 
 first : then the third night. As light 
 dawned, he gazed eagerly toward it. It 
 was his one visitor the single incident 
 that broke the dreary monotony of his 
 days. " But what was this ? The light 
 shone through three windows only : some 
 shutter or curtain must have darkened 
 the fourth. He thought but little of the 
 matter, and only hoped that such an ac 
 cident would not happen often, for he 
 needed all the light he had. 
 
 " Another day, and still the fourth 
 window seemed veiled. Another night. 
 How ! Were his eyes cheating him ? 
 Two windows only ! He sprang up as 
 if some one had stricken him a blow. 
 Could it be ? He grasped his mattrass, 
 rolled it up as tightly as he could, set it 
 against the wall just under one of the 
 veiled windows, stood upon it on tiptoe. 
 His hands nearly reached the lower line 
 of the windows. His eyes peered eagerly 
 through the dim light. It was no shutter, 
 no curtain that obscured it. The win 
 dow itself had disappeared, leaving not 
 a trace behind ! 
 
 " Words are weak to picture the pris 
 oner s dismay. One sense had already 
 lost its earthly correspondence. His was 
 an existence without sound as utterly 
 still as if there were neither life nor 
 motion in the world, or as if the man, 
 breathing still, had been a tenant of the 
 tomb. He had stamped for very rage, 
 but his footsteps fell on that ice-smooth 
 floor as mute as snow-flakes on the sea. 
 Was another sense to be reduced to 
 impotence ? 
 
 " He gazed around him, a look of en 
 treaty on the upturned face, almost as if 
 he were imploring the lost windows to 
 reappear. In the diminished light his 
 dungeon seemed to be contracting in its 
 dimensions, or was it his senses, thus 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 21 
 
 cruelly abused, that were failing in their 
 office ? 
 
 " Another morning ! Ah ! two win 
 dows still : he had dreamed there was 
 but one, and awoke with a deep sigh of 
 relief. Yet the illusion remained nay, 
 gained upon him that his dungeon was 
 diminishing in size. If his senses began 
 to play him false, would his reason go 
 next ? 
 
 " The sixth morning came. Was it 
 
 his dream 
 
 again 
 
 He touched his 
 
 limbs, he felt his pallet. He was awake. 
 It was reality. The light glimmered 
 from one window only ! He struggled 
 against belief, closing his eyes and press 
 ing his hands tightly over them, as if 
 thus he could shut out the terrible con 
 viction. Then, ere his eyes unclosed, 
 he turned resolutely from the light. 
 God in heaven ! His dungeon was 
 closing upon him ! His pallet was close 
 on one wall, and yet there before him 
 not seven or eight feet distant, but 
 almost within his reach there stood 
 (or seemed, at least, to stand) that ada 
 mantine surface ! Was it so close ? 
 He must touch it. For a time his limbs, 
 as if smitten with palsy, refused their 
 office. But he forced them to that step 
 a single step : he was in contact with 
 the dungeon-wall ! 
 
 " The touch flashed conviction over 
 him. It was all before him now. It 
 burned itself into his brain. Light go 
 ing, Hope gone ! All human effort as 
 vain as against Omnipotence itself! 
 Window after window, inch by inch ! 
 He felt ah how vividly ! what was 
 coming. In utter silence, in brooding 
 darkness, slowly, slowly advancing, a 
 creeping Fate ! Was ever death of 
 horror conceived like that !" 
 
 The orator paused amid a hush that 
 almost typified the scene his fancy had 
 summoned into existence. The jury sat 
 entranced, as by magnetic glamour, their 
 eyes riveted on the speaker. In lower, 
 more level tones he proceeded : " I pur 
 sue the terrible story no farther. But 
 has it no counterpart here, in this nine 
 teenth century, amid our civilization ? 
 We have, indeed, no dungeons of ada 
 mant, with windows that vanish in suc 
 
 cession no prison-cells of which the 
 walls, impelled by infernal mechanism, 
 close and crush out the victim s life. 
 And yet the parallel may hold. Look 
 at that man, now awaiting, as it were, 
 life or death from your lips. A felon, 
 if all be truth that has been testified 
 before you an innocent man, if one 
 villain has perjured himself. Is it theft 
 alone to which there may be tempting 
 motive ? You know the law. If your 
 verdict convicts my client, seventeen 
 eagles will be paid over to the accusing 
 witness as his property. What proof 
 have you certainly none in the man s 
 sinister countenance and flushed cheek 
 and cowardly eye that he is not a pen 
 niless vagabond ? Is perjury an un 
 heard-of crime ? Did no villain, steeped 
 in poverty that was due to an abandoned 
 life, ever swear a false oath to obtain a 
 hundred and seventy dollars ay, or a 
 tenth part of that sum ? Think well 
 of it, I beseech you, jurors ! If that 
 man, as thousands have done before 
 him, sold his soul for gold, my client 
 is innocent. If you consign an inno 
 cent man for months for years, who 
 knows ? to the solitude of a Moyamen- 
 sing cell, though one small window will 
 admit, day after day, the light of Heaven, 
 yet hopes dearer than Heaven s light 
 will go out there, one by one the hope 
 of a good name, of a happy and con 
 tented lot the hope that his wife may 
 rejoice in his fair fame, that his children 
 may honor his memory. The walls of 
 his solitary cell will remain stationary : 
 he need not fear that they will close 
 upon him : the grated, iron-bound door 
 will continue visible, and will open daily 
 to the under-keeper now and then to 
 the chaplain. But can the words of 
 jailer or holy man undo what you will 
 have done? Can they persuade him that 
 when, at the close of his term, he shall 
 emerge to the world, it will be the same 
 man who in the time gone by went about 
 his avocations careless and light-hearted, 
 with many to love and to trust him with 
 none to make him afraid ? The man of 
 God may declare to him that if his con 
 science be void of offence a day will 
 come when the Great Judge of the quick 
 
22 
 
 BETOXD THE BREAKERS. 
 
 and the dead will reverse the verdict of 
 a fallible earthly tribunal. But what can 
 he assure to him upon earth meanwhile ? 
 Here, at this very moment, are hundreds 
 who have seen and noted the accused, 
 and who will recognize him wherever, in 
 after life, they meet him or hear his 
 name. To-morrow the press with its 
 thousand tongues, the magnet-wire with 
 its lightning speed, will bruit that name 
 over the length and breadth of the land. 
 Will the prisoner change his name when 
 he issues from his prison-house ? I 
 should not advise him to do that. He 
 must live a once-convicted felon ; he 
 need not live under a perpetual lie a lie 
 that his associates may, any day, detect. 
 But if he conceal not the Cain-brand 
 that is upon him, whither shall he flee 
 where it may not, some day, show forth ? 
 Among strangers he may win back again 
 a fair name, he may build up. once more, 
 a thriving business. But shall not a bird 
 of the air carry the matter ? Go where 
 he will, there stand up around him, al 
 beit unseen by stranger eyes, the ada 
 mantine walls of public opinion, a per 
 petual menace. He sees them : he knows 
 that, under the impulse of an invisible, 
 intangible mechanism, which a breath 
 may set in motion, these mysterious 
 walls m,ay close around him, crushing to 
 fragments honest reputation, bright busi 
 ness prospects, respect of neighbors, 
 trust of friends, honored rank in the 
 community everything that makes life 
 worth having. Better the tyrant s dun 
 geon of tangible adamant ! A single 
 agony, and its victim was at rest for 
 ever !" 
 
 Again the speaker paused. His eyes 
 were moist and his voice was tremulous 
 as he resumed : " Terrible must the pen 
 alty be regarded, even when the guilt it 
 requites is flagrant as the sun at noon 
 day ! But of this I make no complaint. 
 I bow to the majesty of the law. I re 
 member it is written : The wicked flee 
 when no man pursueth. So be it ! I 
 but ask that you will not take wickedness 
 for granted. I but entreat you not to 
 mete out to the innocent no. nor to him 
 who, for aught that appears against him, 
 may be innocent the doom worse than 
 
 Indian Pariah s ! the lifelong doom of 
 outlawry which (that society may obtain 
 protection) a stern code has provided for 
 the guilty." 
 
 Very effective, for the moment, was 
 the speech of which these extracts give 
 but an imperfect idea. Had the jury re 
 tired as soon as Bagster concluded, the 
 verdict would probably have been of ac 
 quittal. But there was interposed the 
 judge s charge ; and its calm, dispassion 
 ate tones contrasted strangely with the 
 impetuous appeal of the advocate. 
 
 " You have been greatly moved," he 
 said to the jury, " and I confess to hav 
 ing shared the emotion. Eloquence is 
 a noble gift, yet it behooves us to be on 
 our guard lest it encroach on the prov 
 ince of reason, and obscure sound judg 
 ment. In a case like that before us, one 
 should look rather to the plain, matter- 
 of-fact details than to glittering generali 
 ties which apply, in a measure, to all 
 human decisions. Undoubtedly inno 
 cent persons, in all ages, have been con 
 victed ; but this must sometimes occur, 
 so long as judges are men and jurors are 
 fallible creatures. From the very dis 
 position of lawlessness to cloak itself, it 
 often happens that for the worst crimes 
 we can have circumstantial evidence 
 only. Again, certain offences are of 
 such a nature that one witness only can 
 be obtained to give direct evidence. 
 Such an offence is that with which the 
 prisoner stands charged. The testimony, 
 positively sworn to by the witness Cas- 
 siday, is, that the prisoner entered his 
 bed-chamber in the dead of night and 
 took thence a bag of money. Unless 
 some one had seen the accused enter 
 the room or leave it and against the 
 happening of such an incident there are 
 extreme improbabilities what direct tes 
 timony except that of the sufferer was 
 possible ? But the law never demands 
 impossibilities. It is my duty to tell 
 you that it is not sufficient reason for 
 acquitting the prisoner that one person 
 only was present when the alleged theft 
 was committed. If you see reason to 
 believe that the witness has sworn to a 
 falsehood, of course your verdict should 
 free the prisoner. But you ought not 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 hastily to conclude that he is a perjurer 
 because he has a pecuniary interest in 
 bringing about conviction. In every 
 case where a man has property stolen 
 from him, and that property is found on 
 the thief, the same pecuniary interest 
 exists. You are the judges how far the 
 man s countenance and demeanor are 
 against him ; but it is proper I should 
 remind you that the defence was unable, 
 on cross-examination, to break down his 
 evidence, or at all to weaken the same 
 by drawing forth a single contradictory 
 admission." 
 
 Then the judge called the jury s atten 
 tion to the various corroboratory circum 
 stances going to sustain the testimony 
 of the main witness the unexplained 
 incident of the chamber-door lock, evi 
 dently tampered with by some one 
 shortly before the alleged theft ; that of 
 the candlestick found in an unusual 
 place ; the coincidence between the 
 seventeen eagles found on the person of 
 the prisoner and the sum said to have 
 been stolen by him. This last, however, 
 he said, was not to be taken as evidence 
 of the same grade as that obtained when 
 a specific piece of stolen property is 
 identified. One eagle precisely resem 
 bles another : there was no allegation 
 that any of the stolen eagles were marked, 
 nor had any testimony been adduced by 
 the prosecution, beyond the assertion of 
 the man himself, that the witness Cassi- 
 day really possessed the money which 
 he swore to having lost. On the other 
 hand, there had been failure, on the part 
 of the defence, to show from whom the 
 prisoner obtained the large amount of 
 gold which he had about him the morn 
 ing after the alleged larceny. The jury 
 ought to give full weight to the strong 
 testimonials of good character borne in 
 favor of the prisoner. No such tes 
 timony had been adduced by the prose 
 cution to sustain the character of the 
 accusing witness, but neither had the 
 defence introduced any witnesses to im 
 peach his character. 
 
 Judge Thomas concluded a charge 
 which was regarded as sustaining the 
 high character he bore for judicial im 
 partiality, as follows : 
 
 " Do not suffer your feelings to be 
 carried away by that graphic recital of 
 the fate, real or imagined, of some 
 tyrant s victim. The parallel between 
 the self-closing dungeon and a Moya- 
 mensing cell is more ingenious than ex 
 act. Nor is the question submitted to 
 you whether the punishment prescribed 
 by our laws for larceny is or is not un 
 duly severe. You are not members of 
 the Legislature, with power to decide 
 whether a certain penal law shall or 
 shall not be modified. You are jurors 
 called together to determine a simple 
 matter of fact. Seek to divest your 
 selves of all considerations not strictly 
 bearing on that one point. .If the entire 
 evidence, carefully sifted, leave on your 
 minds a reasonable doubt whether the 
 offence was committed, give the prisoner 
 the benefit of that doubt. If, on the 
 contrary, it produces conviction of his 
 guilt, do not scruple to express this by 
 your verdict, leaving the culprit to be 
 dealt with according to the laws of that 
 country which he has voluntarily selected 
 as his own." 
 
 The jury were all night in session. 
 Half an hour after the opening of the 
 court, next morning, they brought in 
 their verdict GUILTY ! 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 ASTRAY. 
 
 FOLLOW we, for a season, the fortunes 
 of Byron Cassiday not an interesting 
 character, anything but a good or a 
 moral one ; yet of such among others 
 some much better, a few worse is this 
 checkered world of ours made up. If 
 we had had the making of it, we should 
 have excluded should we not? the 
 Byron Cassidays from our scheme, for 
 is not that an element which could well 
 be spared ? To us, in our earthly wis 
 dom, it seems so. I am not willing to 
 go farther in my admission, being, in 
 deed, indisposed to spend much time 
 on that question of questions, that has 
 puzzled men ever since they began to 
 i think the origin of evil. We have not 
 i light enough by which to answer it here. 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 We look at it through a glass, darkly. ! 
 Had we not better postpone the inquiry ? 
 it need not be for long. By and by 
 the solution may be within our reach. 
 In a short time a Friend how strange 
 that, because he translates us to a better 
 world, he should have been thought an 
 Enemy ! will usher us into a phase of 
 existence where we shall look over a 
 wider periscope where we shall enjoy 
 keener perceptions and clearer skies. 
 
 Meanwhile, through the glass, dark as 
 it is, we can see some of the uses of 
 evil. They are worth noting, for they 
 supply lessons tending to increase the 
 tranquillity and the contentment of our 
 lives. 
 
 Then, not without profit perhaps, we 
 may track, for a brief space, a man 
 deceitful in heart through the crooked 
 paths where, in his ignorance, he sought 
 that which in crooked paths is never 
 found. 
 
 Owner, for the only time in several 
 years, of a hundred and seventy dollars, 
 Cassiday s first care was to replenish his 
 wardrobe. He appeared, and to some 
 extent he felt, a different man in the neat, 
 well-fitting dress which he had selected. 
 His air was less downcast, his bearing 
 more- assured ; yet the restless, challeng 
 ing glance of the gray eyes, and the 
 hard, uneasy, half-defiant lines of the 
 mouth, betrayed, to an eye accustomed 
 to look beneath the surface, that there 
 might be more of swagger than of true 
 courage there. P or the rest, a comely 
 person of medium size, with limbs mus 
 cular and well knit ; the only defect of 
 the figure being a slight outward curve 
 of the legs, caused, probably, by too 
 much riding at an early age. 
 
 In his childhood and youth this man, 
 to use a common phrase, had not had a 
 fair chance. The illegitimate son of an 
 Irish peasant-girl, Bridget Cassiday, 
 whose good looks and gay spirits had 
 attracted the attentions of Squire De- 
 lorny, the keenest fox-hunter and most 
 eager horse-racer in the county, he had 
 been suffered, by his heedless, reckless 
 mother, to grow up in unchecked will 
 fulness. His father thought he did his 
 
 duty by the child in giving his mother a 
 few pounds yearly to feed and clothe 
 him, in sending him for two or three 
 years to a- country school, where the lad 
 showed quickness and desire to learn ; 
 and finally, when he was old enough to 
 sit and rule a horse, in promoting him 
 to be his principal jockey. His youthful 
 years thereafter were chiefly spent in 
 the racing-stable, his bed beside the 
 horses, and his associates the stable- 
 boys and other hangers-on of the place. 
 An idle, exciting, dissolute life, one of 
 its attractions being the handsome gra 
 tuities which his father handed him, from 
 time to time, when he chanced to bring 
 in the horse he rode a winner. 
 
 At the age of seventeen, finding that 
 the youth had outgrown the proper 
 jockey-weight, the Squire apprenticed 
 him to a neighboring miller. There he 
 might have done well enough, had not 
 his antecedents engendered disgust for 
 any steady occupation. He bore it, in 
 a grumbling way, for two years, then ran 
 off to America. 
 
 Here, for several years, he found em 
 ployment in a livery stable in Philadel 
 phia, his habits, the while, degenerating. 
 During a drunken frolic one night he 
 got into a serious difficulty with the po 
 lice, from which he was extricated by a 
 young man, a recent acquaintance, form 
 erly articled clerk to a conveyancer, but 
 who had lately set up for himself as at- 
 torney-at-law. Better he had been left 
 in the hands of the authorities, for his 
 new acquaintance led him from vice to 
 crime. The legal profession in our 
 country is seldom disgraced, even among 
 its humblest members, by lawless men. 
 But Amos Cranstoun, smooth and plaus 
 ible in exterior, was one of these. His 
 wages as clerk had been low : he wanted 
 a start in life without working too hard 
 and waiting too long for it. Yet he greatly 
 disliked to incur the penalties of the law : 
 he had no intention of employing hazard 
 ous tools except for a season, just to get 
 over the first roughness of poverty. 
 Nay, his natural caution might have 
 deterred him, in default of better motive, 
 from overstepping legal bounds at all, 
 had not a tempting lawsuit, involving a 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 -5 
 
 large amount of property, been put into 
 his hands by a young profligate, just as 
 his own small savings, laid up during 
 his clerkship, had nearly run out, while 
 his meagre practice scarcely defrayed 
 office-rent. He saw that his client s 
 case, whether just or not, was hopeless 
 in law as it stood. There was lacking 
 a witness to one of the main points, and 
 no chance whatever that such could be 
 honestly found. Then he cast his eyes 
 on Cassiclay, self-possessed, audacious, 
 unscrupulous. Yet it needed all his 
 sophistry to bring over the stable-boy. 
 He had never transgressed the law 
 except by some venial breaches of the 
 peace. 
 
 " I don t want you to help out any 
 swindling," Cranstoun said to him: "my 
 client has justice on his side ; but a 
 main witness is not forthcoming dead, 
 no doubt. All I want you to do is to 
 swear what he would have sworn if 
 living." 
 
 " But if I know nothing about it, that 
 would be swearing false." 
 
 " For a good purpose." 
 
 "Maybe !" with a contemptuous smile. 
 Then, his face darkening, he added : 
 " What is your punishment for it ?" 
 
 "A year or two in the State prison ; 
 but do you think I would propose such 
 a thing to you if there were any risk ?" 
 
 " Humph !" 
 
 " Don t you see, man, that I am in 
 the same boat myself?" 
 
 " I see that if I get paid for such a 
 piece of work, you ll get far better paid ; 
 and so far we are in the same boat. 
 But I m like to be caught, and you ll be 
 sure to come off free." 
 
 "That s a mistake. Suppose it were 
 a false oath : if I procure you to swear 
 it I am guilty of subornation of perjury, 
 and that is a State prison offence. Do 
 you think I would chance a prison cell 
 if I thought there was any risk worth 
 talking of?" 
 
 " Can you show me how such a thing 
 may be done without risk, Mr. Cran 
 stoun ?" 
 
 " Easily." He took from one of the 
 pigeon-holes of his desk a paper, which 
 he read over to Cassiday slowly, repeat 
 
 ing several passages. "That s your 
 lesson. You must learn it so that no 
 body can put you out. When you know 
 it all, I ll cross-examine you." 
 
 " Cross-examine me ?" 
 
 " Yes," taking up another paper. 
 " Here are all the questions the opposite 
 lawyers are the most likely to ask you. 
 If you can stand my cross-examination, 
 you can stand theirs. You ll have it all 
 as pat as the catechism before you go 
 into court." 
 
 Cassiday paused, and the other re 
 sumed : 
 
 " Two hundred and fifty dollars, 
 whether we win or lose. How long will 
 it take you to earn that, rubbing down 
 horses in a livery stable ?" 
 
 The last question touched Cassiday s 
 weak spot. Not even daily intercourse 
 with the dissolute retainers of his father s 
 racing stable had so demoralized the 
 young man as the large sums he occa 
 sionally received when victor in a race. 
 These came so easily, giving him for 
 weeks or months at a time the means 
 of prodigal indulgence. It was as fatal 
 to after content in honest labor as if he 
 had won prize after prize in a lottery. 
 No prizes at the mill where he had been 
 apprenticed ; no prizes in a Philadelphia 
 livery stable nothing but dull, toilsome, 
 tedious work at a dollar a day. He 
 wanted to put into the lottery again, and 
 the old Serpent that cheated Eve gave 
 him a chance a chance to win two hun 
 dred and fifty dollars in little more time 
 than it had taken him to ride a winning 
 horse. 
 
 When the suit came on he was per 
 fect in his lesson, impassive under cross- 
 examination, won his prize, and squan 
 dered it, ere three months were over, in 
 reckless dissipation. 
 
 About the time when Cassiday s purse 
 was exhausted, volunteers were called for 
 to serve in the war against Mexico. 
 Fighting, he thought, was better than 
 working, and he enlisted. 
 
 Just according to the motives that 
 prompt a citizen to become a soldier are 
 the results on his character of two or 
 three campaigns. These may make out 
 of an unformed stripling a self-pos- 
 
26 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 sessed, energetic man ; or they may 
 confirm a rogue in a spirit of lawlessness 
 and harden habits of license and excess. 
 
 The latter was the result in Cassiday s 
 case. He served under Shields ; fought 
 creditably enough ; fell, stunned by a 
 sabre-cut from a Mexican dragoon, on 
 the same field on which his commander 
 was shot through the body by an esco- 
 pette ball ; and came home with a heavy 
 bag of Mexican dollars. " To the vic 
 tors belong the spoils" was his favorite 
 maxim for some time after his return. 
 
 The Mexican dollars soon went the 
 usual way of ill-gotten gains. Then 
 came several years of poverty and sor 
 did expedients ; so bitter in the recollec 
 tion that Cassiday, with purse orice more 
 filled out of Satan s lottery and with an 
 unwontedly decent coat on his back, began 
 to doubt whether work, if it was not too 
 hard, might not be preferable to his re 
 cent struggles against starvation. 
 
 Either work or another prize out 
 of the lottery ; and that brought his 
 thoughts back to Cranstoun, of whom 
 he had lost sight since he first enlisted. 
 After several days spent in baffled in 
 quiries, he learned that he had settled, 
 eight or nine years before, in Western 
 Ohio, having become a resident of the 
 village of Chiskauga, situated at a short 
 distance from one of the stations on the 
 Riverdale Railway. 
 
 In the afternoon of the second day he 
 reached the station ; and, leaving his bag 
 gage to come on by the stage in the morn 
 ing, set out to walk to the village five 
 miles distant, they told him it was. 
 
 The road, chiefly through the forest, 
 was bounded, at intervals on either side, 
 by farms some with comparatively spa 
 cious and comfortable dwellings and out 
 houses ; others of more recent date and 
 scantier accommodations. 
 
 Soon after leaving the station, as he 
 was ascending a hill, a horseman over 
 took him, and suffered the animal he 
 rode a stout hackney to drop into a 
 walk. 
 
 You are bound for Chiskauga ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Yes, for the first time. Is it a large 
 place ?" 
 
 "A village of some fifteen hundred 
 people." 
 
 " I thought any settlement out here 
 that had reached a thousand inhabitants 
 was above being called anything but a 
 town." 
 
 " Ours isn t. It s a village looks 
 like a village, and has village ways. 
 You ll find the houses, except along part 
 of the main street, set back from the 
 sidewalks, each in a garden small 
 houses, most of them. We have scarcely 
 any rich people, but very few who are 
 not pretty well-to-do. It s a place that 
 likes pic-nics and strawberry parties and 
 blackberry gatherings, and Fourth-of- 
 July celebrations, and Christmas balls, 
 and theatre-going about New Year s 
 Day." 
 
 " Balls, theatres ! out here in the 
 woods !" 
 
 Why not ? We re not in such a 
 hurry to get rich that we can t enjoy our 
 selves as we go along. When the girls 
 have washed up the dishes after dinner, 
 they get up their horses, saddle them 
 and make up riding parties. When the 
 young men get tired selling dry goods, 
 they start out two afternoons in the 
 week, maybe for the common across 
 Kinshon Creek, to play base ball." 
 
 " And what becomes of the shops in 
 the mean time ?" 
 
 " Shops, man ! Oh, you re from the 
 old country. Why, they re merchants, 
 and they sell ribbons and coffee out of 
 stores, not shops. I don t advise you 
 to call these young gentlemen shop 
 keepers if you intend to stay here. We 
 have no shops, except maybe tailors and 
 barbers yes, and a blacksmith s or a 
 carpenter s shop that will pass." 
 
 "I ll be careful; but do the stores 
 take care of themselves till the game s 
 ended ?" 
 
 No, there s a clerk left, and he 
 sends a boy to the -play-ground for the 
 owner, if he s specially wanted. Next 
 day they let the clerk take his turn. Then, 
 on Saturday afternoons, if it s fine, they 
 generally shut up and go boating on the 
 lake." 
 
 Are there no rich men in the place ?" 
 
 (c Yes Mr. Sydenham : you ll see his 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 27 
 
 house OP the hill, about a mile west of 
 town, on the left as you go in : Rose- 
 bank he calls it. You ll know it, for it s 
 the handsomest house in the county, 
 with stables and coach-house, and a 
 born good enough to live in. He owns 
 seven or eight thousand acres of land 
 round here." 
 
 " Are there no other rich people ?" 
 
 " Well, there s Cranstoun, the lawyer: 
 nobody knows exactly whether he s rich 
 or not." 
 
 " Amos Cranstoun ? Is he at home ?" 
 
 " Yes : you know him ?" 
 
 " Very little. I ve seen him in Phila 
 delphia." 
 
 " Then you ve seen a sharp trader. 
 There s others pretty well off, too. 
 Thomas Hartland lives on the south 
 edge of the village : he goes hunting 
 bugs all the time." 
 
 Bugs ! Is the place infested with 
 them ?" 
 
 "We ve plenty in the woods beetles 
 and caterpillars, butterflies, and all kinds 
 of bugs. And bless me ! there s his 
 niece : I ought not to forget such a 
 pretty girl as Miss Celia, and an heiress 
 at that ! By the way, Cranstoun may 
 be pretty rich one of these days if he 
 gets her." 
 
 You think he s after her ?" 
 
 " Or after her fortune : they say so. 
 But I did hear that some young fellow 
 I ve forgotten who they said it was is 
 courting her too." 
 
 " Is Mr. Sydenham married ?" 
 
 A widower near on forty, I should 
 think : a good citizen, that has done 
 more for the neighborhood than e er an 
 other man in the country. The village 
 has doubled in size since he settled 
 here." 
 
 "You haven t named yourself, stran 
 ger, on your list. I think you must be 
 pretty well off. That s a capital road 
 ster." 
 
 " I m Nelson Tyler, owner of Tyler s 
 Mill that road just before us to the 
 left turns off to it. Yes," patting the 
 horse s neck, the gelding s not amiss." 
 " Shoulder fine and high ; hips well 
 up ; just room for the saddle ; thick 
 through the heart; good round barrel, 
 
 clean limbs and a muzzle that could 
 drink out of a pint cup ; a good feeder 
 and a good goer, I ll warrant. Can 
 make his fifty miles a day and never 
 turn a hair." 
 
 " Seventy of them, easy, with your 
 weight. I m rather heavy for him." 
 
 The speaker must have been, in his 
 youth, a specimen of rough, manly 
 beauty ; of which, though now some 
 what stricken in years and a little in 
 clined to corpulency, he still retained 
 traces. His countenance was open and 
 bold, with a clear, spirited eye, well- 
 marked eyebrows, and a forehead which, 
 though not of that capacity which indi 
 cates great reasoning power, was well 
 formed, and in its lower portion strongly 
 marked by that projection over the eye 
 brows which phrenologists set down as 
 indicative of shrewd, practical sense. 
 His round, gladiator-looking head, with 
 its short curling hair, now grizzled by 
 years, was set on a pair of Herculean 
 shoulders. His muscular, well-propor 
 tioned limbs and height of six feet set 
 off a frame, it would seem, of unusual 
 power, though its owner lacked but a 
 year or two of sixty. He had a rich, 
 powerful voice, deep and sonorous. He 
 was good-natured, and the commenda 
 tion of his saddle-horse pleased him. 
 
 You re a good judge of a horse : I 
 can tell that by your eye, Mr. " 
 
 " Cassiday Byron Cassiday is my 
 name." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Cassiday, if you conclude 
 to stay here, come and see me at the 
 mill. I m not rich ; I work hard for a 
 living, but it s a pretty good living, and 
 something to spare for a friend. Our 
 roads part here. It s less than four 
 miles to the village. Good-evening." 
 
 Cassiday walked on, musing : " After 
 an heiress ! He ll leave no stone un 
 turned, if some of them are pretty deep 
 in the mud. He goes in to win. I ll 
 bet on him if the stakes are only large 
 enough." 
 
 Occupied by such thoughts, he reached 
 a point where the road had been cut. 
 with a gradual descent, on one side of a 
 picturesque ravine, the opposite slope, 
 on the left, being covered with a wilder- 
 
- 28 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 ness of blackberry bushes, among which, 
 had he come a month or two sooner, he 
 might have seen women and children 
 busy gathering the fruit 
 
 Is it far to Chiskauga ?" he said to 
 a young girl whom he met, her willow 
 basket filled with tempting cantaloupes. 
 It s close by. You can see the 
 place, and ever so far round it, from that 
 hill," pointing to a small eminence on 
 the right, a blue-grass pasture, where 
 sheep were feeding. 
 
 " Do they mind people walking there ?" 
 "Walking there !" said the girl, her 
 large blue eyes opening wide with as 
 tonishment. "Why should they care 
 about that ?" laughing. 
 
 Cassiday leaped the post -and- rail - 
 fence, and ascended to the summit. 
 Even his senses, impassive usually to 
 influences of Nature in any of her as 
 pects, were arrested by the beauty of the 
 rural scene that stretched out for miles 
 at his feet. 
 
 The rounded knoll on which he stood 
 formed portion of a semi-circular range 
 of undulating hills, rising sixty or seventy 
 feet above the plain below, and sweeping 
 round, about a mile from the village, on 
 its western side. Where these were too 
 steep for ordinary cultivation, they were 
 laid out in vineyards, terraced. Else 
 where they furnished building- spots 
 (each with a charming prospect), gar 
 dens, orchards, pasture-fields. On the 
 left, where the range of hills increased 
 in height, and some half a mile or three- 
 quarters north of where Cassiday stood, 
 he noticed, through the trees, a dwelling 
 which he set down as Mr. Sydenham s 
 a pretty villa built of some dark- 
 reddish stone, standing part of the way 
 up the hillside. It fronted east, with 
 garden and meadow on the slope in 
 front ; and beyond there were vineyards, 
 reaching north to a small stream, or 
 creek as it was usually called. A little 
 way up that stream could be seen a 
 rustic bridge, crossing to what seemed a 
 cemetery ; for one could discern, here 
 and there, under the evergreens with 
 which it was dotted, small white monu 
 ments, shining in the evening sun. Lower 
 down, a light mist or spray seemed to 
 
 indicate a waterfall. Beyond the creek, 
 the hill-range swept round to the east, 
 half enclosing the village common, the 
 resort of those truant lovers of base 
 ball to whom the burly owner of Tyler s 
 mill had alluded. 
 
 In front, directly east of him, was the 
 village, literally embowered in trees, the 
 rows of black locusts marking the street 
 lines. Several large buildings stood out 
 above the foliage a produce warehouse, 
 a granary, a mill for the manufacture of 
 dried corn meal, four or five good-sized 
 stores, and the like. There were also 
 two simple churches, and several dwell 
 ings bespeaking the easy circumstances 
 of the owners ; but three-fourths of the 
 houses were small brick or frame build 
 ings, scarcely distinguishable through the 
 mass of orchard and shade trees which 
 covered up the view. 
 
 On the left of the eminence on which 
 Cassiday stood was the main avenue 
 leading into Chiskauga, planted, on each 
 side, with a double row of trees, which 
 sheltered a sidewalk for foot-passengers. 
 On the right of the village stretched 
 out, four or five miles to the south, a 
 magnificent champaign country, with but 
 slight undulations, and, to judge by the 
 heavy crops that loaded it, having the 
 richest quality of soil. The view in 
 that direction was bounded by a- strip 
 of primaeval forest. From the centre 
 of the village, and running south through 
 this plain, there was a wide, shaded ave 
 nue similar to that above described ; and, 
 crossing that at right angles and at regu 
 lar intervals, other avenues ; the shade- 
 trees which bordered these seeming, 
 however, to be of a few years growth 
 only. 
 
 But the most striking feature in that 
 charming landscape was a lake, its blue 
 waters just then rippling under a light 
 southern breeze. It lay immediately 
 beyond the village, to which it had given 
 its Indian name. Chiskauga Water it had 
 been called by the aborigines, doubtless 
 because of the multitude of grasshoppers 
 seen on its banks.* It was approached 
 on the east and connected with the vil- 
 
 * Chiskauga means, in the Oneida tongue, 
 hopper. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 29 
 
 lage, by an avenue, usually called the 
 Elm Walk, from the double row of elm 
 trees which bordered it on either side, 
 and which had been planted thirty years 
 before by Mr. Sydenham s father. This 
 picturesque bit of water was some three 
 or four miles in length and a mile and a 
 half or two miles wide. On its south 
 and west shores, its banks, of fine gravel 
 and sand, were low and sloping ; but the 
 range of hills which swept round the 
 village common struck the lake on its 
 northern bank, rising into steep cliffs, 
 seventy feet in height, crowned with 
 cedars. Thus, as Cassiday looked at it 
 from his commanding stand-point, he 
 could see that its shores were low and 
 level toward the village, from which it 
 was distant about half a mile, but rocky 
 and precipitous on the left almost to its 
 eastern extremity. 
 
 In that hard profligate, who had sent 
 to prison among felons an innocent man 
 whom he had robbed, there must have 
 been, underlying the selfish, reckless, 
 lawless propensities, some dash of good 
 a little leaven, though the lump, the 
 growth of lax self-indulgence, proved too 
 large for it. It did not amount to much 
 in practice ; yet it kept him there, face 
 to face with that peaceful scene, till the 
 shadow of the hill on which he sat had 
 stolen half-way across the fields that 
 separated him from the village ; till 
 several white -sailed boats had come 
 slowly to land, and their light-hearted 
 crews were seen sauntering along the 
 Elm Walk toward home ; till the vil 
 lagers cattle, returning from the scanty 
 herbage of the autumnal forest-range to 
 be milked and fed, straggled, lowing, 
 along the shady road. It held him there, 
 stirring faint thoughts and doubts, and a 
 scruple or two just stirring them, but 
 with no Bethesdal power of cure. He 
 would have been glad, at the moment, 
 to hear that Terence had escaped from 
 prison, provided he could have been as 
 sured that the young fellow would never 
 cross his path again. But to redeem 
 his victim from penal servitude by paying 
 back the sum he had gained by his con 
 viction, and donning his own shabby 
 suit again that never crossed his mind. 
 
 He began to wonder whether some of 
 the dwellers in that quiet village might 
 not be living happier lives than himself, 
 even if they did work day by day. But 
 he had no desire to change places with 
 them and try the experiment. He must 
 find a shorter road to a living : perhaps 
 he could, honestly. If not Then it 
 occurred to him that he was wasting his 
 time when he might already have seen 
 Cranstoun. He rose, shook off his 
 thoughts and strode hastily toward the 
 village. 
 
 Two hours later he knocked at Cran- 
 stoun s door. 
 
 The servant-girl took from a small 
 box hanging against the wall of the en 
 trance-hall a scrap of paper and a pen 
 cil, which she handed to Cassiday, say 
 ing, Your name, please, sir." 
 
 He wrote it, and followed to the 
 office-door. Hearing Cranstoun s voice 
 repeating, in a tone of inquiry, Cassi 
 day ? Cassiday ?" he entered unan 
 nounced. 
 
 " Yes, an old friend of yours. You 
 mustn t forget his name. You remember 
 me, don t you ?" 
 
 " Of course, but I thought you were 
 killed at the battle of Cerro Gordo." 
 
 " A cut across the ear," pointing to 
 it : " that was all the scar of honorable 
 service, Mr. Cranstoun. Shall I take a 
 chair ?" 
 
 Certainly. I didn t notice you were 
 standing. I m glad to see you again." 
 
 Cranstoun s face, as the other knew 
 by experience, never furnished an index 
 as to the truth or falsehood of such an 
 assertion as that last. So his visitor 
 asked bluntly : 
 
 " Do you happen to have anything on 
 hand that I can help in ?" 
 
 "Nothing that is, nothing in the 
 old line. It is better we should be frank 
 with each other,. Mr. " glancing at the 
 paper " Mr. Cassiday. I ve done well 
 since you saw me. This house is my 
 own, with three or four more, and a 
 couple of sections of good land beside." 
 
 " I m glad to hear it." 
 
 " Now observe ! There s a time for 
 everything. The time has passed, years 
 ago, when I thought it worth while to do 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 business at a risk. I never do any such 
 now. I can t afford it." 
 
 "Nor I." 
 
 " Indeed ? What s become of my 
 friend Bryan Delorny ?" 
 
 " He has disappeared : you won t be 
 troubled with him any more. I ve come 
 out respectable." 
 
 You !" 
 
 Why not ?" taking a linen bag from 
 an inside waistcoat pocket and pouring 
 the contents on the table. " I once saw 
 a young fellow show his money like that, 
 and he repented it bitterly afterward. 
 But I m safe with you, Mr. Cranstoun. 
 We were in the same boat together at a 
 risky time, and we mustn t quarrel," 
 pocketing the gold. 
 
 Why should I quarrel with you ?" 
 
 " Not one reason why you should, and 
 at least ten very good reasons why you 
 shouldn t. Could not you get me some 
 thing to do in the safe line, but not too 
 hard work ?" 
 
 " What sort ?" 
 
 " Well, suppose we say coachman to 
 Mr. Hartland." 
 
 Cranstoun, off his guard for a moment, 
 turned sharply on Cassiday, but the lat 
 ter stood the look without the slightest 
 indication that he noticed it. Then the 
 lawyer asked quietly, What do you 
 know of him ?" 
 
 " They were talking in the tavern, at 
 the supper-table, about the match pair 
 of sorrels he bought for his carriage last 
 week. I hate sorrels, they re so hard 
 to keep clean ; but a man can t have 
 everything just to his hand. They said 
 a good deal about him, and " looking 
 at Cranstoun and adding in an indifferent 
 tone "about some niece of his, I 
 think." 
 
 This time Cranstoun was on his guard, 
 and he merely asked, in a tone as in 
 different as the other s, "Ah ! what did 
 they have to say about her ?" 
 
 " Well, I didn t take much notice : 
 some rigmarole, I believe, about a young 
 man that was courting her, but I ve for 
 gotten the name." 
 
 Cranstoun never swore aloud. And 
 if he did sometimes curse a man in his 
 heart, the spark of profitless, unregulated 
 
 irritation speedily went out. The tend 
 ency of his temperment was not to hate 
 his fellow-creatures, but to use them. 
 And tltis man before him, who had just 
 turned up so unexpectedly there were 
 useful points about him, if he was im 
 pertinent. Here the fellow had proba 
 bly been but a couple of hours in Chis- 
 kauga, and it seemed doubtful whether 
 he hadn t already made some shrewd 
 guesses at matters which he (Cranstoun) 
 had no mind the public should know 
 anything about. A dangerous man, too, 
 to have for an enemy. He turned all 
 this over in his mind, silently, for sev 
 eral minutes, Cassiday, the while, main 
 taining his look of unconcern, and ap 
 parently occupied in critical examination 
 of a portrait of Chief-Justice Marshall 
 over the fireplace. At last Cranstoun 
 said : 
 
 " I think you once told me you had 
 been two years apprentice to a miller in 
 the old country." 
 
 " Yes, and I never was more sick of 
 anything in my life. Just before I ran 
 away, I went to see a girl I used to care 
 a good deal about, and the hussy sang, 
 right to my face, some old Scotch song 
 about 
 
 Dusty was his coat, and dusty was his siller : 
 Dusty was the kiss that I gat frae the miller. 
 
 I d rather take care of the sorrels." 
 
 " But Mr. Hartland has somebody 
 else to take care of them, just at pres 
 ent." 
 
 " So you want to recommend me as a 
 hand to Nelson Tyler ?" 
 
 Hang the fellow !" thought Cran 
 stoun. Then aloud: "When did you 
 get to Chiskauga?" 
 
 " Just before supper." 
 
 "You ve been making good use of 
 your time, it seems. Maybe you know 
 that the miller has a pretty daughter ?" 
 
 " No, I didn t know he had a daugh 
 ter at all." 
 
 " He has the best rider, too, in the 
 county. She took the red ribbon at our 
 agricultural fair last year." 
 
 " Her father would want me to slave 
 all day in the dirt for a paltry thirty dol 
 lars a month, I suppose ?" 
 
 " He s short of hands, I know : he 11 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 give you that, at least, if I recommend 
 you as a skilled mill-hand from the old 
 country; and then hark ye, Cassi- 
 day " 
 
 Well !" 
 
 " I ll make it as much more if you ll 
 stay there a month or so, and do a small 
 job for me." 
 
 " Ah ! But let us understand one 
 another at the start. I ve been thinking 
 it must be an infernal ugly thing to be 
 shut up in one of them accursed jail- 
 cages for five or six years. I m not go 
 ing to risk it again not for ten times 
 what you offer me." 
 
 " Didn t I tell you, man, that I was 
 out of that line myself ever so long ago ? 
 It s a good honest deed I want you to 
 help me in." 
 
 "Well, that is something new." 
 
 " Let us have no sneering. I want to 
 save a poor girl from destruction." 
 
 Cassiday looked to see if all this was 
 serious : it seemed so, by Cranstoun s 
 face, as he added : 
 
 " There s a young fellow in this village 
 sets himself up for somebody. His name 
 is Mowbray John Evelyn Mowbray. 
 He gets himself called Evelyn, as if 
 John were not good enough for him." 
 Then, seeing a smile on Cassiday s face, 
 " Maybe you know him, too ?" 
 
 " No ; but now I think of it that 
 was the name of the spark they said 
 was making up to Miss Celia." 
 
 "Never mind Miss Celia. If you 
 watch this young cock-of-the-walk, as I 
 wish you to do (don t go and forget 
 his name again John Mowbray) if you 
 keep on his tracks a week or two, you ll 
 find out that it s somebody else he cares 
 about a certain Miss Ellen Tyler, that 
 I saw him help from her saddle last 
 September, when she won that red 
 ribbon." 
 
 " You think he wants to marry her ?" 
 
 Not I. He does little else, all day, 
 than ride a flea-bitten gray, with Arabian 
 blood in him : the brute s handsome 
 enough, if he were only paid for. Then 
 the fellow brags of the old family he 
 comes of, and is down upon you with 
 his fashionable connections. He marry 
 a miller s daughter !" 
 
 "So that s the game. Well, Mr. 
 Cranstoun, you ve made me a liberal 
 offer : thirty dollars a month to look 
 after a pretty girl and her lover. It s 
 light work ; that suits me well enough ; 
 and they ll have to get up early in the 
 morning if they intend to do much court 
 ing without my finding it out. But I 
 can t stand the dust and the meal-bags 
 more than one month. Don t you want 
 some watching done where a man hasn t 
 to carry sacks on his back ? at Mr. 
 Hartland s or any other good place ? I 
 took lessons from Rarey after I returned 
 from Mexico, and I have a certificate 
 from him." (Cranstoun made a note 
 of this.) " If I don t understand horses 
 and how to keep them me that have 
 slept with them for years I d like to 
 know who does." 
 
 " You re well fitted for the place, and 
 I think I can get it for you. But as to 
 Mowbray and that girl, I must have 
 proofs, Cassiday evidence that would 
 stand in a court of justice. Her father 
 must be put on his guard. I like the 
 girl : we mustn t have her ruined." 
 
 Cassiday was right when he took it 
 for granted that Cranstoun would never 
 have meddled with this matter, nor 
 promised him a single dollar, if he had 
 not had his own ends to subserve by ex 
 posing Mowbray. But he was wrong 
 when he concluded that there was noth 
 ing but sheer hypocrisy in these last 
 words of his. Cranstoun did take a 
 friendly interest in the brave, bright-eyed 
 girl, and did wish her saved, just as 
 Cassiday, sitting on that mound, had 
 wished Terence out of prison. Yet both 
 of these feeble stirrings of benevolence 
 might have served to eke out a certain 
 subterrene pavement. Neither of the 
 men would have put himself specially 
 out of the way, or made any serious 
 sacrifice, to rescue from death the object 
 of his barren well-wishes. 
 
 Next morning Cassiday inquired the 
 way to Mr. Hartland s house. He .iad 
 a curiosity about its inmates, and a vague 
 idea that he might find out something 
 concerning them by reconnoitring the 
 premises. He was directed to a cross 
 street, of which the continuation was the 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 avenue running south through the rich 
 champaign country already described. 
 He passed several pretty houses of 
 humble pretension, but neatly kept and 
 painted ; some having ivy stretching up 
 between the green shutters ; most of 
 them with porches of trellis-work, over 
 grown with honeysuckle or other creeper 
 all suggesting the idea of home-comfort 
 in a modest way. Hartland s residence 
 was on the right, the last house in the 
 street, with a pasture of several acres 
 adjoining. It was a spacious, well-built 
 mansion of bright red brick, surmounted 
 with dormer windows ; a nicely kept 
 shrubbery in front, and the entrance by 
 a pillared porch on the side. A light 
 dearborn, to which was harnessed a 
 handsome, good-sized pony, stood be 
 fore the front gate : there were no sorrels 
 visible. 
 
 Cassiday sauntered on the opposite 
 side of the street till two ladies issued 
 from the house and entered the carriage. 
 Just as they were about to start, a young 
 man, whom Cassiday had previously 
 noticed riding up from the direction of 
 the lake, turned into the street. The 
 horse he rode instantly arrested Cassi- 
 day s attention a light gray of splendid 
 action and lofty carriage, with minute 
 mouse-colored spots about the head and 
 neck. The rider, good-looking and well- 
 dressed, saluted the ladies, bowing low ; 
 then, after a brief inquiry touching their 
 health, passing on. 
 
 Cassiday observed two things one, 
 that the younger of the two ladies, a 
 girl of much beauty, who held the reins 
 as driver, blushed deeply as the horse 
 man addressed them, at the same time 
 glancing uneasily at the windows of the 
 
 house ; the other, that the elder lady 
 said to the groom who had been holding 
 the pony, " Potter, if any one calls, say 
 we have gone to Mr. Sydenham s, and 
 shall be back in an hour or two." From 
 all which the said Cassiday concluded 
 
 First, That he had seen Mrs. Hart- 
 land and her niece Celia. 
 
 Second, That the horseman on that 
 showy gray gelding was John Evelyn 
 Mowbray. 
 
 Third, That Miss Celia preferred a 
 handsome young man to a middle-aged 
 lawyer. 
 
 Fourth (this he gathered from the 
 furtive glance at the window), That the 
 guardian, as guardians will, probably 
 held to a different opinion ; and a co 
 rollary from the last deduction that 
 Cranstoun s influence with Hartland was 
 likely to be considerable. Thence came 
 hopes that he himself might supplant 
 Potter, slipping into a snug, easy place. 
 
 Before noon he had delivered Cran 
 stoun s letter at Tylers mill, and made 
 a satisfactory contract with its owner to 
 begin work with him next day. 
 
 He retired that night well satisfied 
 with himself. It was all open to him now, 
 clear as noonday the rivalry, the re 
 venge and all the rest : he had looked 
 over Cranstoun s hand and seen his 
 cards. This was what Cassiday said to 
 himself. Yet he was premature in his 
 self-gratulation. He -to 7 made good use 
 of his first twenty-four hours in Chis- 
 kauga, no doubt, and had found out 
 more than he could reasonably have ex 
 pected ; but he overrated the measure 
 of his discoveries. Cranstoun had cards 
 in reserve which no human eye had 
 detected. 
 
PART II. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 BAVENO. 
 
 WHILE Miss Celia Pembroke for 
 that was the name of Mrs. Hart- 
 land s niece is driving her aunt to Mr. 
 Sydenham s, our readers shall have some 
 information touching the early life of that 
 gentleman. 
 
 A Philadelphia!), of Quaker family, 
 Franklin Sydenham had left the Society 
 of Friends, respecting them and by them 
 respected. Having devoted a few years 
 to the study of law, he bid fair to do 
 honor to his profession. But, at the age 
 of nineteen, having a handsome fortune 
 left him (consisting chiefly, however, of 
 a large tract of land adjoining the village 
 of Chiskauga), he was tempted to in 
 dulge himself in a few years of European 
 travel. In London he met the Sel- 
 bournes, a delightful English family, who 
 resided chiefly at their country-seat in 
 Devonshire. In that retired and beauti 
 ful spot Sydenham became almost do 
 mesticated among them, joined with 
 ardor in the field-sports of the sons, and 
 won the heart of the only daughter. 
 Her mother, Imelda Gherardi, of an an 
 cient but decayed Italian family, had be 
 come acquainted with Mr. Selbourne at 
 Florence, whither he had been attracted 
 by love of art. 
 
 Anna Selbourne- was a woman of re 
 markable idiosyncrasies, alike of mind 
 and body. Her large dark eyes and 
 jet-black hair were a maternal inherit 
 ance, while her fresh, bright complexion 
 and ruddy cheeks betokened Northern 
 blood. Her step had the firm, free tread 
 of the English gentlewoman, to whom 
 ten or twelve miles was but a pleasant 
 morning s walk ; and her form had the 
 willow-grace of the Italian, to whom 
 comes the poetry of motion as words 
 come to the improvisatrice, spirit-moved. 
 So, also, of mental gifts, strangely ming 
 led. There was the calm good sense, 
 the steady constancy, the unpaltering 
 truth, the modest dignity of her Saxon 
 ancestors, without a particle of their cold 
 ness or prudery or reserve. Beneath 
 the habitually quiet bearing there lay 
 derived from a more genial clime the 
 generous impulse, the ready-kindling 
 emotion, quick sympathies, noble en 
 thusiasm Juliet s warmth, Arria s devo 
 tion. When she gave her hand to a 
 friend, it was with her heart in it. And 
 when, at the altar, she plighted to the 
 young Philadelphian the love that was 
 already his by ties far stronger than 
 plighted vows, it was a guerdon rich as 
 any which in this sublunary sphere man 
 is permitted to win. 
 
 I believe there are few thoughtful men 
 
 33 
 
34 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 who have not come to regard as one of 
 the least explicable among the great rid 
 dles of the earthly economy the rarity 
 of well-assorted marriages. It might 
 be so different, one cannot help thinking. 
 The adaptations for harmony so wonder 
 ful ! The elements of happiness so 
 manifold and so rich ! Yet how often 
 how miserably sometimes it all mis 
 carries ! The waters of Paradise turned 
 to fountains of bitterness the gifts of 
 Heaven perverted to curses upon earth ! 
 
 I do not mean that there are few 
 unions yielding reasonable comfort, 
 friendly relations, a life free from open 
 quarrel or secret heart-burning ; but I 
 speak of very marriage, without flaw or 
 jar a mating alike of the material, with 
 its intangible affinities and its wondrous 
 magnetisms, and of the immaterial princi 
 ple within that survives the death-change. 
 I speak of a heart-home pervaded by har 
 mony not only unbroken immutable as 
 that of the spheres ; felt to be so by 
 those whom it blesses, calms, satisfies ; 
 a social state to which, when man and 
 woman attain, there remains nothing in 
 the way of earthly need or acquisition, 
 save daily bread, to be coveted or prayed 
 for. 
 
 Some think that, in this trial-phase of 
 our existence, no such state of harmony 
 and happiness is to be found. Among 
 the few who do find it none of these 
 skeptics will have place. No entrance 
 into that temple except for those who be 
 lieve ! Without faith in the Good and the 
 Beautiful the Good that is felt, not seen 
 the Beautiful that must be conceived 
 before it is realized a man is shut out 
 from the highest enjoyment. And such 
 a man can do little to meliorate the world 
 or elevate his race. 
 
 Sydenham, despite his Quaker origin, 
 was romantic. I remind those who may 
 think slightingly of him on that account 
 that ROMANCE, though a word of in 
 different reputation, has some claim to 
 excellent etymology, having been traced 
 by certain philologists to the Welsh 
 rhamanta, to rise over, to soar, to reach 
 to a distance. In addition, the young 
 man had an inherent love of excellence. 
 He sought, even in such trifling matters 
 
 as personal purchases, the best of every 
 thing. Whatever he did, trifling or im 
 portant, his instinct was to strive therein 
 to excel ; not from vulgar ambition, but 
 because he found pleasure in the strife. 
 His future brothers-in-law had a touch 
 of aversion to an American alliance, but 
 Sydenham s personal accomplishments 
 overbore the prejudice. A "deuced 
 gentlemanly young fellow," they voted 
 him among themselves : "can ride across 
 country with the best of us, fence like a 
 Frenchman, and then shame us all in the 
 ball-room at night." 
 
 But it was something else that at 
 tracted the sister. Sydenham was a 
 devout believer in the IDEAL. He had 
 strong faith in his kind. He was a 
 dreamer of what men may do and may 
 become. Every struggle for popular 
 liberty, or what he regarded as such, 
 awoke his warm sympathies. William 
 of Orange, Hampclen, Kosciusko, La- 
 martine, La Fayette, these were his fa 
 vorite heroes. He had spent a week 
 with the latter at La Grange, the genial 
 old man driving him out, in his own car 
 riage, from Paris, and recounting to him, 
 the while, with charming garrulity, origi 
 nal anecdotes of two Revolutions. One 
 of these, presenting the Father of our 
 Country in a rare aspect, often recurred 
 to Sydenham in after years, vividly re 
 calling as it did the tender eyes and the 
 gracious, loving manner which made the 
 grand old Frenchman the idol of all 
 young people who were fortunate enough 
 to share his friendship. 
 
 It was just before the unmasking of 
 the sole traitor who loomed up during 
 our Revolution. Washington had ac 
 cepted an invitation from Arnold to 
 breakfast with him at West Point on 
 the very day the plot was discovered, but 
 was prevented from keeping his engage 
 ment by what men call chance by the 
 earnest request, namely, of an old officer, 
 near whose station they passed, to spend 
 the night there and inspect some works 
 in the neighborhood. Next day, while 
 Washington, with his staff", including 
 La Fayette, were seated at table at this 
 officer s quarters, a despatch was brought 
 to the American general, which he im- 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 35 
 
 mediately opened and read and then laid 
 down, without comment. No alteration 
 was visible in his countenance, and he 
 remained perfectly silent. Conversation 
 dropped among his suite ; and, after 
 some minutes, the general, beckoning 
 La Fayette to follow him, passed to an 
 inner apartment, turned to his young 
 friend without uttering a syllable, placed 
 the fatal despatch in his hands, and then, 
 giving way to an ungovernable burst of 
 feeling, fell on his neck and sobbed aloud. 
 The effect produced on the young French 
 marquis, accustomed to regard his gene 
 ral (cold and dignified in his usual man 
 ner) as devoid of the usual weaknesses 
 of humanity, may be imagined. " I be 
 lieve," said La Fayette in relating this 
 anecdote, " that this was the only occa 
 sion, throughout that long and some 
 times hopeless struggle, that Washing 
 ton ever gave way, even for a moment, 
 under a reverse of fortune ; and perhaps 
 I was the only human being who ever 
 witnessed in him an exhibition of feeling 
 so foreign to his temperament. As it 
 was, he recovered himself before I had 
 perused the communication that had 
 given rise to his emotion; and when we 
 returned to his staff not a trace remained 
 on his countenance either of grief or 
 despondency." 
 
 With such antecedents Sydenham was 
 a welcome guest, especially to the mis 
 tress of Acquabella so the family seat 
 in Devonshire was called. 
 
 The family of Imelda Gherardi had 
 been devoted Liberals ; and she, though 
 now presiding over an English house 
 hold, retained all her enthusiasm for the 
 cause of her country s independence. 
 " Italia Unita " was the idea of her 
 life. An Italian republic, stretching 
 from Switzerland to Sicily of that she 
 dreamed ; for that, in her adopted coun 
 try, she schemed and planned. Syden 
 ham was charmed with her earnest zeal, 
 entered into her patriotic projects with 
 faith and sympathy, and became a great 
 favorite with Mrs. Selbourne. Anna, 
 sharing in a measure her mother s ardor, 
 listened to their discussions with kind 
 ling eyes. In these discussions under 
 the influence of those eyes Sydenham s 
 
 sunny nature came out. His glowing 
 fancy, his generous aspirations, his bursts 
 of eloquence when encouraged by sym 
 pathy in his listeners, made a daily- 
 deepening impression on the girl s heart. 
 And Sydenham, on his part, uncon 
 sciously contracted a habit, as the con 
 versation passed from topic to topic, of 
 turning inquiringly to the dark eyes for 
 approval or dissent. Could it all end 
 except in one way ? 
 
 With the intermission of a brief visit 
 to Philadelphia, Mr. and Mrs. Sydenham 
 had resided for several years in England, 
 partly in London, partly at Acquabella. 
 There they lingered, fearing the result 
 of Mrs. Selbourne s drooping health. 
 Shortly after her death they set out for 
 Italy, taking with them their only child, 
 the little Leoline, then seven years old. 
 
 After a brief sojourn in Switzerland, 
 they passed, by Napoleon s wonderful 
 road, the Simplon, into one of the most 
 beautiful regions of Piedmont. How 
 amazing the change ! How lovely that 
 first night at Baveno ! The sweet South 
 ern air the moonlight on the placid 
 lake, on the softly-rounded, olive-clad 
 hills, on the trellised vines, so picturesque 
 compared to the formal vineyards of 
 France all in such contrast to the 
 scenes they had left behind the giant 
 mountain-peaks of granite, snow-covered, 
 piercing the clouds, the vast glacier, brist 
 ling with ice-blocks, sliding down, an en- 
 croacher on the valley s verdure in such 
 marvelous contrast to all that region of 
 rock and ice, and mountain-torrent and 
 rugged path, and grand, rude majesty of 
 aspect it seemed like passing in a sin 
 gle day into another and a gentler world. 
 
 To Anna Sydenham a region of en 
 chantment and romance ! Her mother s 
 native land, that she had never yet seen 
 but in dreams ! Once the Mistress of 
 the World, and still the Queen of Art. 
 But it was not of ancient renown or 
 modern celebrity the daughter was think 
 ing. It was of the fairy-land of her 
 mother s adoration the Italy which 
 that mother, even in her pleasant Eng 
 lish home, never named but with wistful 
 eyes. 
 
 And Anna loved it now, at first sight, 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 for its own beautiful sake. Mere life 
 was a pleasure to her in its balmy, 
 dreamy atmosphere and under its pure, 
 deep-blue sky. She drank in enjoyment 
 as never in her life before. They made 
 charming, quiet excursions on the lakes 
 Maggiore, Lugano, Como ; rowed by 
 young girls with pensive, oval faces, who 
 sung barcaroles as they rowed. They 
 returned always, however, to the spot 
 where they had spent their first Italian 
 night Baveno ; for they had come to 
 like its humble, country albergo, clean 
 and fresh, and had taken a fancy to their 
 simple apartments, with gay furniture 
 and polished, tesselated floor. Little 
 Lela, too, as they usually called her, ever 
 begged them to go back to the pretty, 
 pretty room where, on the first evening 
 of her arrival, sitting at the open win 
 dow on her mother s knee, she had 
 gathered clusters of grapes from the 
 overhanging vine. 
 
 One fine evening they had crossed 
 to that wonderful I sola Bella, once a 
 bare and barren island of slate rock, 
 rfow a gorgeous garden teeming with the 
 vegetation of the tropics. They had 
 explored its vast palace, lingered in its 
 orange groves ; and Lela, passionately 
 fond of flowers, returned with her pin 
 afore full of magnificent specimens. 
 When they reached the inn, the child, 
 tired of pleasure, curled herself up on a 
 couch and went fast to sleep, with the 
 flowers in her arms. Sydenham and 
 his young wife sat down by a large re 
 cessed window, set entirely open after 
 Italian fashion. Beneath lay the Lago 
 Maggiore, motionless, serene. The full 
 moon, a few hours high and directly 
 opposite, shone down on the dark blue 
 waters, through that strangely trans 
 parent atmosphere, with a splendor 
 which Anna, during all her island-life, 
 had never seen matched. So brilliant 
 was the long streak of light on the 
 mirror-surface of the lake, formed under 
 the line of the moon by her reflected 
 rays, that one realized the poetical fancy 
 which dreams of such as a path of radi 
 ance leading to some far-off world of 
 beauty and of rest. 
 
 At first that glorious night-scene awed 
 
 these young hearts ; then gradually the 
 awe gave way to gentler emotions. The 
 delicious breath of Italy came over them, 
 softening, inspiring in Anna s case sad 
 dening too. Is the fullness of joy so 
 nearly allied to fear ? Her hand in her 
 husband s, she sat long, in silence, tran 
 quil. Then he felt her hand tremble 
 then suddenly grasp his own. He 
 started. 
 
 " Forgive me !" she cried. It was 
 too strong for me." 
 
 What is it, Anna ?" 
 
 " Nothing. A silly fancy. Are you 
 quite well to-night, Frank dear ?" 
 
 " Perfectly. Never in my life, I think, 
 was I better or happier." 
 
 Thank God !" 
 
 "What is the matter? Why, my 
 child, you are shivering. My poor, little 
 darling !" 
 
 " I will be stronger and banish such 
 nonsense." 
 
 " What nonsense ?" 
 
 It has all come from a fisherwoman s 
 sad story, I think. You remember, that, 
 in returning from the Isola Bella, we 
 passed close by that poor little Isola dei 
 Pescatori, and that there was a crowd 
 of fishermen and their families assembled 
 round one of their rude hovels." 
 
 I noticed that." 
 
 " But you did not hear the answer one 
 of the boat-girls gave me when I asked 
 her if anything was the matter." 
 
 " I did not catch the meaning : you 
 know how much my Italian needs brush 
 ing up." 
 
 Only because you devote so much 
 more time to German. This was what 
 the girl said: A fisherman was drowned 
 yesterday ; they brought the body home 
 to-day : she will be very, very lonely, the 
 poor woman. I think a stranger s death 
 never so touched me before. I could 
 not even talk to you about it." 
 
 I am an excellent swimmer. You 
 foolish child, I shall not be drowned." 
 
 " No," with a faint smile " No ; but 
 there was more, de ar Frank. You re 
 member what you were reading to me, 
 yesterday, in the boat as we returned 
 from visiting that gigantic statue of St. 
 Borromeo ?" 
 
"Oh, Frank, you mustn t go there before me." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 37 
 
 Some very indifferent scraps of 
 translations, I believe bits from Schil 
 ler s Death of Wallenstein. " 
 
 " Yes, and among them that exquisite 
 heart-wail of Tekla s. While I was 
 sitting with my hand in yours, just now, 
 looking across at that Fisherman s Is 
 land, three lines of your translation came 
 upon me so vividly I could not help 
 grasping your hand. It actually seemed 
 to me as if some one repeated in my 
 ears 
 
 Thou, Father, in mercy thy child recall ! 
 Earth s holiest pleasures I ve tasted them all ; 
 I have loved, I have lived let me die ! " 
 
 She shuddered eyes moist, face pale. 
 Sydenham put his arms around her, 
 gently drawing her head to his breast. 
 He touched her hands ; they were icy 
 cold. 
 
 We have been overdoing it, dear," 
 he said. " You must rest for a day or 
 two." 
 
 " I think it is this eerie, dreamy cli 
 mate," she murmured languidly, "and 
 that moonlit pathway over the dark 
 lake. It all makes me think of Heaven." 
 Then, with a sudden burst : u Oh, Frank, 
 Frank, you mustn t go there before me. 
 If you did, how could I help praying 
 like Tekla ?" 
 
 At that moment little Lela murmured 
 in her sleep, scarce audibly : Syden- 
 ham s ear did not detect the faint sound. 
 Anna was by the couch in a moment, 
 kneeling over her. The child did not 
 stir, however, relapsing into dreamless 
 sleep. 
 
 Then the mother rose and crept back 
 to her husband s arms. He felt that she 
 was sobbing silently, with an effort to 
 conceal it. During all their married life 
 he had never seen her so agitated with 
 out external cause. He stroked back 
 the black tresses again and again, passed 
 his hand gently, repeatedly scarce know 
 ing why or being conscious of what he 
 did over her face and person. The 
 magnetic touch had a strangely-soothing 
 influence. Her sobs ceased. Her breath 
 ing came free and regular : the long eye 
 lashes drooped over her cheeks. Then, 
 in a low, contrite voice, What has come 
 over me ?" she said. I am tormenting 
 
 you for nothing, Frank. You are not 
 going to die; and if you were, is our 
 little darling to be deserted ? Tekla 
 was childless. God forgive my selfish 
 thought !" 
 
 What a transformation maybe wrought 
 by a single night s quiet rest ! The next 
 morning Anna was all her bright, racy 
 self again, the light in her eye, the healthy 
 color on her cheek. The morning was 
 perfect, a gentle breeze from the lake 
 coming in through the open casements. 
 Lela s merry outcry as she arranged her 
 flowers was contagious. 
 
 " What a good-for-nothing wife you 
 had last night, Frank !" said Anna, laugh 
 ing gayly. "Are you sure some fairy 
 did not steal me away, and leave that 
 querulous simpleton in my place ?" 
 
 " Likely enough. You look, this morn 
 ing, as if you had been among the fairies 
 all night. You are radiant, wherever you 
 have been." 
 
 " I ought to look my prettiest, to atone 
 for past folly. But the bad child begs 
 pardon, and says it will never ? never do 
 so any more. And the never is to be 
 such a long word. We are going to 
 live together till we are oh, so old ! 
 till we have ever so many grandchildren 
 clambering over our knees. And I shall 
 not scold them, even if they do pull my 
 cap and frills. Ah how we shall laugh 
 then you and I over that evening at 
 Baveno, with its doleful presentiments !" 
 
 " But you suit me, even if you are a 
 querulous simpleton." 
 
 " Fie ! How can you expect the bad 
 child to reform, if you persuade it it 
 wasn t bad at all ? You ought to shut 
 it up and feed it, for a day at least, on 
 bread and water." 
 
 " Too glorious a morning for that ! I 
 want to take it out among some of these 
 vineyards back of the village, and give it 
 grapes for luncheon. Will it go?" 
 
 " Of course it will. Rogues don t 
 fancy hanging, nor bad children being 
 shut up in dark closets." 
 
 Their child, who had been listening 
 attentively, opened her large, brown eyes 
 in wonder. " Poor, perplexed Lela !" 
 said the mother, laughing. ;; She s not 
 accustomed to hearing: about bad chil- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 dren and dark closets. Your papa was 
 only laughing at me, pet. You ve eaten 
 all the grapes from around that window, 
 and we are going out to get some more. 
 ^ Come !" 
 
 A servant entered just then to say 
 that the principal guide to the Monte 
 Monterone had come to offer a portan- 
 tina,* in case their Excellencies wished 
 to ascend the mountain ; but they de 
 cided to adhere to their original plan. 
 
 They found an old caleche, easy and 
 roomy, took a country road, shaded by 
 chestnuts, and bade the postboy drive 
 slowly, that they might fully enjoy the 
 gay scene. He found some little diffi 
 culty in obeying, for he had a pair of 
 large, spirited stallions that he was train 
 ing for sale to the owners of the Milan 
 diligence. 
 
 It was the harvest-home of the vigne- 
 rons why won t the dictionary let us 
 call them mncyarders ? the season of 
 recompense and rejoicing, when the re 
 sult of the year s labor was collected 
 and secured. The handsome, embrowned 
 peasants, in their picturesque blouses, 
 drove their teams along the road with 
 light hearts, yet with a certain dignity, as 
 if proud of the load. Every face was 
 gay. The sounds of distant music, half 
 lively, half plaintive, came over to them 
 from the vineyards and olive groves as 
 the travelers passed. 
 
 When midday came, they sought 
 shade near a wayside spring, sheltered 
 by a magnificent old chestnut. Ah, how 
 every incident of that noonday rest 
 haunted Sydenham s memory in after 
 years ! 
 
 But now, with light jest and careless 
 hearts, they set about preparing their 
 frugal meal. The cushions from the 
 caleche furnished seats. Bread and a 
 bottle of light wine of the country, with 
 napkins and a table-cloth, were the con- 
 
 * A portantina is a species of easy litter, provided 
 in Italy for the use of ladies unaccustomed to exercise, 
 or invalids, desirous to ascend high mountains Vesu 
 vius, for example. The Monte Monterone, situated 
 just behind the village of Baveno, between the Lago 
 Maggiore and the little lake of Orta, is three or four 
 hundred feet higher than Vesuvius ; and the view from 
 its summit is scarcely excelled, for extent and magnifi 
 cence, by that from the Righi itself. 
 
 tents of a basket which Sydenham 
 emptied on the bank. 
 
 " Now I must fetch the grapes. This 
 vineyard behind us looks promising, and 
 the men are but a little way off." Then 
 to Lela : " Will you go with me, little 
 pet ? I want your mamma to rest." 
 
 But the child had spied some gay 
 wild-flowers on the opposite side of the 
 road, and they were a greater temptation 
 than grapes. 
 
 " I m going to gather you a pretty 
 nosegay for the centre of the dinner- 
 table, papa. We mustn t dine without 
 flowers." 
 
 So Sydenham took the empty basket 
 and departed alone /If guardian spirits 
 there be, commissioned to watch over 
 the welfare of mortals, where was Syden 
 ham s then ? Withheld, it may be, from 
 interference by a Wisdom that sees 
 deeper than ours. 
 
 Lela strayed off across the road to 
 fulfill her promise to papa. Her Eng 
 lish nurse, Susan, who had come with 
 them, as on such occasions she usually 
 did, made the little preparations for the 
 meal, Anna being occupied in looking 
 over Murray s Handbook, seeking to 
 discover whether it was worth while to 
 carry out an expedition they had pro 
 jected to the top of Monte Monterone, 
 in full view from where she now sat. 
 Pietro, the postboy, meanwhile unhitched 
 the traces of his horses and led them a 
 little distance up the road, there to rest 
 and feed. While he was busy attaching 
 a nosebag containing barley to the head 
 of the horse he had ridden, several 
 dragon-flies darted, with the wonderful 
 power of flight which characterizes these 
 insects, right across the road to where 
 the animals stood. One buzzed between 
 their legs ; another fastened, with fero 
 cious grip, on the neck of the off-horse. 
 Both animals stamped and snorted in 
 terror. Pietro succeeded, at consider 
 able personal risk to himself, in master 
 ing the one he held ; but the other stal 
 lion, a powerful brute, maddened by the 
 sharp sting, broke away and dashed 
 down the road. 
 
 It was Lela who first noticed the ter 
 ror of the horses. She set out to cross 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 39 
 
 the road, but seeing one of the frantic 
 animals loose and plunging toward her, 
 she hesitated stopped. At the same 
 instant her mother rushed impetuously 
 to her assistance. The horse was gal 
 loping directly toward Lela ; but, with 
 the instinct which characterizes his kind, 
 even in his headlong speed perceiving 
 the child, he swerved to the right, avoid 
 ing her. It was in the very moment 
 when Anna had bounded forward from 
 the other side, and this sideward move 
 ment brought him directly in contact 
 with her. He struck her with his broad 
 breast, casting her violently to the 
 ground ; then bounded over her as she 
 lay prostrate, not touching her with his 
 hoofs. 
 
 Susan, almost beside herself with 
 terror, hastened, trembling, to her mis 
 tress aid. Anna was insensible ; and 
 it was not until Sydenham, alarmed by 
 the nurse s shrieks, reached the spot, 
 that she was removed to the green bank 
 under the chestnut tree. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 STRONGER THAN DEATH. 
 
 IT avails nothing that I attempt to 
 picture the husband s wild despair. To 
 a brave man if alone in this world and 
 believing in another a summons to die 
 is a thing to be received with passionless 
 equanimity : it is but as a requisition 
 issued to some sojourner in an indiffer 
 ent country to take up his residence in 
 a better. A little pain or trouble in the 
 transit soon- over that is all. 
 
 It is when he strikes us through 
 others that Death thrusts home his dart. 
 He is victor, not when he takes us hence, 
 but when he wrests from us the life of 
 our life, and leaves us here exanimate 
 save only in the faculty of suffering. 
 
 Then holds the King of Terrors his 
 carnival of triumph. Perhaps a brief 
 triumph only. For the good and the 
 wise there is ever, after a time, an exit 
 from this valley of the shadow of death. 
 After a time, not in the freshness of 
 grief: not a gleam, then, indicating the 
 way out. When the fearful blow first 
 
 falls, the victim is stricken down, help 
 less, hopeless, prostrate, seeing around 
 him but the blackness of darkness, and 
 believing, in his utter abandonment, that 
 such will be his lot for evermore. 
 
 So felt Sydenham at the moment it 
 burst upon him that he had lost his 
 Anna. The sun of his life had gone 
 out. He groped about in the gloom, 
 stunned, as one suddenly stricken with 
 blindness. He noticed not even the 
 child of his love, clinging to the helpless 
 form, moaning, "Mamma ! mamma!" 
 
 The untutored servant-girl had more 
 self-possession than he. He sat gazing 
 on the inanimate face : she had brought 
 water from the spring, and was bathing 
 her mistress temples. A shudder seemed 
 to pass over the features. A sigh ! That 
 awoke him from his stupor. " She lives ! 
 she may be saved !" he cried, bounding 
 to his feet. In another moment he was 
 beside the postboy, who stood stupefied, 
 the bridle of the remaining horse still 
 over his arm. "A portantina, Pietro ! 
 But instantly, instantly! It is life or 
 death ! In an hour you must be in 
 Baveno. Ask what pay you please. 
 Do you hear ?" 
 
 " Eccellenza, yes," said the man, re 
 leasing his horse from its harness and 
 tightening the saddle-girths. " In an 
 hour, if" 
 
 No ifs ! In an hour! Mount !" 
 
 But as the man threw himself into the 
 saddle, Sydenham laid his hand on the 
 rein: "A moment! This morning a 
 guide offered me a portantina in case we 
 ascended the Monte. He lives nearly 
 opposite the albergo. Do you know 
 him ?" 
 
 " Eccellenza, yes Francesco Ribaldi." 
 
 "Get it from him, and some convey 
 ance to bring it here at speed, remem 
 ber ! Twelve bearers, so they can re 
 lieve each other. Get carriages for them 
 also. Any price, any price, so they are 
 only here as fast as horses can carry 
 them ! Away !" 
 
 The man started at full gallop, and 
 Sydenham, the flush of excitement fad 
 ing from his face, retumed to the fatal 
 spot. 
 
 For the first hour there was little 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 change feeble indications of life, but 
 apparent insensibility. At last the eyes 
 opened, eagerly seeking the loved face ; 
 and the hand which Sydenham had been 
 holding in his feebly returned the pres 
 sure. He touched her wrist the pulse 
 unnaturally low, as he made it out. He 
 knew scarcely anything of medicine, but 
 something seemed needed to sustain her. 
 A few spoonfuls from the wine-flask 
 revived her a little. 
 
 Gradually she seemed to return to life, 
 speaking but feebly and at intervals, 
 however broken words of encourage 
 ment and of love. 
 
 Interminable, to the excited watchers, 
 seemed the delay ; yet in less than three 
 hours the long-expected carriages drove 
 up their horses white with foam bring 
 ing the litter and its bearers. 
 
 It was evident that the sufferer en 
 dured acute pain as they placed her on 
 the portantina ; but the well-trained 
 bearers kept step perfectly ; the motion 
 was easy, without jar ; and she did not 
 seem worse on her arrival. 
 
 Sydenham, unwilling to trust any vil 
 lage doctor, and having ascertained the 
 name of the principal physician in Milan, 
 Dr. Lo Piccolo, instantly despatched an 
 express courier to that city, with a letter 
 to the doctor, imploring him to start as 
 soon as the courier arrived. The dis 
 tance is forty miles : the man promised 
 it should be made, by the aid of relay 
 horses, in two hours and a half, and he 
 started about eight. Before four o clock 
 next morning the physician arrived. 
 
 Anna had passed a restless night 
 quite sensible, however, gradually im 
 proving, and without fever. She yearned 
 to speak to her husband, but, fearing the 
 excitement, he entreated her to desist. 
 At her own earnest request, Lela had 
 been laid beside her for a while. But 
 the poor little thing, after struggling 
 bravely with her emotion till she could 
 restrain it no longer, sobbed so piteously 
 that they were obliged to remove her to 
 the nurse s room. 
 
 After a critical examination, the doc 
 tor prescribed bleeding, expressing re 
 gret that it had not sooner been resorted 
 to. " Her pulse is feeble at present," 
 
 he said as he passed, with Sydenham, 
 into the adjoining room, where he had 
 left his instruments " slow and feeble ; 
 but fever will supervene in a few hours 
 by midday certainly. What have you 
 given her ?" 
 
 " Only a little wine from time to time : 
 it seemed to revive her." 
 
 The physician shook his head : " De 
 pletion, not stimulant, is the remedy at 
 this stage. I do not think any bones 
 are broken, but there are internal in 
 juries, it is impossible to say of what 
 organs, or determine how serious the 
 lesion is. Blood must be let to arrest 
 congestion of the injured parts." 
 
 The terrible question rose to Syden- 
 ham s lips. He became so pale that the 
 experienced eye of the medical man de 
 tected his secret at once. " The shock 
 to the system," he said, replying as if the 
 other had spoken, " has been very se 
 vere, nor is it possible, as yet, to predict 
 the issue. With these," taking up the 
 lancets, "we combat the febrile symp 
 toms. The signora appe?rs to have an 
 excellent constitution. Let us hope that 
 we may be able to save her." 
 
 I have often wondered whether with 
 case succeeding case to disperse and 
 distract attention the physician con 
 tinues to realize the despotic power over 
 the heart often exercised by his lightest 
 words. " Let us hope " had been this 
 man s expression, but uttered in a tone 
 such that he might almost as well have 
 said, " Let us despair." 
 
 The patient was bled, and the doctor 
 departed, promising to return next day, 
 and enjoining, meanwhile, absolute quiet. 
 "All exciting conversation," he said, 
 must especially be avoided." He left 
 an anodyne to be given in the evening. 
 
 The prediction in regard to fever was 
 verified. It set in about eleven o clock 
 in the forenoon, yet it was not so violent 
 as to be alarming, nor did it, at any time, 
 seem to affect the mind. Anna was, in 
 deed, very restless : she experienced a 
 settled pain on the left side, where, 
 probably, the horse s shoulder had struck 
 her, and she suffered much because of 
 the frequent change of position which 
 her restlessness required. But she bore 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 it all with wonderful equanimity, and the 
 few words they would permit her to say 
 were calm, considerate and like herself. 
 
 So passed that day and the next night. 
 When the physician called on the ensu 
 ing morning, he bled her a second time, 
 and ordered leeches to be applied to the 
 chief seat of the pain that dull, wear 
 ing pain, still unabated. It would be 
 impossible for him, he said, to call next 
 day, nor was u essential. " It might 
 not be prudent further to deplete the 
 system," he said to Sydenham : " the 
 fever gives artificial strength for the 
 time ; but to-morrow, or at latest next 
 day, there will be depression : then we 
 must fortify with stimulants. Watch 
 the pulse and do not omit this. Art 
 can do no more. Rest assured that all 
 her resources have been called forth, 
 and not, I trust, in vain." 
 
 But a straw to grasp at ; yet Syden 
 ham, sanguine and hopeful by nature, 
 clung to it. Men are prone," he 
 thought, to exaggerate difficulties, even 
 when, confident that they can overcome 
 them. He may speak guardedly, so as 
 to enhance the merit that will be due to 
 him for success. Ah, how little needed ! 
 If he could but imagine what he will be 
 to me if he save her life !" 
 
 Another day, with little change. To 
 ward evening she said to her husband, 
 who had scarcely quitted her room since 
 she lay there, "Frank darling, you never 
 in all your life refused to gratify a wish 
 of mine ; and you will not do so now, I 
 think. Will you ?" 
 
 Utterly unable to answer her, except 
 by pressing the hand he held. 
 
 " Two days and two nights you have 
 been beside me, almost without stirring. 
 See what a glorious sunset ! You must 
 go out for an hour nay, only for a single 
 hour." 
 
 He moved impatiently, as in dissent. 
 An expression of suffering came over 
 her face. 
 
 "You don t want to pain me, Frank?" 
 Then, with a faint smile ; " Besides, I 
 shall have company. I want Lela this 
 evening. She shall not see that I suffer: 
 I shall forget that I do when I know you 
 are out in the fresh air. The child 
 
 little darling! has already learned to 
 control herself. She will be quiet. 
 Nurse shall take her away, else." 
 
 Sydenham was like one condemned to 
 a dreary task. He took his hat, then re 
 turned to the bedside, gazed, through his 
 tears, at the sweet face, but without a 
 word. 
 
 " A full hour, Frank for my sake !" 
 
 He imprinted a kiss on her pale brow 
 and was gone. 
 
 Just one hour after, to the minute, he 
 re-entered the room. His wife was more 
 quiet than he had seen her since the 
 accident. " I am proud of my little 
 daughter," she said, drawing the child to 
 her for a kiss. She has been such a 
 comfort to me !" 
 
 " I ve been taking care of mamma all 
 alone," said the child, triumphantly. Then 
 a shade came over the little thoughtful 
 face. " I can t make mamma not have 
 pain, but she says it does her good when 
 I talk to her. Doesn t it, mamma dear ?" 
 
 " Ever so much good, my child." 
 
 Then Leoline relapsed into a very 
 grave, sad mood quite quiet, however ; 
 no sobs, no tears. What seemed to the 
 father a sort of childish dignity now and 
 then lit up her face. Were new thoughts, 
 that had never been there before, busy 
 in that little brain ? Sydenham wondered 
 what mother and child had been saying 
 to each other. 
 
 During the night Anna slept a little : 
 at least she lay, for an hour and a half, 
 her eyes closed, her face placid, without 
 a symptom of restlessness, quiet as an 
 infant asleep. When she awoke the pain 
 in her side had much diminished. Syd 
 enham accepted all this as a good augury. 
 Toward morning, however, the pulse had 
 evidently become feebler. Lo Piccolo s 
 instructions in such a case were strictly 
 obeyed. Diffusible stimulants were 
 freely given, and in the forenoon the 
 patient rallied. 
 
 About midday she said : 
 
 Frank, my husband, it did me good 
 that you left me alone last evening, with 
 Lela. Now you must let me have my 
 own way once more." 
 
 Well, dear one ?" 
 
 " I don t want you to leave me, this 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 42 
 
 time, but to stay and to let us have a 
 talk together. I have things on my 
 mind" 
 
 But Dr. Lo Piccolo said" 
 Yes, dear, I know ; but there are 
 matters as to which he cannot judge. 
 He wishes me to be free from excite 
 ment. I shall not be so until I have 
 spoken frankly to you." 
 
 "To-morrow or next day, perhaps, 
 Anna when you are stronger." 
 
 She hesitated: "Part, at least, of 
 what I have to tell you ought to be said 
 to-day now. You yourself will think 
 so when you shall have heard it. I 
 entreat you by our love." 
 
 My own darling ! Not another 
 word ! You were always wiser than I, 
 especially when moved by impulse so 
 strong as this. It shall be as you say." 
 " Thank you !" extending her arms to 
 him. Sydenham kissed her fervently. 
 She lay quiet for a little while. Then, 
 in a low voice : 
 
 I have been thinking of the life we 
 have spent together. Eight years yes, 
 day after to-morrow : did that occur to 
 you, Frank dear ? eight years since you 
 gave me your name ; nearly two years 
 more since I first knew you ! Do you 
 know what you have been to me all these 
 years ? Do you know what the summer 
 rain is to the parched soil ? what the 
 sun is to the flowers ? I wish you could 
 feel, just as I do this day, how happy 
 how happy I have been ! Ten years ! 
 and, except those few dark weeks when 
 we watched by my dear mother s bed 
 side and saw her pass away, not a cloud ! 
 I wonder if you know how happy you 
 have made me hour by hour, day by 
 day. I had a glad thought always near 
 me. It went to sleep on my breast at 
 night ; and in the morning, through my 
 first waking consciousness, it whispered 
 to me that you were there. Ever 
 throughout the clay, in the midst of 
 other thoughts, there hovered about me 
 a sense as of some good news a feel 
 ing that I had something to rejoice at 
 vague as it were veiled while my mine 
 was occupied with daily duties, but in 
 the intervals of these coming over un 
 like a bit of sunshine through an open 
 
 ng in fleecy clouds. At night again 
 he last thing it was a sweet sense of 
 irotection and of peace. That golden 
 bought, running through the whole 
 enor of my life embellishing, enriching 
 ah, friend, lover, husband ; you must 
 always remember, come what will, that 
 t was the consciousness of your pres 
 ence, of your love, of your ceaseless, 
 priceless care. Whatever happens, pro 
 mise me for my sake for my sake, my 
 own beloved promise me that you will 
 never forget this !" 
 
 Sydenham tried in vain to control his 
 emotion. "Anna, Anna," he cried, 
 . why do you say this to me why now? 
 You are better, quieter, the fever is 
 abating " 
 
 "If I could spare you this blow if 
 I could ! But, whether I am here be 
 side you, or whether I am waiting for 
 you" She hesitated ; then, in a lower 
 vo i ce a w aiting for you where separa 
 tions are not it ought to gladden your 
 life that you have procured such a life 
 of gladness for me. A life, Frank ! a 
 whole life ! More than the happiness 
 of a lifetime was crowded into these 
 years. How often, as they passed, has 
 my heart cried out, What am I, that 
 my cup should have been filled to over 
 flowing ? " 
 
 The husband was utterly unmanned. 
 He felt what her premonitions were. 
 They might bring about their own fulfill 
 ment ! " I beseech you," he cried, "by 
 the love that has been more to me than 
 life I beseech you, cast from you these 
 terrible thoughts. You must not leave 
 me, Anna you must not !" 
 
 "Would I go if I might stay with 
 you and Lela ?" The voice was calm, 
 instinct with speechless affection, but 
 calm, with scarcely a tremble in its tones : 
 the bitterness of death was past. " I 
 have been thinking over it, lying here : 
 it is not terrible, but I must tell you 
 just the truth. That wine you gave me 
 when my senses returned, and through 
 the first night, did me so much good, 
 Frank. I thought then I might recover. 
 I dare say Dr. Lo Piccolo is a skillful 
 man, and I have always heard that in 
 case of an accident like mine one ought 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 43 
 
 to be bled. But when he bled me the 
 first day my life seemed to go out with 
 the red stream ; there was oh, such a 
 sinking of heart and spirit ! When the 
 fever came I felt a little stronger ; but 
 after the second bleeding I knew I felt 
 you must not weep, Frank darling ; 
 this is a world where Death must be 
 where all we love lives but by his for 
 bearance. If you had gone first you 
 must remember this that I am going to 
 tell you, Frank, and you must forget 
 that evening of my weakness and my 
 forebodings, and that prayer of Tekla s 
 yes, if you had gone first, I should 
 have waited patiently : I should have 
 lived for our little Lela and so must 
 you !" 
 
 The strong man shook like a child. 
 My burden is greater than I can bear." 
 That was his one feeling for the moment. 
 But he was awakened to a sense of its 
 selfishness by the increasing helplessness 
 of the sufferer. The effort seemed to 
 have quite exhausted her. Even the 
 hectic flush was fading. He adminis 
 tered a stimulant. 
 
 That revived her for the moment. 
 Alas ! for the moment only ! Each time 
 that the remedy was resorted to the 
 effect was feebler and more brief. There 
 was, indeed, much less pain, but the 
 pulse indicated a sinking condition of 
 the system. Was her instinct in regard 
 to the blood-letting correct ? Had it 
 drained the vital energies ? At all events, 
 relief from pain and fever had come too 
 late had come when there was no longer 
 force to rally. Even to Sydenham, hop 
 ing against conviction, this became ap 
 parent. Yet she continued to speak to 
 him from time to time. 
 
 How often, in after years, did the 
 husband call to mind the beautiful 
 thoughtfulness for himself and for others 
 evinced by his dying wife ! She seemed, 
 especially, to have considered every 
 minute detail connected with the welfare 
 of her child its culture, physical, men 
 tal, spiritual. Never had her mind 
 seemed more clear. Do not fear 
 to bring her up in the country," she 
 said : " simple goodness is better than 
 brilliant accomplishment. And you 
 
 have duties in the country, Frank. I 
 have been thinking of that large Chis- 
 kauga property of yours. You told me 
 there is a village there. How much 
 you might do for these people ! I think 
 you neglected them for me : that thought 
 came to me last night. It came to me 
 from " She seemed in doubt whether 
 to proceed, adding after a pause : " Do 
 you remember a text about dreams, 
 Frank ?" 
 
 " When you are better, dearest, we 
 will talk of it : do not trouble yourself 
 about such things now." 
 
 Trouble !" The old fire lighted up 
 the beautiful eyes once more. Trou 
 ble ! Ah, the brightness, the unspeak 
 able beauty !" Then in a lower voice : 
 " I saw mother there. Nay !" as she 
 noted her husband s startled, uneasy 
 look touch my pulse : see if I am 
 not calm, quiet. In my dream mother 
 said : < You are coming to me ; and her 
 eyes seemed to say : < We shall be so 
 happy ! Then I got the impression, 
 though I don t remember the words, 
 that she told me not to be sorry for you, 
 for you would do so much good after I 
 was gone. I try to do as she bade me ; 
 but if you busy yourself about thinking 
 and caring for others, who is to think 
 and to care for you ? If dear Lela were 
 only older ! She will be such a comfort 
 to you, some day." 
 
 " Oh, Anna, I cannot bear to hear 
 you talk thus, as if it were all irrevoca 
 bly fixed ; and it was but a dream." 
 
 My poor Frank ! If you could but 
 have been with me in that glorious 
 dream ! Think ! I shall have every 
 thing there but you. And after a little 
 while a little while, dear when your 
 task is ended then you, too, will find 
 out that as we approach the Eternal 
 Stream flowing between us and the sum 
 mer-land, soft airs are wafted over to us, 
 and sweet voices come to us from the 
 other shore. Oh, Frank, try to be 
 happy till then. One of us had to go 
 first, darling. Do you grudge it to 
 me ?" 
 
 Thus, with her loving words and 
 her sweet faith, that brave soul sought, 
 even to the end, to wean the mourner, 
 
44 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 about to be left on the hither shore, from 
 the indulgence of his grief. And not in 
 vain was this last labor of love. Even 
 in those supreme moments he came to 
 think of her not as lost, but as going 
 home the first : he came to realize that 
 though, for both, there was a terrible 
 parting here, for her there was a joyful 
 greeting beyond. And in long after 
 years she, being dead, yet spake. The 
 balm of her parting words brought com 
 fort and calm to many a lonely hour. 
 
 Toward midnight she became very 
 feeble, having scarcely strength to ask 
 that she might be moved before the win 
 dow that opened on the lake. The same 
 brilliant moon, the same track of radiance 
 over the dark-blue mirror, as on the 
 night of Anna s presentiments. She 
 gazed dreamily on the calm effulgence of 
 the scene, and, pointing to the streak of 
 light, " It is not brighter," she said 
 faintly to Sydenham, "than the path be 
 fore me." Then gradually she sank into 
 a stupor. Half an hour after she seemed 
 to awake for a moment, with just strength 
 to draw her husband to her arms and to 
 whisper, "Not for long, dear love not 
 for long !" Her last words of comfort 
 to him who had made the happiness of 
 her life. 
 
 The trance-like condition into which 
 she immediately relapsed continued until 
 that earliest hour of the morning when 
 so many have passed away. Then she 
 stirred a little, her lips moved, but she 
 recognized no one. After a time a sera 
 phic expression lit up her features. 
 What she saw, what she felt, we can 
 never know. Except on the brink of 
 the Dark River eye hath not seen it nor 
 ear heard. She threw up her arms as 
 in welcome. " Mother ! mother !" she 
 cried, in tones of tender exultation 
 Then the arms sank slowly, crossing 
 themselves on the breast. The look of 
 ecstasy faded into one mingled of calm 
 joy and holy affection, and of peace 
 passing all understanding. And tha 
 ineffable expression earnest of another 
 world lingered there long after the glad 
 spirit, freed from earthly surroundings 
 had passed to better regions, there to 
 take up its eternal abode. 
 
 A little way up the Monte Monterone, 
 n a small, picturesque, secluded plateau 
 verlooking the placid lake vineyard 
 and olive grove around there stands, 
 nscribed with the single word ANNA, a 
 imple monument of purest white mar- 
 ile. Never was earthly minister of good 
 ness and beauty laid to rest in a lovelier 
 pot. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 FROM BAVENO TO CHISKAUGA. 
 
 One of Anna s last requests to Syd 
 enham was that he should spend some 
 time in passing through Italy with Leo- 
 ine. She foresaw the dreary void, to 
 fill which, at first, change of scene and 
 the healthy excitements of travel are 
 among the best appliances ; but all she 
 had said to him was, " It is my mother s 
 country, and I should like my child to 
 see it." 
 
 For most children of Leoline s age 
 the impressions thus received would have 
 been evanescent, but in her case many 
 of them were never effaced. She was 
 not as far advanced as girls of seven 
 often are in the usual branches of edu 
 cation. Her parents, noting her quick 
 ness and eagerness to learn, had deemed 
 it wise to restrain rather than stimulate 
 her ambition. But her mental faculties 
 and her powers of observation were of 
 no common order, and her exuberant 
 spirits were shaded at times by a dash 
 of thought fulness rare in one so young. 
 This last had been increased by her 
 mother s death and the incidents there 
 with connected. 
 
 It was touching, even if it sometimes 
 called forth a smile, to witness the sort 
 of charge the little thing now took of 
 her father, anticipating his wants and 
 seeking to allay the impatience of his 
 first grief. The day before they left 
 Baveno he had shut himself up in his 
 room, abandoned to thoughts of the 
 heart-solitude that lay before him. She 
 stole quietly in, sat down beside him 
 without a word, and slid her hand into 
 his. At first he scarcely noticed her, 
 but, as she looked up with mute sym- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 45 
 
 pathy in her face, he took her on his 
 knee and kissed her in a passionate 
 burst of grief. She wiped his eyes with 
 her handkerchief, and then startled him 
 by saying, 
 
 " Dorio you cry, papa dear. It will 
 make mamma so sorry !" 
 
 Your mamma, my child ? She is 
 gone " 
 
 " Yes, I know she is not here. She 
 is up among the angels. She told me 
 she was going there, to see grandmam 
 ma ; and she said I mustn t cry after she 
 was gone, because that would make her 
 sorry, up there, in heaven." 
 
 Sydenham called to mind that hour 
 which the dying mother had spent alone 
 with her child. Lela s simple words 
 strangely affected him. 
 
 I m going to see her, some day, 
 myself," she pursued, a sweet gravity on 
 the young face. " Mamma promised if 
 I was good and took care of you, and 
 tried to make you not sorry, that when I 
 was bigger I should come and be with 
 her and grandmamma : and after that 
 she would never go away and leave us 
 any more." 
 
 And then she startled him again with 
 the sudden question : Papa, don t you 
 think mamma sees us ?" 
 
 While Sydenham hesitated for an 
 answer, the child added : 
 
 Because, if she can t see us from up 
 there, how would she know whether I 
 cried or not. Don t the angels see us 
 and take care of us, papa ?" 
 
 How these little creatures with their 
 daring questions sometimes stir up 
 problems that the wisest among us may 
 fail to solve ! And yet we talk to them 
 so heedlessly, and often say in their 
 hearing what we little think they are 
 noting and treasuring up for future 
 thought. 
 
 Sydenham s nature was essentially 
 spiritual : Spurzheim would have as 
 cribed to him a large organ of venera 
 tion ; but his religion had so far been 
 rather a feeling than a system, and he 
 had given little attention to doctrinal 
 points. Lela s questions took him en 
 tirely by surprise. He had a vague re 
 collection of certain texts about minister 
 
 ing spirits sent forth to attend on the 
 good, and about taking heed not to de 
 spise these little ones, seeing that their 
 angels always behold God s face. But 
 he merely said, We shall know more 
 about these things by and by, dear child. 
 Of this we are sure, that your ihamma 
 is happy." 
 
 " Then don t let us be sorry, papa 
 darling. Mamma wouldn t be sorry if 
 she knew we were happy, would she ?" 
 
 Anna s influence was reaching her 
 husband already for good. The ideas 
 which Lela, in her unconscious sim 
 plicity, had aroused within him tended 
 to soothing and tranquillity. 
 
 At Milan, one day, as they returned 
 from visiting that elaborate wonder, the 
 cathedral, Sydenham received a letter, 
 which, by calling up old associations and 
 bringing before his mind the needs and 
 the griefs of others, had an effect whole 
 somely distractive. It was dated from 
 Chiskauga, and was from an old and 
 very dear friend, Eliza Pembroke, say 
 ing that her husband had died suddenly, 
 six months before ; that, feeling her own 
 death to be approaching, she had very 
 anxious thoughts about her only remain 
 ing child, Celia, then ten years old ; and 
 that her sister Alice Hartland, wife of a 
 gentleman who had settled at Chiskauga, 
 had strongly advised her to write to him. 
 " You were always a favorite of hers," 
 the letter continued. She and I re 
 member so well the happy years of child 
 hood we spent with you. Do you still 
 recall our going to school together 
 how you used to aid us in our tasks 
 how you used to join in the quiet sports 
 which were all that the strict discipline 
 of Friends approved or permitted ? 
 
 "To you, the friend and companion 
 of those peaceful days, I now come for 
 counsel, and in case my Celia, left 
 an orphan, should ever find herself in 
 trouble for aid and kindness to her ; 
 and I am sure that my appeal will not 
 be in vain. 
 
 " The report is how true I know not 
 that after a few years you may settle 
 in Chiskauga. At all events, some day 
 or other your large possessions here will 
 probably attract you to the place. But 
 
4 6 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 in case of my death, I expect to leave 
 my daughter here. I have, as you know, 
 no brother, nor any sister except Alice. 
 Her husband, Thomas Hartland, seems 
 Celia s natural guardian, and her aunt s 
 house her natural home. I know you 
 will like my girl : a better or warmer- 
 hearted child cannot be found. She has 
 never given me an hour s uneasiness in 
 her life. Hartland is an estimable cha 
 racter, to whom I can confidently en 
 trust my daughter s property ; but he 
 is cold and impassive, and there will be 
 little sympathy, I fear, between the uncle 
 and niece. On the other hand, Alice 
 will be a mother to my child. And there 
 is another reason why I select Hartland 
 as a guardian, and why I invoke your 
 aid in case Celia should need it. 
 
 " There is a certain lawyer, named 
 Amos Cranstoun, living here a man, I 
 think, without principle, whom I fear and 
 dislike. He wormed himself, I know not 
 how, into my husband s confidence, and 
 even on his death-bed Frederick con 
 jured me to do nothing to irritate or 
 offend him. He has been studiously at 
 tentive to us since my husband s death, 
 offering to attend, without charge, to any 
 business of mine ; and I know no reason 
 whv I should imagine that he might in 
 jure us ; yet I do. A woman s logic, 
 you will say. But Mr. Hartland seems 
 to share my distrust, and I believe it 
 was that which finally decided me to 
 leave Celia in his care." 
 
 To this letter Sydenham immediately 
 replied, pledging himself in the strong 
 est terms to carry out Mrs. Pembroke s 
 wishes. 
 
 They spent the winter in Italy, chiefly 
 in Rome ( where Sydenham met many 
 of his wife s relatives, enthusiastic Car 
 bonari radical in their ideas of reform) 
 and in Naples, where, through letters 
 given him by the Gherardi family, he 
 made the acquaintance of several dis 
 tinguished reformers of the same stamp. 
 A nearer acquaintance with these 
 Italian radicals somewhat weakened 
 Sydenham s faith in their anticipations 
 of prompt success. They were of a 
 generous spirit, impulsive, enthusiastic 
 and had much of what the French term 
 
 elan the dashing ardor of the South ; 
 but they seemed to him to lack practi 
 cal qualities prudence, steadiness of 
 thought and of purpose, power of endur 
 ance, equanimity. His confidence was 
 especially shaken by a confession from 
 one of themselves, Don Liborio Libetta, 
 a distinguished Neapolitan lawyer. 
 
 "Signer Sydenham," he said, "I can 
 speak with entire confidence to you, for 
 you are Anglo-Saxon, and that is a re 
 liable race. We live here under one of 
 the worst governments in the world. 
 There is no security, for a single day, to 
 person or property. As regards persons 
 of any rank or influence among us, the 
 estimable, the intelligent, the industrious 
 are considered dangerous characters, and 
 are placed under a system of strictest 
 espionage, dogged even to the privacy of 
 their houses, tracked by spies, day and 
 night ; while the worthless and indolent, 
 the spendthrift, the debauchee, are re 
 garded as safe and inoffensive persons, 
 and are left at liberty, without annoyance 
 from the police." 
 So bad as that ?" 
 
 " It is the settled rule of policy a 
 premium, you see, on vice. The influ 
 ence of such a system is terribly cor 
 rupting so corrupting, you think, per 
 haps, that it ought to fall, in this nine 
 teenth century, by its own weight. It 
 has aroused the indignation of every 
 man friendly to human rights. But, 
 alas ! we have no trustworthy bond of 
 union. Do you know why we do not 
 succeed against abuses so monstrous ? 
 Because we have no confidence in one 
 another. I never feel assured that my 
 nearest friend may not betray me to death. 
 The iron, as one of your English writers 
 expresses it, has entered into our souls. 
 It is terrible to say, but we have no 
 TRUTH among us." 
 Terrible indeed !" 
 And the result will be, that if, one 
 of these days, we do get the upper 
 hand, we shall not have sufficient faith 
 in each other to retain it." 
 
 Three years afterward during the 
 revolutionary uprisings of 1848 Don 
 Liborio s words were verified. 
 
 Naples, in its physical aspect, had a 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 47 
 
 beneficent effect on Sydenham. What 
 a drive was that he took with Leoline on 
 the far-famed Strada Nuova, leading in 
 and out along the rock-bound, vineyard- 
 clad shore to Baia city of wonderful 
 relics ! The atmosphere, marvelous in 
 its transparency, through which distant 
 objects showed preternaturally distinct ; 
 the matchless bay, dotted with fairy is 
 lands Capri, Ischia, Procida, Nisida 
 its waters lying in dreamy, glittering 
 quiet, sharing (Fancy suggested) the na 
 tional languor, in that they were stirred 
 not even by heave of tide : then, as noble 
 background, a lofty Apennine range, with 
 Monte Sant Angelo, cloud-capped, for a 
 summit ; and, more than all and seen 
 from every turn of the road, the purple, 
 Liva- encrusted cone of Vesuvius, awaking 
 a thousand memories ; the smoke sul 
 lenly rising from its summit, a reminder 
 of the power to destroy that slumbers 
 beneath. All this made up a combina 
 tion of natural beauty so wondrous and 
 so varied that it took captive the senses 
 as by a spell. Sydenham, charmed and 
 soothed, felt little inclined to treat as 
 hyperbole an encomium which he called 
 to mind by a native poet, whose remains 
 they had passed during the morning s 
 drive Sannazzaro, who, in allusion to 
 the city of Parthenope and its surround 
 ings, spoke of that region of enchant 
 ment, as 
 
 " Un pezzo di cielo, caduto in terra." * 
 
 Nor was it inanimate beauty on which, 
 during their stay here, the travelers looked. 
 The country breathed of the past. His 
 tory was written all over it over its 
 ruins (once filled with Roman luxury 
 and stained with Roman vice) of palace 
 and temple and bath the bath rivaling 
 the temple in magnificence ; over its 
 tombs and its statues and its buried 
 cities, now uncovered to modern gaze ; 
 over picturesque Naples itself, with 
 background of rock and precipitous 
 hill, sprinkled with charming villas and 
 surmounted by castle and monastery. 
 
 And that was history, of which some 
 of the stone-leaves date back, not only 
 to the heyday of Roman splendor, or 
 
 * A bit of heaven, dropped down upon earth. 
 
 even to the times when Xerxes led his 
 many-nationed host, with Lybian war- 
 chariots and Arabian camels, against as 
 tounded Greece, but to a period of which 
 the records were ancient history to 
 Nero and to Xerxes to an epoch be 
 fore Homer wrote or Achilles fought. 
 Through a dark grotto, partially invaded 
 by water, Sydenham and Lela were con 
 veyed, on the backs of guides, to a stone 
 platform, the resting-place, they were as 
 sured, of the Sybil who prophesied the 
 destruction of Troy. The long record 
 stretches back full three thousand years. 
 
 They returned, by way of Marseilles 
 and Paris, to England. After a brief 
 stay at Acquabella, Sydenham s thoughts 
 reverted to Chiskauga ; and there came 
 to him, as a behest, Anna s dying words : 
 " How much good you might do these 
 people ! I think you neglected them 
 for me." In spite of the entreaties of 
 Mr. Selbourne and his sons, with whom 
 Lela was a petted favorite, Sydenham 
 embarked for America, spent some 
 months, detained by business, in Phila 
 delphia, and then set out for the village, 
 where he had determined to take up his 
 permanent abode. He was accompanied 
 by a widowed sister, Hannah Clymer, 
 one of those charming persons, not par 
 ticularly bright, but instinct with benevo 
 lence, who "think no evil," and see, in 
 every character, only its brightest side. 
 
 In Chiskauga, Sydenham found many 
 changes. Mrs. Pembroke had died, leav 
 ing her daughter under Mr. Hartland s 
 guardianship. A French physician, Dr. 
 Meyrac, exile from his native country 
 because of political opinions, had settled 
 in the place. Another new-comer was 
 Mrs. Mow bray, an officer s widow in 
 limited circumstances, with one child, a 
 boy, whom she greatly indulged. The 
 business of the neighborhood was slowly 
 but steadily increasing. A flour-mill, 
 recently erected three or four miles 
 west of the village on a rapid stream 
 called Chewauna Creek, was in success 
 ful operation. 
 
 He found also, much to his satisfac 
 tion, that an old and valued friend, Mr. 
 Harper, a man equally benevolent, simple- 
 hearted, learned and eccentric, was settled 
 
4 8 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 in the place as Presbyterian clergyman. 
 One of Sydenham s earliest recollections 
 of this guileless enthusiast was the re 
 ceiving a visit from him when he (Syd 
 enham) was but seventeen years of age. 
 
 " My young friend," said the good 
 man, "I like you. You are earnest, in 
 dustrious, persevering; and I have re 
 marked in you a reverence for sacred 
 things which, alas ! is rare in this 
 thoughtless age. Have you facility in 
 learning languages ?" 
 
 Sydenham replied that his teachers 
 had usually thought so ; that it was a 
 branch of study he had always liked ; 
 that he had obtained some facility in 
 speaking French, and was now studying 
 German. 
 
 Ah, young man, these are but pro 
 fane studies, not to be despised in their 
 place, yet as dust in the balance com 
 pared to graver matters. Are you a 
 good Latin and Greek scholar ?" 
 
 "Greek, no : I am but an indifferent 
 Hellenist ; but I believe my knowledge 
 of Latin is fair." 
 
 " I offer to you, my dear young friend, 
 an entrance into higher regions. Come 
 and study Hebrew with me. Thus shall 
 you have the key to golden treasures. 
 The writings of man are full of error 
 and uncertainty. Come to me and we 
 will study together the words of God, 
 not as fallible men have translated them, 
 but pure as they came from the great 
 original Source. I do not ask you to 
 come as a pupil, for I do not take pupils, 
 but as a son to his father. It shall be 
 to me a labor of love." 
 
 Sydenham had difficulty in parrying 
 this cordial offer. He urged his law- 
 studies, on which he had to depend for 
 a livelihood, and the propriety of first 
 completing the branches of philology he 
 had begun. It pained him to reject a 
 proposal so evidently made in generous 
 simplicity of heart. "In after years, 
 perhaps," he said, more in expression 
 of gratitude, however, than with serious 
 intention of ever seeking to master the 
 Hebrew tongue, he might be in a bet 
 ter situation to accept such kindness." 
 
 Thirteen years had elapsed since then, 
 whitening good Mr. Harper s hair for 
 
 he was now approaching threescore 
 but leaving unchanged his primitive pe 
 culiarities and his pure and simple heart. 
 
 On making acquaintance with Dr. 
 Meyrac, Sydenham found that he, also, 
 was an original in his way. The follow 
 ing anecdote transpired through Madame 
 Meyrac, a quiet, methodical, painstaking, 
 well-dressed, well-mannered person, who 
 ruled her own household rigidly, except 
 that, in matters of importance, she was 
 fain to let her spouse have his own way. 
 
 The doctor s health was usually good, 
 but in case of casual indisposition, to 
 which he was liable, it was remarked 
 that he never called in the aid of an) 
 of his brethren of the profession. About 
 a year, however, before he left Paris he 
 was taken seriously ill ; and madame 
 proposed to send for a doctor, an inti 
 mate friend of theirs. To this, as usual, 
 he positively objected. The wife watched 
 and nursed her husband with her utmost 
 skill, but the symptoms, fever especially, 
 remained unabated. One morning, when 
 Meyrac was evidently worse, madame 
 said to him : 
 
 My friend, this will not do. Your 
 case is getting beyond my experience 
 and management, and you know you 
 have often told me that a man who in 
 sists on doctoring himself in a serious 
 case has a fool for a patient. I must 
 send for our good Montfaucon." 
 
 I thought," replied the sick man, 
 very politely, "to have already adver 
 tised you, my dear, more than once, that 
 I do not desire to have any doctor 
 attending upon me ?" 
 
 "In an ordinary case, dear friend, 
 very well ; and you will do me the justice 
 to admit that I have hitherto always 
 obeyed your wishes on this point. But 
 the symptoms, this morning, are very 
 serious : I cannot take the responsibility 
 of waiting longer. I must absolutely 
 send for Dr. Montfaucon, in whom I 
 know you have confidence." 
 
 " Before doing so, dear Elise," said 
 her husband in his quietest tone, "do 
 me the favor to ring the bell." Madame 
 obeyed and the servant appeared. 
 
 "Jean," said his master, "in my study, 
 over the fireplace, you will find my pis- 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 49 
 
 tols. Have the goodness to take them 
 down carefully and bring them to me. 
 And a moment, Jean ; that is not all 
 in the left-hand drawer of my escritoire 
 there is a powder-flask and a small 
 package of balls. Bring them also." 
 
 " My God !" said the terrified wife in 
 an undertone, " his brain is disturbed." 
 Then to the sick man : " Dear husband, 
 but tin s is madness. What can you 
 possibly want with pistols, lying here 
 on a sick-bed ?" 
 
 " Montfaucon is a good fellow, and I 
 should be very sorry to do him harm. 
 But if you really insist upon sending for 
 him, my dear wife, and if he enters that 
 door to prescribe for me, I shall blow 
 his brains out : that is all." 
 
 "Just Heavens!" cried Madame Mey- 
 rac, now thoroughly alarmed. Rest 
 tranquil, my husband : if you feel so 
 strongly opposed to having medical ad 
 vice, be assured I shall respect your 
 wishes." 
 
 "As you will, Elise ; but," turning to 
 the servant, "let me have my pistols, 
 Jean, at any rate." 
 
 No doctor was sent for, and Meyrac 
 slowly recovered. On the first day he 
 was able to leave his bed, You are an 
 admirable sick-nurse," he said to his 
 wife, kissing her on the forehead. If 
 all men were as fortunate as I, my dear 
 Elise, we poor blunderheads would make 
 but a sorry living." 
 
 The villagers generally were friendly 
 and social ; and without other division 
 of class or caste among them save that 
 which superior cultivation and informa 
 tion naturally bring about. 
 
 Sydenham resolved to make his future 
 home among them. In selling out some 
 of his lands adjacent to Chiskauga, he 
 had made reservation of a small farm of 
 fifty or sixty acres, west of the village ; 
 partly valley-land, but chiefly picturesque 
 hills an old clearing, on which the tree- 
 stumps had already decayed, and which 
 ran back to the original forest. During 
 a former visit to the place he had picked 
 out a piece of table land, half-way up the 
 hills ; and, intending some day to build 
 there, had had it planted out wiih clumps 
 of shade trees. 
 4 
 
 Here he erected a dwelling of moder 
 ate size. The material was a fine 
 grained freestone, from the New Red 
 Sandstone formation, found in a quarry 
 which Sydenham had discovered on a 
 tract of his forest-land at no great dis 
 tance. The style he selected was the 
 Norman, but in its later and lighter 
 phase, prevailing during the twelfth cen 
 tury simple semi-circular openings with 
 out tracery, but with labels of the same 
 form, and bold corbel-courses devoid of 
 the grotesque ornamentation with which 
 our ancestors were wont to disfigure 
 them ; several sharp-pointed gables ; on 
 one side a slender campanile tower, with 
 pointed roof and an Italian air about it ; 
 beneath it a handsome entrance, en 
 riched on the jambs with a succession 
 of small, receding pillars. 
 
 The variety of freestone selected had 
 this peculiarity, that, when first quarried, 
 it was comparatively soft, working freely 
 before the chisel, and thus was readily 
 carved into ornaments ; while by expo 
 sure it gradually indurated almost to the 
 hardness of granite. But Sydenham was 
 not betrayed by this facility of orna 
 mentation into the elaborate. The outer 
 finish was in rough-tooling. A few grace 
 ful leaves or flowers on the lower points 
 of the corbels and as capitals for the 
 dwarf pillars peculiar to this style, a 
 circular window with radiating mullions 
 in the principal gable ; a few carved 
 finials that was nearly all the architect 
 ural luxury he indulged in. 
 
 The tint of the material accorded well 
 with the manner, being a lilac-gray, the 
 shade which ladies, in their dresses, call 
 ashes of roses. All this gave to the 
 dwelling, at a distance, a quaint and 
 somewhat grave and old-fashioned aspect. 
 Nearer, it had a look of substantial grace, 
 its fine proportions and beauty of out 
 line giving warrant of a pure and culti 
 vated taste. 
 
 Nor did the interior belie the external 
 promise. It had an air of welcome about 
 it. No gilding, no glitter ; no buhl nor 
 ormolu ; no unwieldy tables with cold 
 marble tops, irksome to move, unfit to 
 write upon; no huge mirrors; no l<~ng, 
 heavy brocatelle curtains excluding the 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 light of day ; no gaudy silk damasks too 
 fine to lounge on ; but, in variety of 
 form, easy-chairs and sofas inviting to 
 rest ; cozy seats in oriel \vindo\vs, sug 
 gestive of tete-a-tetes ; furniture to last 
 a lifetime solid oak and walnut and 
 rosewood ; in the heats of summer cov 
 ered with gay chintzes that looked cool 
 ere one sat down, in keeping with the 
 India matting beneath the feet : during 
 the chills of winter with warm colors 
 maroons, scarlets, dark crimsons and the 
 like imparting, through the eye. a genial 
 glow as one entered the rooms an effect 
 which was heightened by adoption of the 
 European fancy of portieres, or door 
 drapery, corresponding in color to the 
 curtains and carpets, these last bearing 
 no huge, gorgeous, mimic nosegays, but 
 being of a uniform tint, with small stars 
 or single flowers spotting the surface. 
 
 For the rest, the works of art adorn 
 ing the walls were choice, rather than 
 of great cost. Of statuary there was 
 but a single example : a terzino statue 
 (scarcely half life-size), in faultless white 
 marble, of Eve. by Angelini of Naples. 
 It was a charming figure, admirable in 
 form and proportion, eminently woman 
 ly, and with a certain youthful dignity 
 about it a fit embodiment of the Mother 
 of Mankind. She is seated on a mossy 
 bank, at her feet the roses of Paradise. 
 By her side is the serpent, in her hand 
 the apple ; but she does not look at 
 either. She is gazing into vacant space 
 an absent, thoughtful expression, as if 
 she were inquiring of the future touch 
 ing the godlike knowledge of good and 
 evil. It seemed as if one could inter 
 pret the expression and anticipate the 
 direful result. 
 
 This little statue was in the parlor, 
 set in a niche built expressly to receive 
 it. and lined with maroon velvet, against 
 which the purity of the marble showed 
 with excellent effect. 
 
 Then there were two or three land 
 scapes by American artists of celebrity ; 
 also a small Turner, one sea-piece by 
 Achenbach, another by Isabey ; several 
 carefully-executed copies in oil of cele 
 brated pictures ; and, scattered all over 
 the house, choice engravings executed in 
 
 the first style of art. Almost all of these 
 last illustrated some sentiment. One 
 of them, entitled "The Gentle Warn 
 ing," represented a young girl, in ancient 
 costume, standing, with self-convicted 
 air, before a table at which sat an elderly 
 lady mother or aunt, one may suppose 
 with a charming face ; an open letter 
 on the table before her to which she was 
 pointing, but raising her eyes, the while, 
 to the face of the fair culprit with such 
 a look of love and gentle sorrow that 
 one could almost hear the mild words of 
 tender remonstrance she was addressing 
 to her. Another, hanging over the fire 
 place of SydenhanrTs study setting forth 
 the great truth that the poor assist the 
 poor was an engraving by Jonanin of 
 Dubufe s well-known " Denier de la 
 Veuve." All the rooms, by the way, 
 had open fireplaces, the fuel being sup 
 plied from the neighboring forest. How 
 cheerful and home-like that primitive 
 wood-fire s blaze ! 
 
 A special fancy of one of the inmates 
 gave, in summer especially, an additional 
 grace to this dwelling. Leoline s early 
 passion for flowers, still unchanged, 
 showed itself in the beauty and variety 
 of the flower-beds, chiefly cultivated by 
 her own hands, from the spoils of which 
 it was her daily delight to decorate the 
 principal rooms. Every morning (in 
 winter from the green-house) there was 
 a special bouquet of the rarest the 
 delicate colors daintily selected and har 
 monized for the writing-table in her 
 father s study. A favorite with her, be 
 cause of its odor, was the mignonette ; 
 and this, planted in narrow boxes, she 
 set on the sills outside of the parlor 
 windows ; the summer wind, as it stirred, 
 bearing the faint perfume, from time to 
 time, over the house. One came, at last, 
 to associate flower and locality. "I was 
 reminded of you and of your charming 
 residence," wrote an English friend one 
 day to Sydenham, "by passing, the other 
 morning, in Covent Garden, a flower- 
 stall fragrant with mignonette." 
 
 It was a pleasant retreat for a man of 
 letters, and now and then a select friend. 
 Two spare rooms only. In an Italian 
 villa on the Hudson, built with California 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 gold, there are a dozen. But when Syd. 
 enham visited its owner, an old friend, 
 and congratulated him on his magnificent 
 residence, the wife said, rather sadly, 
 How much I prefer yours ! If we 
 leave these rooms untenanted, it is like 
 living in an empty barn. If we fill 
 them, it is a bustling hotel, with guests 
 that never pay their bills, and of which 
 I am landlady." 
 
 But Sydenhara was more than a man 
 of letters. It was as if he heard a voice, 
 silent on earth except to him, saying, 
 " You neglected these people for me : 
 
 when you come to join me, bring an ac 
 count of your stewardship." Upon that 
 unspoken injunction he had acted. And 
 so ten years had passed since the sad 
 events at Baveno. 
 
 Our readers are now acquainted with 
 the gentleman whom Miss Celia Pem 
 broke and her aunt, Mrs. Hartland, set 
 out to visit. Are they content, before 
 learning the result of that expedition, to 
 go back with us, for a brief space, to 
 Philadelphia, and ascertain how Terence 
 O Reilly fared during his prison-life? 
 
PART I I I. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 THE PRISON-CELL. 
 
 "pERENCE had clung to the one idea 
 JL that haunted him from the first : he 
 could not be convicted, because he had 
 not taken the money. He had dwelt on 
 this till it assumed almost the charac 
 ter of a monomania. It had sustained 
 him through all the varied excitements 
 of the trial. Even the announcement 
 of the verdict failed fully to dispel the 
 illusion. It stunned him. He scarcely 
 took in its import. He was but partially 
 roused even when asked if he had any 
 reasons to give why judgment should 
 not be pronounced against him. He 
 gazed vacantly at the jury, then at the 
 judge. And it was not until the latter 
 added, in a compassionate tone, " Have 
 you nothing to say, prisoner ?" that he 
 broke forth : 
 
 " But I didn t do it, judge. And is it 
 to prison you re sending me ? They 
 don t send innocent men to prison. I 
 don t care for the money. Let the lying 
 scoundrel have it, since he swears it is 
 his ; but for the Lord s sake, judge, 
 don t be after sendin me to prison. 
 What will Norah do ? And the poor, 
 helpless childher? Is it a thief you d 
 make me out before them and their 
 mother ?" 
 52 
 
 A shriek from a distant corner of the 
 court-room, and some one cried out, 
 A woman has fainted." Terence made 
 a fruitless attempt, arrested by the officer 
 in attendance, to rush from the dock, 
 then sunk his head on his hands, with a 
 desperate effort at composure. But that 
 shriek had stirred the depths of his warm 
 and passionate nature. A stinging sense 
 of shame and pride came over him in 
 vain. His loud sobs, heard all over the 
 court-room, awoke hearty sympathy in 
 the bystanders. One or two of the 
 jurors repented their verdict. 
 
 Nine months imprisonment was the 
 sentence. The seventeen eagles were 
 paid over to the witness, Cassiday, and 
 the rest returned to Terence, who, after 
 brief delay, was conveyed to Moyamen- 
 sing prison. 
 
 The preliminaries which preceded his 
 actual incarceration produced a terrible 
 effect on the high-spirited young fellow. 
 First, his hair was closely cut ; then he 
 was put in the scales and his weight 
 carefully recorded in a book kept for the 
 purpose ; next he was measured, and his 
 exact height set down in the same 
 official record. Then he was stripped : 
 all marks or scars found on his person 
 were noted and minutely registered. To 
 this was added his complexion, together 
 with the color of his hair and eyes, his 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 53 
 
 age, his birth-place (alas ! alas !), the date 
 of his conviction, August 24, and full 
 particulars of his offence. Finally his 
 prison-dress was put on, and his prison- 
 number assigned him two hundred and 
 thirty-seven. 
 
 It is difficult for us, in these compara 
 tively enlightened times, to realize what 
 the suffering of some poor wretch con 
 demned to the peine forte et dure " may 
 have been, when conveyed from the tor 
 ture-chamber to a mediaeval dungeon. 
 Yet I doubt if it much exceeded the men 
 tal agony endured by Terence when 
 consigned to the solitary cell which bore 
 his number. 
 
 He was past all complaint now, or 
 outward demonstration of grief. It 
 seemed to him as if he had been 
 stripped of his very identity. His for 
 mer life had gone out, and, in its stead, 
 had come up a despised and to-be- 
 avoided thing a felon, weighing so 
 much, measuring so much, marked or 
 scarred so and so ; and all this set down 
 as a man records the brand he has se 
 lected with which to stamp his cattle, so 
 that each animal may be recognized for 
 ever as his own. It was all done and 
 settled. It could never, in this world, 
 be undone, any more than one can 
 unlive the day that is past. 
 
 If he could only go to sleep and wake 
 no more ! Norah was far better without 
 him. His children too. If he died 
 now, people might forget to cast it up to 
 them that they had had a thief for a 
 father. Norah might marry a decent 
 man and change her name, and that 
 would help to bury the past. He hated 
 his new self. It had no business here. 
 It could be of no use to anybody. Why 
 should he live ? 
 
 Two days after Terence s incarcera 
 tion, Mr. Kullen, the prison-agent, called. 
 "Anything new?" he asked the under- 
 keeper, a good-natured fellow, Walter 
 Richards. 
 
 " Yes, a young man, nine months for 
 theft, who has not tasted food or water 
 since he came two days and two nights 
 now. I shouldn t wonder if he died." 
 
 "What s the matter with him ?" 
 
 " Well, I don t know. A stout fellow, 
 too, but looks as if he had lost every 
 friend he ever had in the world. I 
 could get nothing out of him, say what 
 I would, except that he didn t want to 
 eat or drink, for it was no use. I wish 
 you d see him two-thirty-seven." 
 
 " What s his name ? Has he a family ?" 
 
 "Terence O Something: Irish, from 
 Connaught, I think. Married and two 
 children. He needs looking after." 
 
 "I ll see him at once." 
 
 He found the prisoner seated on his 
 pallet, listless, with the look of a man 
 abandoned to his fate, seeming to notice 
 nothing, not even the arrival of his 
 visitor. On a small table near by, his din 
 ner, untouched. Kullen drew up a chair 
 and sat eyeing him for some time in 
 silence : 
 
 " You have not eaten anything for two 
 days : that is very wrong." 
 
 The other just lifted his eyes to the 
 agent s face, but without a word. 
 
 " You have no right to throw away 
 your life. No man has least of all one 
 who has a wife and children." 
 
 He started that touched him. 
 
 " You don t look like a coward ; but 
 nobody except a coward gives up and 
 forsakes those that have a right to his 
 help." 
 
 " An is it a thief can help wife or 
 childher ?" 
 
 "You re a thief, then ?" 
 
 Terence started up, defiantly ; then 
 sank feebly back again on his bed. 
 " Didn t the jury say I was ? And why 
 shouldn t he ?" as if speaking to himself. 
 
 " Maybe the jury mistook ?" 
 
 It was the first drop of balm to that 
 bruised spirit. "Are there people that 
 think juries mayhap mistake ?" he asked, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 " I do. I ve known many such 
 cases." 
 
 "Thin the Lord above be blessed 
 that sint ye here. It s no good now, 
 but it comes grateful to a man, anyway." 
 
 " Why is it no good now ?" 
 
 "I m no good. There s only one 
 thing I can do for Norah and the 
 childher." 
 
 " What s that ?" 
 
54 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " To git out o their way. I m a dis 
 grace to them." 
 
 Kullen moved the table, with the un- 
 tasted meal, toward him. Wistfully, for 
 a moment, the man eyed the food : then 
 his face hardened. "Ye re losin yer 
 time," he said, feebly : " I don t want 
 to talk about it." 
 
 " Are you innocent of this crime ?" 
 
 " Where s the use in tellin you ? In 
 a day or two I ll be afore the Great 
 Judge. HE knows. It ll be all right 
 then." 
 
 "And if He asks you, as He asked 
 Cain about his brother Abel, what you ve 
 done with Norah and the children, will 
 you tell Him that you were not their 
 keeper ?" 
 
 " He knows better nor to ax me that. 
 He heerd the jury, and the judge on the 
 bench too, set me down for a thief. 
 He saw them men here, when they tick 
 eted me in their blasted book for a jail 
 bird, and weighed me and measured me, 
 and wrote down every mole and freckle 
 on me body as if I d been a dumb baste, 
 only fit for the shambles. And He 
 knows that, after all that, I ll niver be 
 aught but a millstone around the necks 
 o Norah and them babes." 
 
 "If you re innocent, Terence and 
 you look to me like an innocent man 
 that can be proved ; and then they ll take 
 it all back : they ll write down, in the same 
 big book, that it was all a mistake, and 
 that you were found out to be no thief 
 at all ; and then nobody can say you 
 ever were a thief. And why can t you 
 help Norah and the children then ?" 
 
 " I m not strong to argufy with ye," 
 the poor fellow sighed : " the spirit s all 
 gone out of me. But it s not a bit of 
 use, no more than the wind that blows. 
 Ye didn t hear Mister Bagster ?" 
 
 " No : I wasn t at the trial." 
 
 " Thin it s no use, I tell ye, at all, at 
 all. If the angel Gabr el, with his wings 
 on, had come down and stood afore that 
 jury, he never could have spoke better, 
 or done moie, nor Mister Bagster did. 
 If he couldn t get me out of it, there 
 isn t a livin soul that can come near 
 it." 
 
 " I have no doubt he said all that 
 
 could be said : I know Bagster, and 
 there is nt a better man before a jury at 
 our bar ; but as for what he did how 
 many days had he to prepare the case ?" 
 
 " Three days the judge allowed him." 
 
 " Three days ! No wonder they con 
 victed you. Come, Terence : I dare say 
 it will all come out right yet. But you 
 must eat that dinner." 
 
 " Mister " 
 
 " Kullen s my name." 
 
 "Ye mean the fair thing by me, Mis 
 ter Kullen ; and ye re a good man to 
 come and speak to a poor devil as ye ve 
 spoke to me. But ye can niver do but 
 one thing for me. Maybe ye ll do that." 
 
 "Anything I can, I ll do." 
 
 " Thin look a bit to Norah and them 
 childher when I m gone. But you 
 mustn t never let the lassie know I 
 wouldn t ate : let her think it was the 
 jail-sickness that did it. Tell her God 
 knowed she d be far better oft" without 
 the likes of me. It would break the 
 dear heart of her if she thought I wanted 
 to lave her and the two childher. And 
 God, He knows I never did. I d stay 
 here and work my fingers to stumps, 
 though there wasn t a stick to the fire or 
 a bite to the table, if I didn t know that 
 the very scum o the street can throw it 
 up to her, any day, that she has a thief 
 for a husband. D ye think I could 
 stand that me, that loves her as dearly 
 this blessed day as when the darlin first 
 tould me she d never have nobody but 
 myself in all the wide world, and that 
 she didn t care no more for that scamp 
 of a Rory that was always coortin 
 round her nor she did for the worm that 
 crawls ?" 
 
 Kullen could not restrain a smile, but 
 the prisoner did not notice it. Anxiety 
 and excitement, and, latterly, lack of 
 food, had done their work. He sank on 
 the bed, adding, in a half whisper : " I 
 never could stand that, and I won t try." 
 
 The agent, deeply touched, propped 
 the poor fellow s head on tho pillow, ar 
 ranged the bed comfortably, and then 
 sat looking at him, lost in thought. 
 " Terence," he said at last, " you re very 
 lonely here : that s not good for you. 
 I m at leisure this afternoon. I want to 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 55 
 
 tell you a story. It will help to pass 
 the time." 
 
 It s very kind o ye, Mister Kullen. 
 But it s no sort o matter now about 
 me." 
 
 But if I like to tell it to you ?" 
 
 The Lord reward ye." 
 
 " It s about Africa. You ve heard of 
 the slave-trade ?" 
 
 Not much," said Terence, listlessly. 
 
 It s worth hearing about. It lasted 
 a very, very long time three hundred 
 and fifty years. If you should ever read 
 about it, you ll find it s a history of 
 men and women and children that were 
 hunted down by soldiers and caught and 
 sold. There were fifteen millions of 
 them nearly half as many as there are 
 people in this country twice as many 
 as there are in all Ireland. They had 
 committed no crime : nobody pretended 
 they had. They were not tried or con 
 victed by a judge or a jury, but they 
 were all sent to prison every one of 
 that fifteen millions." 
 
 Terence looked up, his attention evi 
 dently arrested, but it was a look of in 
 credulity. He was probably considering 
 where prisons could be found for fifteen 
 millions of people. Mr. Kullen resumed: 
 
 " Bear in mind that this happened all 
 through three hundred and fifty years. 
 The prisons they were sent to were 
 slave-ships, and the prisoners were car 
 ried from Africa to America. They 
 were stowed away between-decks, like 
 so many herrings. A full-grown man 
 had fifteen inches by six feet, and no 
 more, to lie upon less space than they 
 allow a corpse in a coffin. The men 
 were all put in irons, fastened two and 
 two, and the chains locked to the deck. 
 Even if they had been unchained, there 
 wasn t room to stand up. On the aver 
 age, one of them out of every five died 
 on the passage and was flung overboard. 
 If the voyage was a stormy one, some 
 times one-half died. So you see three 
 millions of people out of the fifteen mil 
 lions were thrown into the sea before 
 they arrived. Their sufferings, from 
 sickness and hardship and from thirst, 
 were often so dreadful that many did as 
 you are doing, Terence they refused 
 
 to eat, and then they were flogged, some 
 times to death." 
 
 To death !" with a faint look of 
 astonishment. 
 
 Yes, Terence, to death : that s the 
 way they treated them when they wouldn t 
 eat." 
 
 Terence winced a little. 
 
 " When they arrived in America," 
 Kullen resumed, " they were forced to 
 work from sunrise to sunset, for other 
 people, instead of for themselves ; and 
 if they refused, they were unmercifully 
 beaten. Afterward their children and 
 their children s children were compelled 
 to do the same thing. Yet none of that 
 multitude were sent to these horrible 
 prison-ships, or driven by the lash to 
 work for other people, because they 
 were guilty. They were all as innocent 
 as you are." 
 
 The prisoner s sympathy was now 
 fairly enlisted. 
 
 "What I particularly wished to ex 
 plain to you," pursued Kullen, " was the 
 manner in which they put a stop to this 
 stealing and imprisoning of people that 
 had committed no offence. Most of 
 these prison-ships were owned by Eng 
 lishmen, and they took their prisoners 
 chiefly to Jamaica and other West India 
 islands, where rich English subjects had 
 plantations worth millions and millions 
 of dollars, all worked by these forced 
 laborers. On that account many very 
 rich people were in favor of continuing 
 this mode of getting labor. But there 
 were others, good and just men, mem 
 bers of Parliament, who were very fine 
 orators ; and they tried to get a law 
 passed to prevent so great a wrong. In 
 defence of these innocent people they 
 made speeches that were every bit as 
 good as the speech Mr. Bagster made 
 when he was defending you. But these 
 speeches had no more effect than Mr. 
 Bagster s had : the people were sent 
 into the prison-ships, all the same. 
 
 "At last a man whose name was Clark- 
 son Thomas Clarkson bethought him 
 self that if the truth could all be shown 
 about the sufferings of these poor peo 
 ple, the wrong would be righted, and no 
 more of them would be chained down, 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 under hatches, in slave-ships. He had 
 observed that the surest way to have 
 justice done to an innocent man is to 
 search out what really happened in his 
 case. He spent a number of years in 
 finding witnesses and in getting the facts 
 from them. He ferreted out the whole 
 history of some of these prison-ships, and 
 of all the cruelties that were practiced 
 in them. Sometimes he got such hor 
 rible stories during the day that at night 
 his brain was hot, and he was obliged 
 to lay bandages soaked in cold water 
 over his forehead for hours before he 
 could get quiet and go to sleep. Every 
 day he wrote down all the bits of evi 
 dence he had collected. Afterward he 
 classified these and copied them out in 
 large books, as a merchant does his 
 accounts. He had a journal, with a 
 complete history of the different slave- 
 voyages. Then, in a great ledger, he 
 had a page for every prison-ship he had 
 heard about, and short notes of all he 
 had heard about it a separate page, 
 too, for each witness (whether sailor or 
 captain or surgeon of one of these 
 ships), where he set down all he tes 
 tified and his address, so that each 
 man could be found and personally ex 
 amined. He got heaps of affidavits, 
 too, from different persons. All this 
 was so well arranged that he could lay 
 his hand, in a moment, on any piece of 
 evidence that might be called for. When 
 every thing was prepared, William Pitt, 
 who was Prime Minister at that time, 
 agreed to see Thomas Clarkson and to 
 examine the testimony he had collected. 
 He cross-examined him (as you heard 
 the lawyers do the witnesses on your 
 trial) for three or four hours. Clarkson 
 had his books beside him, and answered 
 every question, even about the smallest 
 details, without the least hesitation. 
 When it was over, Mr. Pitt said to him : 
 < Mr. Clarkson, all that I can do to put 
 an end to the slave-trade shall be done. 
 He kept his word. A law was passed 
 to prevent any Englishman from buying 
 men in Africa and sending them on board 
 prison-slavers. 
 
 " Now, Terence, what I want you to 
 observe is, that as long as men made 
 
 fine speeches, like Mr. Bagster s, in 
 favor of these innocent people, it did no 
 good : they were still put in irons and 
 sent to these horrible ships. But when 
 Thomas Clarkson found out the proper 
 witnesses, and collected their evidence, 
 and laid it before a man who had power 
 to make it all right, then the great wrong 
 that had been done for so many years 
 was stopped at once. Can you guess, 
 now, why I told you all this, and what 
 I intend to do in your case ?" 
 
 It was a study to note the various 
 changes that passed over the prisoner s 
 face, like clouds over an inclement April 
 sky, as Kullen gave him this brief fa 
 miliar sketch of one of the greatest 
 episodes in the history of the world. 
 Like many of his class and nation, he 
 had hitherto cared little for the black 
 man, and given scant attention to what 
 concerned his sufferings or his wrongs. 
 But Kullen had placed the matter before 
 him in a new light, and at the very time 
 his mind was prepared to receive it. 
 Adversity was enlightening him. He 
 was learning her lessons, bitter but 
 wholesome. And the young man was 
 coming slowly back to life. To Kullen s 
 question whether he guessed his inten 
 tions, he replied, after a pause, " Maybe 
 1 do." 
 
 "I m not an orator," said the other. 
 " I can t draw tears from the eyes of 
 jurymen, as Bagster does. But I m a 
 worker, like Thomas Clarkson. I am 
 prison-agent of this State. It s my duty 
 to look into cases like yours. Now 
 hearken to what I ve got to say. I ve 
 already told you that I don t believe you 
 ever took that money. If you didn t, 
 I ll do what living man may to find out 
 the truth, and clear you. If I send 
 you back, cleared, not a rascal of them 
 all will be able to say one word against 
 your character, unless he lies ; and as to 
 liars, I ve a notion you can attend to 
 their case yourself, when you get strong 
 again and get out." 
 
 Terence smiled grimly, and Kullen 
 went on : 
 
 I ll do all this for you, and it shall 
 not cost you a cent on one condition." 
 
 " What s that ?" 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 57 
 
 "You see I don t like to work for 
 dead men : it s as much as I can do to 
 attend to the living. When they ve 
 brought the jail-coffin for you and put 
 you under ground, I shall have lost all in 
 terest in your case. If a man is a cow 
 ard, and won t stay here to see his case 
 through, and live down slander and per 
 jury, and knock down every vagabond 
 that insults his wife and children, he 
 can t expect anybody else to do it for 
 him. If the scum of the street, as you 
 call them, throw it up to " 
 
 " Norah," suggested Terence, as Kul- 
 len hesitated. 
 
 "Yes, if they ever throw it up to 
 Norah that she s a thief s wife, or to her 
 children that they had a convict for a 
 father, it will be nobody s fault but 
 yours. Now I want to know, once for 
 all, whether you re going to starve your 
 self to death, or to eat that dinner ?" 
 
 Another grim smile. Terence slowly 
 drew the table close and cut himself a 
 large slice of bread. At the first mouth 
 ful the animal instinct that rules a fam 
 ished man came back in all its force. 
 He began to devour the food. 
 
 " Slowly, man, slowly !" said Kullen. 
 " That won t do. I m going to put you 
 on half rations for to-day and to-mor 
 row, or we ll have you in the hospital 
 after that two days fast of yours. You ll 
 have time enough. You can t track an 
 old fox to his hole and dig him out in a 
 day : then I ve got other cases to attend 
 to besides yours. It will be three or 
 four weeks, maybe twice as many, before 
 I get evidence enough to satisfy Judge 
 Thomas." (The prisoner drooped at 
 this, and the hopeless look came over 
 his face again.) " Fie, man ! Is that 
 all the patience and the courage you 
 have ? What are six or eight weeks ? 
 You ll need that time to get strong, 
 before you undertake the ragamuffins 
 that are to cast up lies to Norah and the 
 children." 
 
 The victory was won. And although, 
 afterward, Terence did, now and then, 
 chafe against the bars, like some caged 
 wild beast, yet he behaved, on the 
 whole, as well as could be expected of 
 an impetuous and untutored nature. 
 
 A trifling incident that occurred that 
 very day greatly encouraged him. 
 
 Interrogated as to his antecedents by 
 Kullen, he stated that he had worked 
 three years and a half on the farm of a 
 Mr. Richards. 
 
 " Richards ? Living where ?" 
 
 " In Cumberland county, near Car 
 lisle." 
 
 " Had he a son grown ?" 
 
 " Yes, but I never saw him. He 
 lived in Philadelphia, I think." 
 
 Kullen left the cell abruptly, and re- 
 entered it a quarter of an hour later. 
 
 "Are you a believer in Providence, 
 Terence ?" 
 
 " Sure an I was, Mister Kullen, till 
 they sint me to prison for nothin at all." 
 
 " Well, you ll have to come back to 
 your old belief. Only think ! The 
 under-keeper that brings you your meals 
 is old Mr. Richards son, Walter ; and 
 he says he remembers his father talking 
 to him last spring, when he went to see 
 him, about a young Irishman that had 
 been three or four years with him the 
 best hand and the honestest man he had 
 ever had on the farm. Now ain t you 
 ashamed to have lost heart as you did ?" 
 
 Terence clasped his hands : " The 
 Lord be praised ! Well, I ll never mis 
 doubt Providence again." 
 
 " Not till the next time. Take care, 
 Terence ! Suppose I don t get you out, 
 after all ?" 
 
 "And isn t yer honor after tellin me 
 ye re goin to get me off as sure as 
 there s a God above ? And would I be 
 doubtin ye, Mister Kullen, and makin 
 a liar of ye, Mister Kullen ? I know 
 better nor that." 
 
 " Oh, you ll do ! There will be no 
 trouble about making you eat now. 
 Well, I stand to my bargain." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 THE RECONSIDERATION. 
 
 FAITHFULLY did that good prison- 
 agent carry out his promise. He went 
 first to Carlisle and obtained Mr. Rich 
 ards affidavit. Nothing could be more 
 satisfactory. During the last years of 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Terence s service the old man had en 
 trusted him with large sums of money; 
 had made him manager of a spacious 
 market-garden, the produce of which 
 Terence sold in the adjoining town ; and 
 had also occasionally sent him to Harris- 
 burg with a drove of cattle to sell. He 
 gave him the highest character for hon 
 esty and fidelity. During the term of 
 his service, Terence had married the 
 daughter of a neighboring farmer, and 
 when he resolved to seek his fortune in 
 Philadelphia, his master had agreed to 
 his departure with great regret. 
 
 Returning to that city, Kullen made 
 still more important discoveries. He 
 obtained from Terence the name of the 
 grocer with whom he chiefly dealt, P. R. 
 Hardy, to whom Terence thought he 
 had paid some money a day or two be 
 fore his arrest. When the case was ex 
 plained, the grocer turned to his books : 
 "Yes, on the seventh of May, O Reilly 
 paid me ten dollars and a quarter." 
 
 " Did he pay it out of a linen bag, 
 with gold pieces in it." 
 
 Now I come to think of it," said the 
 man, after a pause, " he did ; and, more 
 than that, the careless fellow left that very 
 bag lying on the counter. I picked it 
 up soon after he left ; and as I wasn t 
 sure whether it was his or not, I thought 
 I d make a note on a bit of paper of 
 what was in it. It was a considerable 
 sum, I remember, and Terence called 
 for it that same evening." 
 
 What became of the bit of paper ?" 
 
 " Can t say. I generally put such 
 things in the till. I ll see." Then, after 
 a brief search : " Sure enough, here it 
 is. I d swear to that any day." And 
 he tossed over the counter to Mr. Kul 
 len a precious document, reading thus : 
 " MEM. Money in linen bag. May 7, 
 
 1855. 
 $170 oo in eagles. 
 
 45 50 in smaller gold and silver change. 
 
 20 oo in notes. 
 
 $235 50 
 
 Likely belongs to T. CPR." 
 
 The authenticity of this memorandum, 
 and the circumstances under which it 
 was made, were duly sworn to by Hardy. 
 
 It was two months after this that the 
 man who was present when Terence so 
 incautiously exposed the contents of the 
 bag before Cassiday, returned from the 
 South ; but he remembered, and swore 
 to, all the circumstances. This brought 
 the scienter, as lawyers say, home to the 
 accusing witness, satisfactorily explain 
 ing how, by rapidly counting the gold, 
 he came to name a hundred and seventy 
 dollars, in eagles, as the sum he lost. 
 
 While waiting for this testimony, 
 Kullen set about the most difficult part 
 of his task to trace Cassiday s antece 
 dents. He obtained a certificate from 
 the clerk of the court of Berks county 
 to the effect that no such person as 
 Gottlieb Bauerman lived, or had re 
 cently lived, in that county ; but he was 
 not satisfied with that. Yet he was 
 long at fault while searching farther. 
 He could hear of no such person as 
 Byron Cassiday, and he began to suspect 
 the name might be assumed. 
 
 One day he cross-questioned Terence 
 closely : 
 
 " Try to remember every word Cassi 
 day said, and everything he did, that 
 first evening. It s important, Terence. 
 Did he hesitate when you asked him his 
 name ?" 
 
 Well, I do know as he did. I re 
 member I called him Bryan, and says 
 he quite warm like, as if I had misca d 
 him o purpose says he, What for d ye 
 call me Bryan ? it s Byron s me name. 
 I might a known he was a false thief, 
 and no Irish heart aboot him, to like 
 Byron better nor Bryan for a name to 
 go by." 
 
 Kullen was something of a detective. 
 His experience in tracing out evidence 
 had rendered him very observant of 
 trifles. After a minute or two s thought 
 he went to a drawer in the prisoner s 
 table, where he usually kept the papers 
 in this case, and took thence the manu 
 script notes which Bagster had made in 
 anticipation of the trial, running them 
 over carefully. Two of them arrested 
 his attention, and he copied them out. 
 The first was this : 
 
 " No name on the Register of the 
 police station at Port Richmond (except 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 59 
 
 of persons well known to the officers] 
 but one only BRYAN DELORNY, and 
 he came from Pottsville" 
 
 The second was : 
 
 " Description of prosecuting witness : 
 middle-sized, appears to be from 30 to 35 
 years old. No beard. Brown whiskers 
 and brown, curling hair. A purple scar 
 across the left ear. Features well 
 formed, but injured by a furtive ex 
 pression" 
 
 " It s worth looking after, at any 
 rate," said Kullen, as he placed these 
 memoranda in his pocket. 
 
 He went first to Terence s tavern, 
 now carried on, after a fashion, by the 
 barkeeper, Patrick Murphy, with Bridget 
 to attend to the boarders. It had been 
 shut up for several days after the trial ; 
 but Kullen had called on Mrs. O Reilly, 
 encouraged her about her husband, and, 
 by his advice, the house had been re 
 opened. Kullen carefully examined the 
 name in the register under date May 9 : 
 "Byron Cassiday, Port Richmond:" 
 then, taking the book with him, he pro 
 ceeded to the Port Richmond police 
 station, and asked to be allowed to look 
 at their record for May last. 
 
 " I want you to examine two signa 
 tures," he said presently to one of the 
 officers, an experienced detective, " and 
 tell me what you think of them." 
 
 The officer compared them critically 
 for several minutes. 
 
 Well ?" said Kullen. 
 
 " The same man wrote both." 
 
 "Are you sure of that ?" 
 
 " Dead sure ! Look for yourself. 
 There s the capital B in Byron and in 
 Bryan ; then there s the Po in Port and 
 the Po in Pottsville, as like as two pins: 
 there can be no chance in all that. 
 Look at the y s, too four of them 
 two in Byron Cassiday and two in Bryan 
 Delorny. A half-blind man could see 
 they re by the same hand. How s this?" 
 He examined the date on the tavern 
 register, then that on the police record : 
 " Why, the man went right from our 
 station to that tavern, and changed his 
 name on the way. On the track of 
 some villainy, ain t you ?" 
 
 " It looks like it." 
 
 " Here s a memorandum by one of 
 our men : < Came on a coal train from 
 Pottsville. Let s see : that s Tom 
 Sullivan s hand. Tom !" 
 
 An officer entered from an inner 
 room, and the detective said to him : 
 " Here s a note of yours, Tom, isn t 
 it ? Do you remember anything of the 
 coal-train passenger ?" 
 
 " Not much to his credit," said the 
 officer, examining the memorandum. I 
 took special notice of the man, for I 
 didn t like his looks. A scaly customer, 
 I should say. Couldn t look a man 
 straight in the face. A scar on one of 
 his ears. Been in rows enough, I ll 
 warrant." 
 
 "A scar, you say?" asked Kullen. 
 
 "Across the left ear a blue line, 
 from a cut, probably. That your man ?" 
 
 " Any beard ?" 
 
 " No. Brown whiskers. Hair curl 
 ing. Rather handsome, if it hadn t been 
 for that down look of his." 
 
 " It s all right," said Kullen, referring 
 to Bagster s memorandum. "What 
 account did the fellow give of himself?" 
 
 " That he hadn t a cent to pay for his 
 supper and night s lodging. Some story, 
 I think, about losing his wallet at Potts 
 ville. Any way, we gave him something 
 to eat, and let him stay the night. It 
 was a regular storm, I remember, and he 
 was soaking wet." 
 
 Kullen felt pretty sure that he held the 
 clue in his hand, and his next visit was 
 to Pottsville. He went at once to a 
 friend of his, John Clews, a lawyer of 
 the place. To Kullen s question whether 
 they knew anything in Pottsville of a 
 certain Bryan Delorny, Clews replied : 
 
 " I should think we did ! more, a 
 good deal, than we ever care to know 
 again." 
 
 " Tell me about him. I have good 
 reason for asking." 
 
 " Pretended to do business among us, 
 but turned out a common loafer and 
 drunkard. Swindled us here, right and 
 left. First he cheated the keeper of 
 a public-house where he lodged and 
 boarded ; then, several of our store 
 keepers : worse than that, his washer 
 woman, a hard-working soul, a widow 
 
6o 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 with three children ; worst of all, a poor 
 sick seamstress who sat up, when she 
 ought to have been in bed, to make 
 three shirts for the scamp, and hadn t a 
 loaf of bread or a ten-cent piece in the 
 house the day she delivered them to 
 him. When she entreated him for the 
 pitiful sum he owed her, he laughed in 
 her face and bid her sue for it and be 
 damned. Some of the boys heard him. 
 That was the drop too much for us. 
 We got hold of him, gave him five min 
 utes to pack his bundle, took the three 
 new shirts out of it, and let the poor 
 sick creature have them. Then we gave 
 him his choice either to have a tin pan 
 tied to his coat-tails and be ignomin- 
 iously drummed out of town for a vaga 
 bond, with a fair supply of odoriferous 
 eggs and similar delicacies, or else to 
 save us the trouble by taking the first 
 train for Philadelphia. He pleaded that 
 he had no money to pay his fare. We 
 searched him thoroughly, and found, 
 sure enough, that he had but fifteen 
 cents, in a greasy wallet. There was a 
 coal train just starting. We gave the 
 conductor a dollar, told him that Potts- 
 ville would regard him as a public bene 
 factor if he would give the rascal an 
 outside seat and set him adrift the 
 farther off, the better we should like it. 
 He set him down, so he told us after 
 ward, near Port Richmond." 
 
 Kullen interested Clews in Terence s 
 story. Through his aid he obtained a 
 deposition, duly authenticated, setting 
 forth all the main facts above related. 
 
 It took even longer than Kullen had 
 anticipated to collect and arrange the 
 testimony necessary to establish, beyond 
 possible cavil, Terence O Reilly s inno 
 cence. September and October passed : 
 November came, and the poor fellow 
 was still in prison. The repeated de 
 lays incident to such work greatly an 
 noyed the kind-hearted prison -agent, 
 certain as he now was of Terence s in 
 nocence. The prisoner might have had 
 a visit from Norah and the children ; 
 for, under the separate system in the 
 prisons of Pennsylvania, such visits are 
 permitted at regular intervals. But he 
 had made a vow to himself that his 
 
 family should never come near him till 
 he could embrace them as a free man, 
 with character cleared of all suspicion. 
 He adhered doggedly to this self-im 
 posed vow ; but, as the weeks passed, 
 and he recovered bodily health and 
 strength, that hope deferred which 
 maketh the heart sick preyed upon him, 
 till his impatience rose, at times, almost 
 to frenzy. 
 
 At last, quite late in the evening of 
 the seventeenth of November, Kullen 
 procured the last of eight important 
 affidavits, containing legal proof 
 
 First : That two days before the al 
 leged theft the prosecuting witness had 
 but fifteen cents in his possession, while 
 the accused had upward of a hundred 
 and seventy dollars, in gold eagles, loose 
 in a linen bag. 
 
 Second: That the said witness had 
 deposed under a false name, his real 
 name being Bryan Delorny ; that he 
 was a common drunkard and swindler, 
 disgracefully expelled as such from the 
 town of Pottsville. 
 
 Third : That the witness before go 
 ing up to bed, on the night of the al 
 leged theft, had had an opportunity to 
 see and count the gold-pieces found in 
 the possession of the accused. 
 
 And, finally : That the said witness 
 had given a false reference when asked 
 where he obtained the money which 
 he alleged to have been stolen from 
 him. 
 
 It was nearly ten o clock at night 
 when Mr. Kullen, fortified with these 
 overwhelming proofs that an innocent 
 man had been sentenced to nine months 
 imprisonment, and accompanied by the 
 under-keeper, Richards, reached the 
 residence of Judge Thomas. The ser 
 vant at first refused to take up their 
 names, saying that the judge was occu 
 pied with business of the utmost im 
 portance, and had ordered that he should 
 not be disturbed. Finally he consented 
 to deliver a message from the prison- 
 agent to the effect that his business 
 brooked no delay ; and, after some de 
 mur, they were admitted. 
 
 The judge received them somewhat 
 abruptly. 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 61 
 
 Well, Mr Kullen," he said, " what 
 is it ?" 
 
 " A criminal case which I am very 
 anxious you should reconsider."* 
 
 " I have no time to consider any case 
 to-night. Call to-morrow evening." 
 
 " It s a case where the greatest in 
 justice has been done, judge ; as I can 
 prove to your satisfaction, if you ll listen 
 to me for half an hour." 
 
 I tell you I have no half hour to 
 spare for any such business. What s 
 this case that s so important it can t be 
 put off foi a single day ?" 
 
 " A man you sentenced for larceny 
 last August Terence O Reilly." 
 
 Oh, it s that young Irish fellow, 
 is it?" 
 
 Yes as clear a case of perjury as 
 ever I met with in my life." 
 
 " Let me tell you, Mr. Kullen, that I 
 sha n t reconsider that case, neither to 
 night nor any other night. It was a 
 protracted trial two whole days. If 
 the man s life had depended on it, it 
 couldn t have been managed with more 
 skill and care. I haven t a doubt of the 
 prisoner s guilt. That Bagster s elo 
 quence is ringing in my ears now. 
 You re losing your time to talk*to me 
 after the defence he made. Once for 
 all, I won t reconsider it." 
 
 " You re a just man, judge impartial 
 and merciful, too, when mercy ought to 
 be shown. But you are hasty, especially 
 when you have a lot of work on hand. 
 If you stick to that last resolution and 
 refuse to hear this case, and if, by and 
 by, the truth comes to your ears, you ll 
 never forgive yourself. I know you." 
 
 " Do you ? Well, I can return the 
 compliment. I know you for one of the 
 most incorrigibly obstinate fellows I 
 ever had the bad luck to encounter. 
 Some of your ancestors must surely have 
 been Scotch : are you sure you re not 
 descended from John Knox ? I see 
 
 * At the date of this narrative (1855) the Court of 
 Quarter Sessions of the county of Philadelphia claimed, 
 and exercised, the prerogative to reconsider the ver 
 dict under which a criminal had been convicted, and to 
 discharge him from custody. It was but during the 
 year 1868 that the Supreme Court of the State of 
 Pennsylvania overruled that interpretation of the court 
 below. 
 
 what I shall have to do. You may talk 
 about my justice, but you ll force me to 
 imitate an un]us\. judge that you ve read 
 about. There was a widow, you may 
 remember, who was as great a plague 
 to him as you are to me ; and he con 
 cluded to hear her at last, lest by her 
 continual coming she should weary him. 
 That s the shortest way to get rid of 
 you. To-night it s entirely out of the 
 question," putting his hand on a bundle 
 of documents : " it will take me half the 
 night to get through with these, and 
 they must be disposed of before I go 
 into court in the morning. To-morrow 
 evening, at eight. Till then, good-bye 
 to you." 
 
 " I m very sorry, judge : I know you 
 are worked a great deal too hard. But 
 I ve labored at this case for two months. 
 My heart s in it. This is the twelfth 
 week that poor young fellow has been in 
 prison. He s half crazy now. I gave 
 him my word that the evidence in his 
 case should be completed and should be 
 laid before you to-night. I got up this 
 morning at four, and I ve been at it 
 every minute since then. Now I ve 
 made up my mind not to stir from this 
 place to-night till I get a hearing." 
 
 The judge had taken his pen, unfolded 
 one of the documents before him and 
 commenced a memorandum. He threw 
 the pen down petulantly and addressed 
 the under-keeper : 
 
 " Richards, is craziness infectious in 
 that prison of yours ? Have you seen 
 any symptoms of it in Mr. Kullen before ?" 
 
 I m afraid I m not a good judge, 
 your honor ; for I take a most as much 
 interest in the young fellow as he does." 
 
 * Oh, if you re all crazy, then the 
 matter s hopeless." 
 
 I did think the man would have 
 died on our hands, judge, he took it so 
 hard. I don t believe I ever should 
 have got him through, if it hadn t been 
 for Mr. Kullen ; and it would have been 
 a great pity. He s as good and as 
 honest a fellow as ever lived." 
 
 "How do you know ?" 
 
 He worked three or four years for 
 my father in Cumberland county. The 
 old man set the greatest store by him, 
 
62 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 would have trusted him with untold 
 gold, and took it awfully hard when he 
 heard Terence was in jail." 
 
 I see it s a regular conspiracy against 
 me. Well, a man may as well submit 
 first as last. Come, Mr. Kullen, since 
 it must be, be as brief and as quick 
 about it as you can." 
 
 Before the prison-agent had read two 
 of the exculpatory documents, the judge, 
 quite forgetting his impatience, began to 
 take as much interest in the case as 
 Kullen himself. Then came the grocer s 
 memorandum. " Upon my word, Kul 
 len," he said, " this looks like the finger 
 of Providence." When there were laid 
 before him the authenticated proofs that 
 the prosecuting witness had deposed 
 under a false name, and that he was a 
 penniless, notorious swindler who had 
 been expelled from Pottsville, the good 
 judge brought his fist down on the table 
 with a vigor that upset the mass of for 
 gotten documents he had still to wade 
 through. 
 
 Kullen saw that the cause was gained : 
 " Will you reconsider the case and cause 
 the clerk of the court to make out an 
 order for the man s discharge to-morrow 
 morning ?" 
 
 "No, I won t" said the judge, taking 
 up his pen. 
 
 " You won t ?" 
 
 " No. Do you think I d leave an in 
 nocent man like that, who has suffered 
 so shamefully already, one night more in 
 prison than I can help ? Richards here 
 will take an informal order from me at 
 once, and I ll make it all right with the 
 clerk to-morrow. Won t you, Richards ?" 
 
 " God bless your honor s kind heart !" 
 said Richards : " of course I will." 
 
 The judge wrote out the order accord 
 ingly, and handed it to the prison-agent. 
 " You re a good fellow, Kullen," he said, 
 warmly ; "and if you only knew what an 
 infernal lot of papers I ve got to go 
 through to-night bless me ! who scat 
 tered them all over the floor ? you 
 would excuse my hastiness." 
 
 Kullen wrung the honest judge s hand 
 without a word, the moisture rising to 
 his own eyes; and he and Richards 
 hurried off to the prison. 
 
 A little before three o clock that 
 morning, Terence, his convict-dress 
 cast off for ever, yet the man scarcely 
 convinced that he was at last free and 
 beyond reach of reproach, stood once 
 more at the door of his dwelling, and 
 startled its inmates by a loud demand 
 for admission. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AMOS CRANSTOUN. 
 
 LET us revert some ten weeks and to 
 Chiskauga, for that morning visit of the 
 aunt and niece to Mr. Sydenham yet re 
 mains to be described. 
 
 Our readers may remember that while 
 Byron Cassiday, or Bryan Delorny (let 
 each select the paternal or maternal 
 patronymic* as to him seems best), was 
 seated on that grassy knoll and wishing 
 Terence O Reilly out of prison, without 
 doing anything to procure his enlarge 
 ment, the said Byron or Bryan, looking 
 northward over Sydenham s residence, 
 discerned, beyond the vineyards, on the 
 line of a brook, indications of a waterfall. 
 
 On the banks of Kinshon Creek, be 
 side tjiat waterfall, under a rustic arbor 
 of trellis-work overrun with grapevines, 
 sat two young ladies in earnest talk. 
 They were worth seeing, and, what is 
 better, worth knowing very unlike each 
 other in appearance, but each possessing 
 no little share of beauty. 
 
 The stature of the one just reached 
 middle size. Her well-developed form, 
 with its rounded outlines, was finely pro 
 portioned, and its motions were easy and 
 graceful ; small, dimpled hands, and 
 small feet. Her eyes were blue, soft, 
 thoughtful ; her hair, curling in ringlets, 
 was light brown, with a golden tinge in 
 it. Her face, not quite long enough for 
 the classical model, had a child-like ex 
 pression about it, very pretty (that word, 
 rather than handsome, occurred to one 
 in looking at her) ; a chin slightly re 
 ceding ; a very fair complexion, and a 
 delicate color in the cheeks. There was 
 
 *As we do not say matronymic, I assume that 
 patronymic, like the word man, may occasionally refer 
 to either sex ; the etymology to the contrary notwith 
 standing. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 a touch of languor about her, and she 
 looked a little out of health and spirits. 
 This was Celia Pembroke. 
 
 The other, a full inch taller, though 
 evidently several years younger, con 
 trasted strongly with her companion. 
 She seemed in brilliant health. Her 
 figure was lithe, agile, vigorous, but 
 somewhat slender, giving promise of re- 
 _markable beauty when a few years more 
 should have filled up the outlines and 
 expanded the form. The limbs were a 
 little longer in proportion than Celia s, 
 and her hands and feet larger, but per 
 fectly well formed ; the fingers long and 
 tapering, and the foot with the " Arab 
 arch." Her face showed the faultless 
 oval, more frequent in Italy than among 
 us ; the nose was very slightly aquiline : 
 otherwise the features were classical, but 
 with nothing of the tameness sometimes 
 marking this type ; the expression de 
 noting high spirit, full of life and hope 
 and energy and intelligence. Thorough 
 bred, one might have been tempted to 
 style her. A clear, bright brunette, with 
 large, dark-brown eyes, that could flash 
 as well as melt. Her hair, too, was 
 brown long, thick, dark, silky une 
 chevelure magnifique," as the French 
 say, choosing to designate, by a single 
 word, what we somewhat strangely call 
 a " head of hair." The chin was well 
 set and delicately cut. its form indicating 
 (Lavater would have said) resolution. 
 That was Leoline Sydenham. 
 
 What these young girls were saying 
 to each other I do not purpose to dis 
 close. The elder people, Celia s aunt 
 and Leoline s father, were talking in 
 doors. Let us listen to them. 
 
 They were sitting in the recess of a 
 bay window opening east on the lawn. 
 Sydenham had made the usual inquiries 
 after the health and welfare of her family, 
 to which Mrs. Hartland had replied with 
 that absent, preoccupied manner which 
 indicates a purpose to enter on an im 
 portant subject that the speaker has not 
 exactly determined how to broach, or 
 has not mustered courage to encounter. 
 
 When Sydenham paused, the color 
 came slightly to her cheeks, and she 
 said, hastily : 
 
 Mr. Sydenham, I fear that I am 
 about to take an unwarrantable liberty 
 with you, but our old friendship, your 
 uniform kindness 
 
 "Alice, said Sydenham, smiling, "I 
 was beginning to think you had quite 
 forgotten that happy old time when your 
 excellent sister and you and I were chil 
 dren together. You have never called 
 me Frank, as you used to do then, ex 
 cept the very first time we met on my 
 arrival here ; and we see you so seldom 
 here among us." 
 
 " It is not customary." 
 
 " Not customary for old friends, living 
 in a country village, and who certainly 
 have not quarreled, to visit each other ?" 
 
 " I did not mean that " 
 
 "Ah ! I am glad to see you smile 
 once more." 
 
 " Surely you cannot doubt that to 
 visit you and my favorite Leoline, and 
 dear, good Mrs. Clymer, whom every 
 body loves, must be a pleasure to me. 
 But Mr. Hartland you know his ways. 
 He is more devoted to his favorite 
 botany and entomology than ever ; and 
 he seems never satisfied unless I am at 
 home. While he is in the field he ex 
 pects me to make colored drawings, for 
 the work he is getting out, of every un- 
 described flower and insect he finds. 
 Then I have to label his specimens, ar 
 range his cabinets ; and so, what with 
 these and my domestic duties " 
 
 " You have not time or thought to 
 spare for your neighbors. Well, I will 
 not quarrel with my friend Hartland 
 about the importance of his scientific 
 pursuits ; but, upon my word, I hold 
 this same science to be a villainous en 
 grosser, an arrant monopolizer as ever 
 sold salt in Queen Elizabeth s days. I 
 shall owe -it a downright grudge, Alice, 
 if it carry you off too. We can t spare 
 you out of the world. These insects are 
 very curious I have spent hours in ad 
 miring them but they are not worthy 
 of having the interest one takes in hu 
 mankind wholly squandered on them. 
 These undescribed flowers that grow 
 under your pencil I don t doubt their 
 grace and beauty but when Hartland 
 gets out his work, I am sure I shall 
 
6 4 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 never look at them with patience, if 
 they are to steal your affections away 
 from us." 
 
 A painful expression crossed Mrs. 
 Hartland s gentle face for a moment, and 
 then was gone. " I strive to take an 
 interest in my husband s pursuits," she 
 said : " it is my duty. And I do take 
 interest in them much more than I 
 once thought I ever could. You don t 
 know," she added, with a faint smile, 
 " how learned I have become in genera 
 and species 
 
 " Dear Alice," interrupted Sydenham, 
 " forgive me. I was wrong, and you are 
 right. You shall come to us just when 
 you please and when you can. You 
 know how welcome you are. But you 
 have not told me yet what it is that is 
 not customary." 
 
 Oh, I meant that it is not the custom 
 for married persons, unconnected by 
 blood, to call each other by their first 
 names." 
 
 " Is it not ? Well, I never wore the 
 straight coat, though my father did. But 
 I have quite enough of the Quaker 
 leaven within me to sanctify, among old 
 friends at least, that beautiful patriarchal 
 custom, a reminder of the common 
 brotherhood of mankind. And you too, 
 Alice : your good mother wore the plain 
 cap and bonnet to the day of her death. 
 It strikes me that might justify her 
 daughter in calling an old schoolmate 
 Frank." 
 
 I think I am quite as much Quaker 
 as you " 
 
 Frank. Mr. Sydenham won t fit in 
 there at all." 
 
 "Well, I think I am quite as much 
 Quaker as you, Frank ; but Mr. Hart- 
 land is not. Sometimes he seems as if 
 he wished me to forget my Quaker 
 origin." 
 
 " Is he so much prejudiced ?" 
 
 " He is a strict Congregationalist, as 
 you know ; and I have heard him speak, 
 in general terms, of the dangerous lati 
 tude which the followers of William 
 Penn allow themselves. I never heard 
 him say a syllable on this particular 
 subject of Christian names. But, as I 
 have always called him Mr. Hartland, 
 
 I think, Mr. Sydenham, that you cannot 
 object to sharing the same fate, my 
 dear mother s plain bonnet to the con 
 trary notwithstanding." 
 
 "Oh," said Sydenham, laughing, "I 
 have not a word more to say. If you 
 have never called your husband Thomas, 
 I am not surprised that you should have 
 forgotten to call me Frank." 
 
 The painful expression shot again, for 
 a moment, across Alice s face ; but Syd 
 enham, not observing it, added : "And am 
 I to call you Mrs. Hartland in return ?" 
 
 " No, indeed no," she replied, earnest 
 ly. " You have always called me Alice ; 
 and if you were to change now, I should 
 think I had vexed or offended you. Be 
 sides, it is your common habit. Do you 
 not call my niece Celia ?" 
 
 Do I ?" 
 
 "Always : I have particularly remarked 
 it. And that reminds me of the purpose 
 of my visit to you. I come to trouble 
 you about affairs not your own." 
 
 " My dear Alice, you shall call me 
 just what you please. But I shall quar 
 rel with you outright if you ever con 
 sider it necessary to employ preface or 
 apology in asking my advice or aid in 
 any matter that concerns or interests 
 you." 
 
 " Then, as I don t feel able, just at 
 present, to encounter a quarrel outright 
 with you, I shall come to the point at 
 once. It is a matter that interests me, 
 for it concerns the happiness of dear 
 Celia." 
 
 " Of late she has not been looking so 
 well nor so happy as usual." 
 
 "She is not happy, poor child. It is 
 the old, sad story," said Alice, with a 
 sigh : 
 
 " The course of true love never did run smooth. " 
 
 "Ah !" said Sydenham, "she has made 
 a choice ?" 
 
 " Does that surprise you ? You know 
 nothing of it ? But you are so seldom 
 with us, now. Yes, she has made a 
 choice, and one that does not at all suit 
 Mr. Hartland." 
 
 " May I know the name ?" 
 
 " Certainly, if you have not already 
 guessed it Mr. Mowbray." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 "And what are Mr. Hartland s objec 
 tions to Mowbray ?" 
 
 " In the first place, his poverty. His 
 mother has not enough, aside from what 
 her school brings in, for a humble 
 support." 
 
 "Celia must have thirty thousand 
 dollars." 
 
 " Forty thousand. Mr. Hartland has 
 invested for her prudently and profit 
 ably." 
 
 " Barring extravagant ideas, that is 
 enough for both." 
 
 "Ah, I knew you would look at the 
 matter as I do." 
 
 " But perhaps I don t." 
 
 You are not going to support Mr. 
 Hartland s view, surely !" 
 
 " What is his view ?" 
 
 "That a girl with forty thousand dol 
 lars is entitled to look for a correspond 
 ing fortune in a husband." 
 
 " You transport me back to Paris. A 
 hundred thousand livres must marry a 
 hundred thousand livres ; and, to do 
 really well, ought to attract and subdue a 
 hundred and fifty thousand. Purses are 
 mated. No wonder poor hearts take 
 their revenge afterward. No, if that be 
 Hartland s view of the matter, I never 
 can support it. Besides, where, in this 
 humble village of ours, is he to find 
 forty thousand dollars for her ? I am 
 altogether too old : Leoline is within a 
 few years of Celia s age." 
 
 " Oh," said Alice, quickly, " I assure 
 you Mr. Hartland has no designs upon 
 you. He favors a very different man." 
 
 " He has some one in view then ?" 
 
 " You have already guessed whom : I 
 see it." 
 
 " Indeed I have not. I cannot even 
 imagine whom, in this neighborhood, he 
 would select. Why should you think I 
 had hit upon it ?" 
 
 " Because you seemed to feel alarmed, 
 as I do when I hear Mr. Hartland urg 
 ing the claims of Mr. Cranstoun." 
 
 Cranstoun ! Amos Cranstoun ! Im 
 possible !" 
 
 " It is only too true." 
 
 "This is serious," said Sydenham 
 after a pause. " The wishes of the dead, 
 no less than the welfare of tke living, 
 5 
 
 urge me to interfere. Strange that this 
 should so long have escaped me!" 
 
 He went to a cabinet of carved oak, 
 dark with age, and, after a search of 
 some minutes, returned with a letter in 
 his hand. 
 
 "Her fears foretold the truth," he 
 said, as he offered it for Mrs. Hartland s 
 perusal. It was the same he had re 
 ceived, ten years before, from Mrs. 
 Pembroke, at Milan. 
 
 Dear Eliza !" The tears rose to 
 her eyes as she recognized the familiar 
 characters. "And three months only 
 before her death !" 
 
 Sydenham paced the room while she 
 read the letter, and when she looked up 
 he stopped before her. 
 
 "Alice," said he, " this must be looked 
 to, and it shall be. How does Celia 
 feel toward Cranstoun ?" 
 
 " Strangely. She undoubtedly dislikes 
 and seeks to avoid him. Yet I think 
 he possesses a certain influence over 
 her. It has seemed to me to resemble 
 fascination. I believe the poor child 
 hears in her dreams her father s death 
 bed words about that man. They seem 
 to haunt her." 
 
 "There is something I do not quite 
 understand in all this. It certainly is 
 remarkable that Cranstoun should have 
 been tolerated even favored, conciliated, 
 recommended to his wife and daughter 
 by Frederick Pembroke." 
 
 " Eliza often expressed to me her 
 aversion to him." 
 
 " She was right. He has a smooth, 
 plausible manner, is not without ability, 
 nor, I believe, without kindly impulses " 
 
 " Your sister Clymer says that in her 
 visits to the poor of our village she has 
 several times found herself forestalled 
 by the charity of Cranstoun. His name 
 is seldom withheld from any subscription 
 for benevolent purposes, and he has the 
 character of winning to himself the at 
 tachment of those whom he employs." 
 
 " His character," said Sydenham, 
 musing, " has been to me a study. 
 Hannah has told me of his charitable 
 deeds. The man is neighborly, com 
 passionate, I suppose indulgent, they 
 say, to his dependants. And yet he has 
 
66 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 no more idea of honesty than if such a 
 thing were not to be found in the world. 
 He is an arrant knave not a violent 
 one, not what would be called a cruel 
 one* but a knave without a single grain 
 of rectitude, without the first spark of 
 honor, and, with all his plausibility, de 
 void of every principle that stamps the 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Is it possible that benevolence and 
 such utter lack of principle can coexist 
 in the same character ?" 
 
 Benevolence is too strong a term. 
 But undoubtedly a rascal may be kind 
 to his neighbors and family, compassion 
 ate to suffering that comes under his 
 immediate observation, and disposed to 
 save to his fellow-creatures all pain that 
 is not necessary in carrying out his own 
 sinister purposes. Cranstoun would 
 bring suit against a poor widow wrong 
 fully too he would suffer the constable 
 to sell out the last article not exempted 
 by law, and then, next day perhaps, if 
 he chanced to see his victim and found 
 her in want, he would send her a bushel 
 of meal or a barrel of potatoes." 
 So bad as that ?" 
 
 " I have had little to do with him, 
 thank God ! but the case I have supposed 
 is not an imaginary one. You know the 
 widow Carson ?" 
 
 Betty Carson ? Certainly. She 
 washes for Mrs. Mowbray as hard 
 working and as honest a creature as 
 lives." 
 
 "You may remember Matthew, her 
 husband a confirmed sot, who led her 
 a dog s life. Matthew had dealings with 
 Mr. Cranstoun, and, at one time, fell in 
 his debt some twenty-five dollars, giving 
 his note for the amount, with Betty s 
 name, by Cranstoun s special request, 
 as security. About a year before he 
 died Carson fell sick, and Mr. Harper, 
 for whom he sent, so wrought upon 
 him that he became, for a time, quite 
 a reformed man, went to work in good 
 earnest, and promised fair to be a credit 
 to his family. During this interval, at 
 his wife s earnest solicitation, he con 
 trived, partly with her assistance, to pay 
 off the debt to Cranstoun ; but either 
 he forgot that he had given his note, or 
 
 carelessly neglected to take it up. The 
 payment of this debt poor Betty men 
 tioned at the time, with tears of gratitude 
 in her eyes, to Mr. Harper, He has 
 not the slightest doubt it was paid. 
 Soon after, Matthew relapsed into worse 
 than his former courses, coming home 
 late at night from the grogshop, break 
 ing open his wife s chest, and taking 
 thence, to supply the next morning s 
 orgies, the pittance she had earned by 
 unremitting toil over the wash-tub, and 
 laid by to procure bread for her children." 
 
 " Poor Betty ! That was worse than 
 I imagined. I knew Matthew was a 
 drunkard, but did not suppose him a 
 thief." 
 
 Neither was he, that I know of." 
 
 Not when he stole his wife s 
 money ?" 
 
 I did not say he stole it he only 
 took it." 
 
 Now you are jesting." 
 
 God forbid that I should jest on so 
 serious a subject." 
 
 " You say he took from her chest, 
 without her permission, the money she 
 had worked for " 
 
 " Yes, money made painfully, toil 
 somely by going out to wash at seventy- 
 five cents a day." 
 
 And that was not stealing ?" 
 
 "Not in the case of a husband who 
 took the money from his wife." 
 
 /r that the law?" 
 
 " In our State, yes." 
 
 Man s law, then, not God s. 
 
 I hope it will not long be man s law 
 in any State of the Union. Our neigh 
 bors of Indiana have got rid of it ; and 
 others are doing likewise. The rage 
 for strong drink seemed to return upon 
 Matthew with redoubled force after his 
 brief season of sobriety. One article of 
 furniture went after another to eke out 
 the means of slaking his ceaseless thirst. 
 At last the best thing he could do then 
 he died of delirium tremens. * 
 
 And Cranstoun brought suit against 
 Betty for the debt ?" 
 
 " Not at first. He did his best to 
 obtain work for her, and even set on 
 foot a small subscription for her benefit. 
 After a few months the chairs and tables 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 were replaced, a list carpet once more 
 covered the cabin floor, the children 
 were decently clad for winter, and the 
 widow was just beginning to feel that 
 she might yet work her way through the 
 world, thanks to the timely aid of Mr. 
 Cranstoun and other kind people, when 
 one day a writ was served, at Cranstoun s 
 instance, for the amount of Matthew s 
 note to him, soon to be followed by an 
 execution of sufficient amount to sweep 
 nearly all she had saved since her hus 
 band s death." 
 
 " How surprised the poor soul must 
 have been !" 
 
 " She was thunderstruck could not 
 imagine at first that it was anything else 
 but a mistake ; and went to Cranstoun, 
 who asked her, very coolly, if she had 
 any receipt to show of payment made." 
 
 "You had this from Betty herself?" 
 
 " Certainly. I never take such things 
 at second hand. She came to me, in her 
 distress, to ask if there was no remedy. 
 I examined the case with care, saw Mr. 
 Harper and others, satisfied myself, first, 
 that the money, beyond a shadow of 
 doubt, had been paid, and, secondly, that 
 no legal proof could be obtained of the 
 fact." 
 
 " Did you call upon Mr. Cranstoun ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And he denied the payment ?" 
 
 " No. He merely requested to hear 
 my proofs ; and the array, as to moral 
 conviction, was perfectly overwhelming : 
 that, I saw, was evident even to him. 
 He listened very quietly, and then asked 
 me which among them I supposed to be 
 sufficient, in a court of justice, to bar 
 his claim. < Do you deny payment ? said 
 I indignantly I am sure it must have 
 been, for I felt my blood boil. Not at 
 all, he replied, without the slightest ap 
 parent emotion either of shame or re 
 sentment. I am not required to deny 
 anything of the sort. It is Mrs. Car 
 son s business to prove payment, and if 
 she does not, I have a legal right to the 
 debt, and shall certainly get it. " 
 
 "Atrocious !" said Alice. "And such 
 a man as that has Mr. Hartland s confi 
 dence !" 
 
 " He made himself very useful in the 
 
 way of business. To your husband the 
 available part of his character has prob 
 ably shown itself, while its baser traits 
 have been kept under in the background." 
 
 " I know he has spared no pains to 
 win Mr. Hartland s good- will and good 
 opinion. At one time about the time 
 this letter of my sister s was written 
 my husband seemed to dislike and mis 
 trust him. I think that was the chief 
 reason why Eliza, on her deathbed, re 
 quired from Celia a promise that she 
 would not marry, before the age of 
 twenty-three, without her guardian s 
 consent." 
 
 " Did Celia give such a promise ?" 
 
 " In the most solemn manner." 
 
 "And this consent Mr. Hartland now 
 refuses to her marriage with Mowbray?" 
 
 "Absolutely. The poor child is in de 
 spair. I could not see these crosses and 
 vexations prey upon her health, as I 
 know they are doing, without asking 
 your counsel and aid." 
 
 " Have you seen much of Mowbray ?" 
 
 " Of late not much. Hartland s man 
 ner almost forbids him the house. Celia 
 has been taking German lessons of Mrs. 
 Mowbray, and thus has seen him almost 
 daily ; but Mr. Hartland has told her 
 that at the end of the present quarter- 
 that is, next week these lessons must 
 cease." 
 
 "And your own opinion of this young 
 man 
 
 " Is favorable. Mowbray is young, 
 handsome, well-principled, I think ; and 
 he loves Celia devotedly. Cannot you 
 do something for her, Mr. Sydenham ? 
 No one who has not lived with her for 
 years, as I have done, can tell what a 
 dear, good, warm-hearted girl she is. 
 And she might be so happy ! And she 
 might make him so happy ! Mv very 
 heart sinks within me to think of their 
 early years darkened, saddened thus ; 
 and youth that never returns !" 
 
 There was a tone in Alice s soft, low 
 voice that went to Sydenham s heart. 
 Her eyes were fixed, absently, on the 
 lovely landscape which, under a slight 
 haze, stretched out before them. 
 
 " Do you know, dear friend," she 
 suddenly resumed, "it has often been a 
 
63 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 puzzle to me that God s gift to us of 
 His most beautiful attribute should so 
 often oh, so very often ! have been 
 given in vain, worse than in vain!" 
 
 "It is one of the world s great mys 
 teries," said Sydenham, sadly " one of 
 many. Who shall explain to us why, 
 just outside the garden of our happi 
 ness, stands Death to enter who knows 
 at what moment ? and lay desolate 
 hopes, affections, enjoyments, that seemed 
 the direct boon of Heaven itself?" 
 
 " Death !" said Alice, following her 
 own train of thought how often we do 
 this, unheeding our neighbor s ! " death ! 
 Ah, that is the least of evils !" 
 
 Sydenham looked up surprised. But 
 she did not notice the look, and he 
 merely said : " Have you pleaded Celia s 
 cause with Mr. Hartland ?" 
 
 I d^re not : besides, it would be 
 useless." 
 
 "And you wish me to do it ? Small 
 chance of success for me if you feel 
 secure of failure." 
 
 " Do not fear that, Mr. Sydenham," 
 said Alice, eagerly. " He does not heed 
 ine : he thinks I cannot understand such 
 things. But you oh I know you can 
 do so much, if you will. You will speak 
 to him as her mother s early friend 
 nay, this letter of Eliza s gives you 
 authority to interpose." 
 
 It makes it my duty, at all events, 
 to leave nothing untried that may prove 
 of service to her daughter, be it much or 
 little." 
 
 " I knew I could depend on you," 
 said Mrs. Hartland, giving Sydenham 
 her hand. " When we were children 
 together you never refused me anything. 
 It was a happy time, then ; and you did 
 so much to make it happy ! If I come 
 but seldom to see you now, Mr. Syden 
 ham, and if I don t call you Frank, you 
 mustn t think I am ungrateful enough to 
 forget. Indeed, indeed, I have much to 
 do at home she rose " and I have 
 been gone, I fear, too long already. Mr. 
 Hartland takes it so much amiss if I am 
 absent when he returns from his walk. 
 Where can those girls be ?" 
 
 "They must be close by ; for I saw 
 them, but a minute or two since, return 
 
 ing by the vineyard gate. But cannot 
 you leave Celia with me ? I ought to 
 speak to her, and perhaps it would be 
 better alone. Ah ! here they come." 
 
 " Lela dear," said Mrs. Hartland as 
 they entered, " can you spare the time 
 to drive me home ? We did not bring 
 Potter : Celia was my charioteer ; and, 
 as your father has something to say to 
 her and I am in a hurry, she cannot re 
 turn with me. I know what a skillful 
 driver you are, and, to tell you the truth, 
 I am a little nervous about that brown 
 mare Potter bought us." 
 
 "Ah, you are driving Brunette. I 
 shall be delighted. I am a good whip, 
 I think : am I not, papa ?" 
 
 " If you would drive a little more 
 cautiously down this steep approach of 
 ours, I could recommend you with more 
 confidence. But I think I may trust 
 Mrs. Hartland with you." 
 
 " Well, that s a good deal for papa. 
 You must know, Mrs. Hartland, he s 
 afraid of spoiling me by too much 
 praise, and deals it out by thimblefuls. 
 But I find him out, for all his stinginess. 
 He would not let me drive you, Mrs. 
 Hartland you, who are such a favorite 
 with him nay, you needn t look in 
 credulous : isn t she, papa ?" 
 
 "Certainly, my child," said Syden 
 ham, with a quiet smile " with me and 
 with all her friends ; but you are de 
 taining her." 
 
 " Well, would he entrust you to me 
 if he didn t believe, in his heart, that 
 I drive, as our old coachman says, 
 splendidly ?" 
 
 " Go along, chatterbox," said her 
 father, patting her cheek fondly : " Mrs. 
 Hartland s time is precious." 
 
 " In a moment. My driving-gloves : 
 ah, here they are. Now, Mrs. Hart- 
 land, I m ready." 
 
 Sydenham accompanied them to the 
 door, Celia following. 
 
 " That is a beautiful animal," he said, 
 patting its arched neck as Leoline took 
 her place beside Mrs. Hartland and 
 assumed the reins, " but she seems high- 
 spirited." 
 
 Yes, papa, spirited, but not vicious. 
 There s not a bit of vice in those large, 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 69 
 
 bold, projecting eyes. I had a good look 
 at her the other day." 
 
 " Drive cautiously, my child." * 
 " I will indeed, papa," said Leoline, 
 earnestly. " Do not fear for us. By-by, 
 Celia." And, at a light touch from the 
 whip, the high-bred animal trotted off, 
 stepping in a style that delighted her 
 young driver and would not have dis 
 graced Hyde Park. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 THE USE OF A VILLAGE POND. 
 
 " MRS. HARTLAND," said Leoline as 
 they drove along, " I wish Celia could 
 feel just as I do." 
 
 Mrs. Hartland smiled : " She would 
 be the better of a little of your flow of 
 spirits. But Celia used to be gay and 
 light-hearted as any one. It is only of 
 late" 
 
 " Yes, I know : that is just what I 
 am thinking of. I did not mean that I 
 wished her to be like me dear Celia is 
 far better than I am, already : I only 
 meant that, at this particular time, I 
 could wish that she felt as to some 
 things " 
 
 " Some things ! Ah, Celia has been 
 opening her heart to you, then ?" 
 
 * No. I never ask people about their 
 hearts : it s not much in my way. What 
 a beauty that Brunette is, and how nice 
 ly she goes ! It is a real pleasure to 
 drive her." 
 
 " Yes, dear, but if you were to go a 
 little slower" 
 
 So I will, if you are the least afraid." 
 
 " Thank you. It was not about Celia s 
 heart, then, that you were talking to me." 
 
 " Yes, it was ; and perhaps I have 
 no business to say a word, for Celia and 
 I have not been touching on that topic 
 at all, to-day ; but I can t help hearing 
 what people, in a village like this, will 
 talk about, when they ought to let it 
 alone. And it provokes me to think 
 it provokes me still more for others to 
 think There, Mrs. Hartland, she shall 
 go more slowly : I didn t intend to touch 
 her with .the whip. Don t look so ap 
 prehensive. Brunette shall walk down 
 
 this hill quite quietly, so that papa shall 
 say I am a good child." 
 
 " You are a good child to think of my 
 silly fears. Now tell me what it pro 
 vokes you to think and for others to 
 think." 
 
 " That Mr. Mowbray should have the 
 power to make dear Celia s cheeks pale 
 and her eyes sad even for a day. I 
 dare say it s all wrong for me to speak 
 so plainly, but that is the honest truth : 
 and I only wish She hesitated. 
 
 " That Celia felt toward Evelyn Mow- 
 bray just as you do." 
 
 " I believe that was just what I was 
 going to say," said Leoline. laughing ; 
 "and a foolish enough speech it would 
 have been. But no : it s not quite that. 
 My anxiety, I believe, went no farther 
 than this, that in short, that she should 
 take things quietly." 
 
 Mrs. Hartland looked at that fair 
 young face, unclouded by a care, and 
 sighed. 
 
 " I am only wishing, remember," said 
 Leoline, apologetically, as she met Mrs. 
 Hartland s pensive eyes. I know," 
 she resumed, a sudden shade saddening 
 her own, "we cannot take some things 
 quietly. Poor, dear papa ! what years 
 he grieved about mamma ! But that 
 was death !" 
 
 "The death of those we love is a 
 terrible evil, but they may be for ever 
 lost to us, though yet alive." 
 
 " But there is no question of Celia 
 losing Mowbray for ever ; and if she 
 did" 
 
 Well ?" 
 
 I am afraid my ideas are not very 
 clear this morning, dear Mrs. Hartland. 
 I come back to my wish that Celia could 
 but take things a little more as I do. I 
 like people to be happy. Not that I 
 should object to Mowbray s looking a 
 little forlorn or so ; but darling Celia, 
 who is too good for any of them worth 
 them all put together I can t bear to 
 think that she should droop and grieve. 
 I believe yes, I fancy that must be it 
 that my idea is, men ought to care more 
 for us than we do for them." 
 
 There flitted across. Mrs. Hartland s 
 face a singular expression sad, regret- 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 ful. it seemed which Leoline was trying 
 to interpret when it suddenly changed to 
 one of great alarm. 
 
 They had descended more than two- 
 thirds of the hill which led from Syclen- 
 ham s house to the level on which the 
 village stood, and the mare had behaved 
 perfectly well. They had passed the 
 neat paling which fenced the garden and 
 orchard, and now, on their right, was a 
 rivulet, swelled by late heavy rains, and 
 which, running down some distance 
 parallel to the road, crossed it a few 
 hundred yards farther on : then, passing 
 to the left, its banks fringed with wil 
 lows, it bisected and irrigated the lower 
 portion of Sydenham s pasture-ground, 
 dropping thence into Kinshon Creek be 
 low the fall. On the left of the road 
 they were descending was the post-and- 
 rail fence which enclosed said pasture, a 
 pretty, undulating piece of meadow-land, 
 with an eastern slope to the plain be 
 low, and extending some distance be 
 yond the foot of the hills. 
 
 In this pasture were cattle and several 
 horses, among them a colt, three years 
 old and still unbroken, which, as soon 
 as it saw the dearborn descending the 
 hill, raced across to a point a little be 
 hind where they then were, stood for a 
 second or two, head and tail erect, snort 
 ing loudly ; then, after trotting slowly a 
 few bounding steps, dashed impetuously 
 down the hill, close to the road fence. 
 
 Whether it was that Brunette had 
 been purchased by Potter of some of 
 his racing associates, who had been 
 testing her speed on the turf, or that the 
 high-spirited animal had been but im 
 perfectly broken, the sudden start, as the 
 colt shot past her, was too great a trial, 
 and, in a moment, she too was galloping 
 at full speed down the road. 
 
 Mrs. Hartland s first impulse was to 
 snatch the reins, but Mr. Hartland had 
 once checked her harshly for a similar 
 imprudence ; and she recollected herself 
 just in time to refrain from an act that 
 might have proved fatal to both. 
 
 incline had not boasted vainly of her 
 skill in driving, and her self-possession 
 was admirable. With one foot planted 
 against the dashboard, she gathered up 
 
 the reins, and, though she could not 
 check the powerful animal, she guided it 
 steadily and without difficulty. 
 
 In an instant they had reached the 
 foot of the hill. Leoline glanced at 
 Mrs. Hartland s agitated countenance. 
 " It is nothing," she said : " I can take 
 her up, never fear ; only pray, pray, sit 
 still." 
 
 They approached the spot where the 
 rivulet already mentioned crossed their 
 path. There was but a foot-bridge, 
 composed of a squared log with a rude 
 hand-railing, close to the pasture fence, 
 for the stream scarcely ever deepened 
 so as to prevent vehicles from passing 
 easily ; and now there might be some 
 eighteen inches of water. Fortunately, 
 the descent on each side was gradual. 
 
 Leoline drove the mare close on the 
 left of the road, toward the foot-bridge ; 
 then, as they reached the descent, drew 
 her briskly to the right, cutting at an 
 angle across the little stream and up the 
 opposite bank, thus avoiding any dan 
 gerous shock in crossing. The rush of 
 the water and the acclivity beyond caused 
 the animal somewhat to slacken her head 
 long speed, and Leoline managed to guide 
 her safely round the turn which, sweep 
 ing to the left, brought her into the main 
 avenue, leading directly into the village, 
 which was nearly a mile distant. 
 
 On the left of this road, fronted by a 
 neatly-kept grass-plat, clotted with ever 
 greens, was Mr. Harper s dwelling, a 
 pretty, white-painted frame house of a 
 single story, with green blinds, and a 
 rustic porch shaded with woodbine ; and 
 before his gate, at this moment, stood 
 his gig, which the good man was in the 
 act of entering. 
 
 No sooner, however, did he see the 
 plight of the ladies than he rushed for 
 ward, totally forgetful of the risk to him 
 self, and, in spite of Leoline s warning 
 exclamation, attempted to seize the run 
 away by the reins. The effect was to 
 cause the animal to swerve and start off 
 afresh, thus depriving the girl of the 
 mastery which she had almost succeeded 
 in obtaining. 
 
 But even at such disadvantage she 
 did not lose heart. It was market-day, 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 and she saw crowds in the distant street. 
 It will never do," such was her rapid 
 thought, "to enter the village at this 
 pace." 
 
 Now, about half-way between Mr. 
 Harper s house and town, on the right 
 of this road, was the village pond, a 
 pretty piece of water, fed by constant 
 springs, partially shaded by willows and 
 acacias, and presenting, on a summer 
 evening, when the cattle, returning un- 
 herded from their forest-pasture, stopped 
 to drink there, a pleasant scene of rural 
 quiet that Cuyp or Gainsborough need 
 not have disdained to paint. 
 
 It was a usual watering-place for 
 wagoners, being open to the road, and 
 was accessible, by a short sloping de 
 scent, as well on the village side as that 
 on which Mr. Hartland s dearborn was 
 now rapidly approaching. 
 
 As they came in sight of it a sudden 
 thought flashed on Leoline s mind, and 
 she acted on it with instant promptitude. 
 
 With a single word of encouragement 
 to Mrs. Hartland, she headed the mare, 
 to that lady s consternation, right for 
 the centre of the pond. Down the slope 
 they went, and into the water, with a 
 rush that dashed it over the animal s 
 back and sprinkled the ladies pretty 
 heavily. But Leoline, in that moment 
 of decision, had calculated well. She 
 drew the mare sharply to the left. The 
 bottom of the pond was soft sand, the 
 wheels dragged through it heavily, and 
 before they had completed a semi-circular 
 sweep toward the opposite landing-place, 
 the panting horse was fairly brought to 
 a stand-still. 
 
 " I could not help it, dear Mrs. Hart- 
 land," said Leoline, shaking the large 
 drops from her dress : I was so much 
 afraid of running over some of the chil 
 dren in that crowded street. I hope 
 you are not very wet. Indeed I could 
 not help it." 
 
 " Wet, dear Lela ! How can you talk 
 or think of such a trifle when nothing 
 but your courage has saved us perhaps 
 from death ! Oh let us get out !" 
 
 "What! Into the water? That 
 would be a craziness ! And let Bru 
 nette get home her own way, break the 
 
 dearborn to pieces and frighten your 
 household into fits ? Oh fie, Mrs. Hart- 
 land ! I was going to return you the 
 compliment about courage, but now 
 you ve spoilt it all." 
 
 Leoline, if I could but feel and act 
 like you ! I owe to you my life." 
 
 " It was nothing, Mrs. Hartland. If 
 the mare had been vicious and had 
 kicked, ah, then it would have been 
 serious. A gentleman we knew in Eng 
 land had his knee lamed for life in that 
 way; and I ve been rather nervous 
 about it, myself, ever since. But Bru 
 nette ran beautifully. Ah, good mare ! 
 See, she drinks : she is conquered now. 
 We shall get home with her quite safely." 
 
 How skillfully you drove over that 
 brook in the road ! I scarcely felt a 
 jolt." 
 
 Yes : I flatter myself that was not 
 badly done. If you are going fast, 
 never drive at right angles, but always 
 slantingly, across a drain. II faut 
 couper les ruisseaux, as good Monsieur 
 Meyrac once told me. Now, Bru 
 nette, you are too hot to drink much. 
 Come !" 
 
 And the animal suffered itself to be 
 driven, quietly enough, out into the main 
 road. 
 
 " Ah, here is Mr. Harper in his gig, 
 come to look after the runaway damsels. 
 Dear old man ! He nearly upset us, but 
 his kindness and courage are not the 
 less for that." 
 
 Are you safe ?" said Mr. Harper. 
 
 "Perfectly," said Mrs. Hartland, 
 thanks to this noble girl ! But how 
 could you think of risking your life for 
 us, as you did ?" 
 
 The truth is, I didn t think of it, or 
 I might have done better. Zeal without 
 knowledge was mine. But isn t that 
 your man Potter coming to us ? And, 
 though Miss Leoline drives admirably, 
 had she not better resign the reins for 
 to-day ?" 
 
 On one condition, Mr. Harper," said 
 Leoline" that you will do me a great 
 favor. I am so much afraid of dear 
 papa hearing of this runaway scrape of 
 ours before he knows we are safe. If 
 you are not too busy, and Mrs. Hartland 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 will spare me, would you mind setting me 
 down at our lower orchard gate ?" 
 
 " Most willingly shall it be done, my 
 dear young lady ; and you shall go safe 
 ly, if not swiftly. My good old Trooper 
 won t bear comparison with that brown 
 beauty of Mrs. Hartland s ; but he is a 
 faithful servant, that has not failed me 
 in fifteen years." 
 
 "Yes, dear Lela," said Mrs. Hartland, 
 " you do quite right to carry the first 
 news to your father. God bless you, 
 my child !" 
 
 And with looks of love and admira 
 tion, Alice s eyes, fixed on Leoline, long 
 followed Mr. Harper s homely equipage 
 ere she bade Potter drive carefully 
 home. 
 
PART IV. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF THE NINETEENTH 
 CENTURY. 
 
 O YDENHAM and Celia had returned 
 v3 to the parlor. As they entered, a 
 look of consciousness and painful em 
 barrassment stole over the girl s anxious 
 face. 
 
 " You have a dear and excellent friend 
 in your good aunt," said Sydenham. 
 
 " No mother could be kinder," she re 
 plied, warmly. " I call her mother, and 
 well she deserves it from me. What 
 should I do now, if it were not for 
 her ?" 
 
 " Are you so hard bestead ?" 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Sydenham," said Celia, 
 the tears glistening in her eyes, " I am 
 very unhappy !" 
 
 " You are very cold, poor child !" said 
 Sydenham, taking her hand " absolute 
 ly chilled through. Come to the fire and 
 let us talk it over." 
 
 Now this speech did not please Celia 
 at all. If the tone and the look had not 
 been so kind, it would have offended 
 her seriously. As it was, it effectually 
 arrested her tears. 
 
 Sydenham seated her comfortably in a 
 huge arm-chair by the fire, and stood 
 looking at her. " What is the matter ?" 
 he asked, after a pause. 
 
 Celia remained silent. 
 
 Cannot you trust me with the cause 
 of your troubles ? Cannot you talk to me 
 as you would to a father ?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 No ?" 
 
 " No ; and I don t wish you to call me 
 < poor child. " 
 
 " Nor to tell you you have not been 
 behaving well ?" 
 
 " Not in that tone. 
 
 How old are you, Celia ?" 
 
 " I shall be twenty next week in ten 
 days ; and that is altogether too old to be 
 a daughter of yours." 
 
 Sydenham smiled, well pleased : 
 " What ! Three whole years older than 
 Lela ?" 
 
 " Don t let us talk of that. I am 
 quite willing to trust you, Mr. Syden 
 ham. I will do as my aunt advised me 
 and tell you all my difficulties ; only " 
 
 " Well, only what ?" 
 
 " You never seemed to me the least 
 like a father, and I am sure you never 
 will." 
 
 Sydenham, who had remained stand 
 ing beside Celia s chair, put back from 
 her forehead a few stray hairs that had 
 been displaced by her bonnet, passed 
 his hand gently over the soft, rich, wavy 
 tresses and touched the fair brow with a 
 light kiss. I suppose, then, I must be 
 satisfied with the authority of an elder 
 73 
 
74 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 brother," said he, as he drew a chair be 
 side her. 
 
 " Talk to me as your sister," said 
 Celia, looking up well pleased, " not as 
 if you were soothing a spoilt child, and 
 you may tell me I have been behaving 
 badly, or anything else you please." 
 
 You have been behaving badly." 
 
 " So you told me already." 
 
 " You have been doing what many 
 older and wiser people than you do every 
 day borrowing sorrow, causelessly, of 
 the future ; vexing yourself I will not 
 say for nothing, but for nothing that 
 ought to make my sister Celia s cheek 
 look pale and her step grow languid." 
 
 " What did my aunt tell you ?" 
 
 "That Mr. Hartland disapproved the 
 choice you had made ; and that, unless 
 he changed his mind, or you broke a 
 solemn promise made to your mother, 
 you cannot marry Mr. Mowbray let me 
 see ! no, not for three whole years and 
 ten days." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Sydenham, surely you don t 
 think" 
 
 " No ; I don t think it ever presented 
 itself to you before exactly in that plain, 
 matter-of-fact point of view, else I might 
 not have had to scold you for these pale 
 cheeks. You felt that Mr. Hartland 
 could not understand you, did not sym 
 pathize with you that he was unjustly 
 prejudiced against Mowbray, and was 
 cruelly outraging your affections. It 
 brought to your mind the various piteous 
 cases of thwarted love and jailer guard 
 ians which you have pored over in nov 
 els you thought yourself very ill-used, 
 and persuaded yourself that you were 
 very unhappy." 
 
 "Is that the way in which brothers 
 talk to sisters ?" 
 
 If they care more about doing them 
 service than pleasing them for the mo 
 ment, yes, it is." 
 
 " Is it not wrong in a guardian to flout 
 the suit of a good, estimable young man 
 merely because he is not rich, and to in 
 sist on his ward marrying another, whom 
 she fears and dislikes ?" 
 
 " Both are very wrong." 
 
 " My uncle will never forgive me if I 
 marry Evelyn. It is not a question of 
 
 now or three years hence. Thrice three 
 years would not change no, not a hair s 
 breadth his rigid prejudice. He has 
 set his heart on my marrying Mr. Cran- 
 stoun, and he will never cease urging it 
 upon me to receive the addresses of that 
 man never, never ! Oh, Mr. Syden 
 ham, how can I help being unhappy, 
 when I see nothing before me but endless 
 quarrels, a struggle between myself 
 dependent, inexperienced and a guard 
 ian, estimable to be sure, to whom I owe 
 much, who wishes me well, I dare say, 
 but who is bent upon what would make 
 me miserable, wretched for life ? And 
 even that is not all." 
 
 " What more ?" 
 
 " My father, during his lifetime, seem 
 ed strangely bound to Mr. Cranstoun, 
 and on his deathbed urged it upon 
 me, in terms the most earnest, always 
 to look upon him as a friend, and 
 to abstain from whatever might offend 
 him. And I myself can scarcely get rid 
 of the idea that he has power over me. 
 He seems, when he speaks to me and 
 looks at me, to feel that he has." 
 
 " Is that all ? 
 
 " Is it not enough ?" 
 
 " Enough to demand thought and call 
 for prudence, but not enough except in 
 some romantic love-tale, in which the 
 heroine may resort to every means of 
 escape from difficulties except common 
 sense very surely not enough to be 
 just cause for serious unhappiness ; far 
 less to be sufficient reason why the ha 
 rassed mind should prey, as yours has 
 been preying, on the body." 
 
 " I am not ill, though my aunt would 
 send for Dr. Meyrac yesterday." 
 
 " You are not ill, but, if you go on in 
 this way, you very soon will be. I have 
 more faith in Meyrac than, report says, 
 he has in his brother Galens : you have 
 heard the story ?" 
 
 "Yesterday, from his own lips. I have 
 not laughed as heartily for a month." 
 
 " He showed his sense by getting you 
 to laugh, and Meyrac is shrewd and sen 
 sible ; but I hope to do you more good 
 than he and all his brethren, backed 
 with every nostrum in their pharma 
 copoeia." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 75 
 
 What if I have no faith ? Will not 
 the charm lose Us virtue ?" 
 
 "You shall not choose but believe. 
 Now, my good, persecuted, affrighted 
 little friend, I pray you to answer me a 
 few plain questions." 
 
 " That is the empiric s privilege 
 well ?" 
 
 " You are getting sharp. I have more 
 and more hopes of you. But do you 
 know what empiric means ?" 
 
 "Ah ! the word touches Dr. Syden- 
 ham s professional pride ?" 
 
 " On the contrary, it suits Dr. Syden- 
 ham, and he adopts it. EMPIRIC one 
 who practices from personal experience 
 only, not from theory ; one who tries 
 experiments." 
 
 "And you intend to experiment upon 
 me ?" 
 
 " Precisely, relying for success on my 
 own experience." 
 
 " Pray proceed, then. I will answer 
 truly, on my conscience, as to all the 
 symptoms." 
 
 " Do you remember who was Bacchus 
 lieutenant-general in his expedition into 
 India?" 
 
 " You begin sufficiently far off, so as 
 not to alarm your patient," said Celia, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Nay, I approach the principal symp 
 tom. Have patience." 
 
 " But my mythology is rather rusty. 
 Bacchus lieutenant-general ? I have 
 forgotten." 
 
 "It was Pan. Bacchus being sur- 
 rounded in a valley by a vastly superior 
 force, the shepherd-god recommended 
 that the men, at night, should give a 
 general shout, which so surprised and 
 terrified the opposite force that they in 
 continently forsook their camp, took to 
 flight and left to Bacchus a bloodless 
 victory. Hence, as you may remember, 
 any sudden terror, without a cause, is 
 usually called a panic terror." 
 
 " Ah, one cannot accuse you of flat 
 tery, Mr. Sydenham, nor deny that you 
 speak plainly, if it be in parable. But 
 your diagnosis is faulty. I have not, 
 that I know of, been seized with any 
 sudden terror." 
 
 " No, in your case the disease as 
 
 sumes its chronic form. So much the 
 worse." 
 
 " Let us speak seriously, Mr. Syden 
 ham. I am hardly able, to-day, to keep 
 up the light shuttlecock of jest." 
 
 " With all my heart. Let me ask you 
 a serious question, then : Ar.e you not 
 afraid of your guardian ?" 
 
 " He is so stern and severe." 
 
 "What are you afraid of? Not a 
 scolding ?" 
 
 " Mr. Hartland does not scold. But 
 he talks just as if everybody must do 
 exactly what he requires of them, and 
 especially a young person like me. My 
 aunt always obeys him, without question 
 or delay. He makes everybody obey 
 him who comes near him." 
 
 "And suppose you were not to obey 
 him what then ?" 
 
 " Oh, it would be terrible ! You have 
 no idea of his look and tone." 
 
 " Stern looks and severe tones are 
 disagreeable, no doubt : I am very 
 sensitive to their influence, myself; but 
 the most favored of us cannot pass 
 through this world without encountering 
 a few disagreeables. Beyond these for 
 midable looks and tones, what else do 
 you fear from your uncle ? What other 
 danger impends ?" 
 
 " Indeed I scarcely know. If I were 
 to defy his will, I cannot tell to what 
 lengths" he might go. Oh, it would be 
 dreadful !" 
 
 " Let us see. In the first place, defy 
 implies a challenge, provocation, a call 
 ing out to a contest. I recommend only 
 gentle firmness. You cannot tell what 
 he might do." 
 
 " It seems to me that, if he were tho 
 roughly roused, he might do anything." 
 
 "Just so anything. I dare say those 
 Indian troops whom Pan so scared with 
 a shout had ideas of danger about as 
 definite as you seem to have. Let us 
 analyze this anything of yours. It 
 does not include a whipping, I suppose?" 
 
 " Mr. Sydenham !" said Celia, rising. 
 Her indignation became her well. Syd 
 enham could not help admiring the glow 
 ing cheeks, but he proceeded without 
 change of tone : 
 
 "Ah, this will never do. I undertake 
 
76 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 no cure if my patient starts up and runs 
 away from my questions. Sit down. 
 Don t you see that we must proceed 
 in the matter regularly if we are to 
 reach any practical conclusion ? And 
 let me tell you, ladye fair, that the time 
 has been when your anything included 
 consequences that might appall the bold 
 est. The Romans had the power of life 
 and death over their offspring. And did 
 they spare sex or age ? There was 
 Boadicea. Do you remember ? 
 
 1 When the British warrior-queen, 
 Bleeding from the Roman rods, 
 Sought, with an indignant mien, 
 Counsel of her country s gods. 
 
 Those must have been serious times for 
 disobedient wards. Don t you think so, 
 Celia ?" 
 
 I was foolish. But you have such 
 a strange way of putting things, Mr. 
 Sydenham. I see that my anything 
 has a restricted meaning. And you 
 shall have an answer to your question. 
 I am not at all afraid of sharing the fate 
 of poor Boadicea." 
 
 " Good ! Now we shall get on. I 
 don t think my friend Hartland would 
 be likely to lock you up in some upper 
 chamber and starve you into compliance, 
 or feed you there on bread and water 
 till you promised to be a good girl and 
 to say yes when he bade you." 
 
 " Mr. Hartland is despotic enough, 
 but he is a gentleman " 
 
 " Of the nineteenth century : that is 
 the best part of it : those picturesque 
 gentlemen of the good olden-time were 
 not much to be trusted in such matters. 
 And Hartland does not live in a remote 
 castle, in some wild forest, with moat 
 and donjon keep, with subterranean dun 
 geons for prisoners and lone turret- 
 chambers for refractory damoyseles. His 
 house, without a single loophole or even 
 window-grating, is situated in a quiet, 
 unfortified, civilized village, in a republi 
 can country: a great convenience, all 
 this, in your case, depend upon it. 
 Bricks and mortar have a good deal to 
 do with civilization and morality. An 
 iron will in a feudal fortress, and an iron 
 will in that pretty, comfortable two-story 
 dwelling-house of your uncle s, with noth 
 
 ing worse than its neatly-painted green 
 shutters to aid in a scheme of incarcera 
 tion, are two very different things." 
 
 " I admit that I run no risk of hope 
 less captivity." 
 
 " Here, you see, is another point settled. 
 Your person and your liberty aje in no 
 danger. One thing more. Can your 
 guardian disinherit you if you use your 
 own eyes, instead of his, in selecting a 
 husband ?" 
 
 " Not that I know of." 
 
 " Of course he cannot. You are your 
 mother s sole heir. Just at present you 
 are a minor, and he might, perhaps, cur 
 tail your allowance. But in another 
 year and a few days he will be obliged 
 to account to you for all your property : 
 he will do so faithfully Hartland is tho* 
 roughly upright and will place it un 
 conditionally in your hands. You will, 
 thenceforth, have the entire control of 
 forty thousand dollars, and will be free 
 to select your own residence, choose your 
 own friends, follow out your own mode 
 of life. There is a great deal of inde 
 pendence, especially here in a Western 
 village, in forty thousand dollars." 
 
 " I confess all this did not occur to 
 me." 
 
 " Of course not. You do not know 
 half your own power and privileges. 
 You have a dash of romance about you, 
 Celia. I like you all the better for that : 
 I was seriously touched with it, in 
 younger days, myself, and am not tho 
 roughly cured yet. But romantic people 
 never do see what lies in the plain path 
 straight before them. Their eyes wan 
 der up to the heavens and off to the right 
 and left to those regions of earth to 
 which distance lends enchantment. No 
 wonder they are sometimes grievously 
 puzzled to thread their way." 
 
 " Unless they find some kind elder 
 brother on the road, who has still ro 
 mance enough to sympathize with them, 
 and not so much as to disqualify him for 
 a guide," said Celia, looking up with a 
 grateful expression to Sydenham. 
 
 His ideas seemed disarranged just foi 
 a moment : then he said quietly : I dara 
 say it was well your aunt Alice thought 
 of me. But we are wandering from th* 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 77 
 
 point. How far had we narrowed down 
 your anything? " 
 
 " I believe I had to admit that it did 
 not touch life, limb, liberty, property." 
 
 " Very well. You are sure your heart 
 has made a choice ?" 
 
 A bright blush for answer. 
 
 I see it has. To that choice Mr. 
 Hartland says No, for the present at 
 least, and may very possibly persist in 
 saying < No as long as he lives. You 
 have resolved not to marry without his 
 consent till you are twenty-three " 
 
 " Most positively. A violation of a 
 promise solemnly made to my mother 
 on her deathbed would haunt me to my 
 own dying day." 
 
 " You are quite right. Then, to re 
 turn to the point from which we started, 
 it appears, in the first place, that your 
 guardian may postpone your marriage 
 for three years and ten days." 
 
 "And meanwhile ?" 
 
 " That is my secondly. Meanwhile, 
 Mr. Hartland may look sternly, speak 
 severely " 
 
 And that is so hard to bear !" 
 
 "It is disagreeable, very, to come into 
 daily contact with ill-will or anger. I 
 once gave a man up a most just debt 
 that could be obtained by litigation, and 
 in no other way, because I had to pass 
 his door each morning, and became im 
 patient of being reminded, once in every 
 twenty-four hours, that I had a quarrel 
 with him." 
 
 " And I should have done just so." 
 
 And you might have afforded to pur 
 chase exemption from a daily-recurring 
 annoyance at a cost of fifty dollars, as I 
 did. But what is the price of your 
 uncle s good-will ? Is it worth while, 
 do you think, to marry Cranstoun in 
 order to get it ?" 
 
 " God forbid ! I would rather die." 
 
 " The price, you see, is too high. 
 You have quite decided not to purchase. 
 You cannot afford to buy off your uncle s 
 harsh words and angry looks at the rate 
 of a lifetime s misery. It is like any 
 other luxury which one s purse is not 
 heavy enough to compass. I should 
 very much like, in addition to what works 
 of art I have, to possess one or two of 
 
 j Canova s statues for my entrance-hall, 
 and a few of my favorite Murillo s best 
 paintings to adorn these walls. But, 
 seeing that my fortune is inadequate to 
 such expensive indulgences, I do not set 
 my heart upon them, and I cease to repine 
 that they are beyond my reach." 
 
 And you think I ought not to set my 
 heart on my uncle s good-will and kind 
 looks ?" 
 
 " Not if he sets upon these a price 
 unreasonable, extravagant, and which it 
 would bankrupt your happiness to pay. 
 Offer him freely, generously, what you 
 really can afford the little attentions to 
 his personal comforts which men at his 
 age value ; cheerful obedience in minor 
 matters, though it involve sacrifice of 
 your taste and inclinations ; the respect 
 ful fulfillment of every duty which a guard 
 ian, standing for the time in a fathers 
 place, can reasonably exact or expect of 
 his ward. Remind him that you are 
 young, are in no haste to marry, and 
 that all vou ask is, not to have a match 
 forced upon you against your will." 
 
 " That is it, exactly that is all I ask. 
 If it were not for this Cranstoun 
 
 " Cranstoun seems to be the bete noire 
 of your dreams. And, to be right hon 
 est with you, Celia, I think* him a dan 
 gerous man." 
 
 " Ah, there it is ! You have left him 
 out of view altogether. I do think ther^e 
 is nothing he might not do." 
 
 " Pan s midnight shout again, Celia. 
 Don t desert the camp and leave its 
 spoils to the enemy until you have as 
 certained his force. Nothing he might 
 not do ! Do you think, for example, 
 that he might hire three or four ruffian- 
 looking men, their faces covered with 
 crape ; have a carriage-and-four close 
 by ; set upon you some day when you 
 were out botanizing in these woods ; 
 cause you to be gagged after the most 
 romance-approved fashion ; spirit you 
 off to some out-of-the-way, mysterious, 
 unknown region ; and there, aided by 
 a ghastly monk or chaplain, compel 
 you, at the dagger s point, to marry 
 him ?" 
 
 " You are really too bad, Mr. Syden- 
 ham," said Celia, laughing. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " These mysterious impending dan 
 gers, you observe, will not stand ques 
 tion. They vanish as you approach them. 
 Tney are ghosts from a bygone age. 
 It is nearly seven hundred years since 
 Dermot Macmorrough carried off, from 
 her bog-fenced castle, the Princess Do- 
 vergilda. His exploit, then deemed a 
 proof of gallantry and spirit, would now 
 be rewarded, if in our day it were prac 
 ticable at all, with ignominy and the 
 State prison. Forcible abduction is, 
 among us, an almost impossible felony." 
 
 " Certainly : I am not afraid of being 
 stolen away." 
 
 "Very well. Can they marry you 
 here, to this Cranstoun, against your 
 consent ? Not very readily, I should 
 think. When Mr. Harper, or some 
 other clergyman, asks you, < Do you 
 take this man for your husband ? you 
 must take care not to say Yes. That 
 is all." 
 
 Celia smiled : " It is a comfort to think 
 one has the privilege of dying an old 
 maid if one chooses." 
 
 "It is a privilege, though you may 
 not think so one which women hare 
 not always enjoyed. You possess lands 
 and houses ; and if you had lived in 
 England in, the early days of King 
 John s reign, you might have been forced 
 to marry, whether you chose it or not, 
 so that your husband might render, in 
 person, at the head of a suitable number 
 of armed vassals, that military service 
 to his suzerain which, by feudal usage, 
 attached to the ownership of land." 
 
 " Have such things been ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly. War, in those days, 
 was more important than happiness. 
 The right to compel such marriages was 
 an ancient prerogative, though afterward 
 abolished by Magna Charta. See what 
 you have escaped ! Then, again, you 
 have no father to go down upon his 
 knees before you, as selfish scoundrels 
 of fathers do in silly novels, informing 
 you that he has been committing some 
 murder or other infamous crime, before 
 you were born perhaps that his life, or 
 honor, is at the rftercy of some rascally 
 accomplice, and that you, by way of 
 mending matters, must, like a dutiful 
 
 child, swear at the altar to honor and 
 obey this same rascally accomplice ; thus 
 condemning to a penalty worse than 
 death a young, innocent victim, to whom 
 he, the while, is not ashamed to profess 
 unbounded love." 
 
 Sydenham rose and paced the room, 
 as was his habit when excited ; and 
 Celia sat gazing absently on the dying 
 embers for several minutes. 
 
 " I see," she said at last, how reason 
 able all you say is. Mr. Hartland s con 
 trol over me is for a limited time only, 
 and meanwhile I may conciliate where I 
 cannot obey him. But, Mr. Sydenham 
 if I have not already tired you " 
 
 " Celia," said Sydenham, coming to 
 her side, "your mother was an early 
 playmate and valued friend of mine; 
 and, if she had not been, you are a dear, 
 good girl, whom I like for your own 
 sake. Are you in the habit of getting 
 tired when those you love tell you of 
 their troubles and ask your advice ?" 
 
 " Nobody ever asked my advice," said 
 Celia, smiling. "But I remember that 
 Franklin, when some one whom he had 
 relieved expressed a fear that he might 
 never be able to return the obligation, 
 told him to pass it round when he found 
 a suffering brother. And I, when I am 
 an old lady with gray hair and a plain 
 cap, looking venerable, and when young 
 girls think I am very wise and come to 
 consult me about their troubles, shall 
 not forget my debt. I will listen to 
 them oh, so patiently ! as you have 
 been listening to me ; tell them that 
 sharp words, after all, are not a killing 
 matter ; that nobody is likely to lock 
 them up and feed them on bread and 
 water, or to run away with them against 
 their will ; and that, as long as they 
 keep saying <No, they can t be married." 
 
 "Admirable! I only hope you will 
 find pupils who will learn their lesson 
 half as aptly as mine has done. But 
 there was something else." 
 
 "Ah, yes," said Celia, the playful mood 
 fading away, " there is one thing more. 
 I have no father, as you have reminded 
 me, exposed to suffering which a hateful 
 marriage might avert. But is it not 
 possible that Mr. Cranstoun may be in 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 79 
 
 possession of some important secret, 
 perhaps connected with my father s past 
 life, which he could still use ?" 
 
 Did he ever say as much to you ?" 
 
 " Not in so many words. But he has 
 left that impression on my mind by cer 
 tain vague expressions dropped from 
 time to time, and which I could not 
 help coupling with my father s dying 
 request not to do anything to irritate 
 this man." 
 
 " You do well to tell me all this." 
 
 "Ah, even you are alarmed now," 
 said Celia, turning very pale. 
 
 " Indeed, no," said Sydenham, smil 
 ing. "It is a matter worth looking at 
 and thinking over, but I feel no alarm 
 about it. Cranstoun was acquainted 
 (intimately, it would seem) with your 
 father in early life. It is possible that 
 he may possess, or think he possesses, 
 the clue to some undivulged transac 
 tions, which it might have been un 
 pleasant to your father might be pain 
 ful to you, perhaps to have brought 
 to light. But if he has any such know 
 ledge, and hopes to turn it to profit, I 
 don t very well see why he should not 
 have sought, ere this, to do so." 
 
 " He may, at this very time, be medi 
 tating such an attempt." 
 
 Possibly. Yet I cannot believe he 
 has much in his power. I was not in 
 timately acquainted with your father, but 
 I believe him to have been a man of 
 honorable, gentlemanly sentiments im 
 pulsive at times, somewhat infirm of 
 purpose, perhaps, but incapable of any 
 thing that would disgrace his memory, 
 or which, if known, ought seriously to 
 pain his child." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure of it !" said Celia, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " But, Celia, remember this," said 
 Sydenham "that even if we are both 
 mistaken even if this fellow Cranstoun 
 possesses, and should hereafter disclose, 
 matters redounding to your father s dis 
 credit, disgrace even nay, dear child, 
 you mustn t look as if all this had al 
 ready taken place : I don t believe a 
 word of it : I am putting a mere possi 
 ble case and if that possible case ever 
 prove a reality, I wish you ever to bear 
 
 in mind Are you attending to me, 
 Celia ?" 
 
 Indeed, indeed I am," said Celia, 
 raising her downcast eyes to Sydenham s 
 face : "you wish me to bear in mind " 
 
 " That no man I will not say who 
 loves you, but whose good opinion is 
 worth striving after or caring for that 
 no man who has the slightest claim to 
 be called good or wise will visit on the 
 daughter the father s sins. If any man 
 ever does, Celia, take my word for it, 
 you are well rid of him." 
 
 Poor Celia s eyes sank beneath the 
 flash of Sydenham s, and her lip trem 
 bled as she faltered out, "Are you speak 
 ing of any one ?" 
 
 "Of no one whatever, dear Celia," 
 said Sydenham, in his usual gentle tone. 
 " Pardon my vehemence. I have an un 
 lucky habit, when I think of any mean 
 or wicked act, of personifying the crea 
 ture of my imagination, and speaking as 
 if it stood in bodily form before me." 
 
 " How good you are !" said Celia. " I 
 wish that I could, only confide in all the 
 world as I do in you." 
 
 Sydenham looked toward the door. 
 It opened, and, her cheeks glowing with 
 health and exercise, her bright eyes 
 radiant with spirit, Leoline entered. 
 
 "Ah, still here? I am so glad!" 
 she said, tripping lightly up to Celia. 
 
 Something struck her in the expression 
 of her friend s face, and she looked from 
 her to her father. 
 
 " I believe I had better go up to my 
 room and lay aside my hat," she said, 
 demurely. 
 
 " Put your hat beside mine on the 
 piano," said Celia, "and sit down with 
 us, like a reasonable creature. Did you 
 think your father and I had been plot- 
 ting treason that was to be kept from 
 you ?" 
 
 " Oh, I didn t know. You both look 
 ed as if you had had a long, confidential 
 chat." 
 
 " So we have. Your father has been 
 doing me so much good, dear Lela." 
 
 " Has he ?" said Leoline, depositing 
 her hat and shawl. " Good father ! 
 He shall have a kiss, to pay him for it, 
 before I sit down. There ! Confess^ 
 
8o 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Celia, that was more than you gave him, 
 with all your gratitude. Ah, you were 
 afraid. You needn t have been. Papa 
 is not a dangerous man to kiss." 
 
 " How do you know, rattlebrain ?" 
 said Sydenham, smiling. Celia thinks, 
 at all events, that I am too young for 
 her father." 
 
 " Does she ? Wise girl ! Her father, 
 indeed ! I often think you re not nearly 
 old enough for mine. Do you know," 
 turning to Celia, "I feel so tempted 
 sometimes to call him Frank ! How do 
 you think it would do ? But what great 
 good has my young father been doing 
 you, dear?" 
 
 "I came here, seeing nothing in the 
 future but strife and unhappiness. And 
 now I am going away with a heart no, 
 not as light as yours, Lela : nothing but 
 a bird singing in the morning sunshine 
 can match that but hopeful, reassured; 
 feeling as if some tempest had suddenly 
 passed away, and a bright, genial sky 
 had come out, with a few clouds here 
 and there maybe a dark one now and 
 then but only such as all skies that 
 shine on this world of ours must some 
 times have." 
 
 " That s my own Celia !" said Leoline, 
 kissing her. "A practical philosopher ! 
 Papa is great on philosophy. And now, 
 to do honor to his lesson, these eyes 
 must grow bright again ; these cheeks 
 let me look at them ! they show a little 
 better just now, but they have been of 
 late most unphilosophically pale " 
 
 "Why, philosophy is privileged to be 
 pale. The pale cast of thought. " 
 
 "Not in our house. Ask papa. We 
 are republicans, and don t allow phil 
 osophy a bit more privilege than the 
 humblest handmaiden virtue in her train: 
 pale cheeks least of all." 
 
 Lela reminds me," said Sydenham 
 to Celia, "that I intended to prescribe 
 for these cheeks and eyes. But as my 
 crucibles and alembics are out of order 
 just now, and as the chief ingredient re 
 quired is not to be found in our village 
 drug-store-r-" 
 
 "You must cull the necessary sim 
 ples," interrupted Celia, "just at mid- 
 in the moonlit forest." 
 
 " No : I am more likely to be success 
 ful at midday, and in the neighborhood 
 of some thriving farm." 
 
 " I don t think your father has one 
 spark of poetry in his composition, Lela. 
 If anything is presented to him with the 
 least spice of imagination about it, he 
 analyzes and dissects it after such an 
 inexorably matter-of-fact fashion ! And 
 now he won t even gather the materials 
 for the specific he promises me, 
 
 In that hour 
 That scatters spells on herb and flower. " 
 
 " Out, Celia completely out in that 
 guess ! Papa not poetical ! You don t 
 know anything about him. As to the 
 moonlight, I can t say. If he makes up 
 a prescription for you at all, it s more 
 than he ever did for me. He was telling 
 me, the other day, that the Greeks em 
 ployed the same word for medicine and 
 Poison" 
 
 "Nevertheless Celia shall have her 
 prescription within ten days to be taken 
 once a day, if the celestial influences are 
 favorable." 
 
 " This is some joke of papa s. Don t 
 puzzle your brain to understand it now, 
 Celia : it will unriddle itself one of these 
 days. But for papa having no poetry 
 about him, I must come to his defence 
 there. Gravely as he may talk to you, 
 he sometimes reads to me his favorite 
 poets, English and German, by the hour; 
 and I caught him, this very morning, 
 translating from Schiller, I believe, some 
 ballad or ode. What was it, papa ?" 
 
 " Schiller s < Ideale ; a favorite of 
 mine a lament over the loss, in middle 
 age, of the beautiful Ideal cherished in 
 early youth. And, by the way, Celia, as 
 there are some of the verses not inap 
 plicable to your case You read Ger 
 man, do you not ?" 
 
 " Not with facility. Read me your 
 translation." 
 
 " I am sorry ; for I have not at all 
 succeeded in rendering the melodious 
 flow and graceful spirit of the original. 
 The idea is all I can give you. Lela, 
 my child, you will find the manuscript 
 on the sofa-table." 
 
 Lela brought it, and Sydenham re 
 sumed : " The opening verses I have 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Si 
 
 not yet arranged to my satisfaction. 
 Here are a few, picked out toward the 
 conclusion : 
 
 " How rich the buds of promise that put forth 
 
 Along my life s path as I wandered on ! 
 How few of these have scaped the chilly North 1 
 How soon the freshness of these few is gone ! 
 
 * With bounding courage winged, through fairy-land, 
 
 Happy in dreams that cheat the fleeting hours, 
 Untouched, as yet, by Sorrow s fetter-hand, 
 
 How sprang the youth along that path of flowers ! 
 
 " Aloft to ether s farthest, palest star 
 
 His checkless wishes bore him in their flight : 
 No thought so high, no enterprise so far, 
 But on their soaring wings he reached its height. 
 
 44 How lightsome was he borne through ambient air 1 
 
 What task seemed weary in that joyous day 1 
 How graceful swept, before his triumph-car, 
 The airy heralds of life s summer-way I 
 
 * Love, with her sweet reward, I ween, was there, 
 
 And Happiness, with golden wreath bedight, 
 Glory, with crown of stars that blazed afar, 
 And Truth, resplendent in her garb of light. 
 
 " Alas ! midway th inconstant troop divide ; 
 
 The fair companions of his path are gone : 
 Faithless, they turn their devious steps aside 
 Faithless, forsake the wanderer, one by one. 
 
 Lone and more lone the dreary path doth seem, 
 
 And more forsaken still, and darker aye ; 
 Hope s fading torch scarce sheds one flick ring gleam 
 Athwart the rudeness of the murky way ! 
 
 * Of all the clamorous attendant train, 
 
 Who yet remains where er my footsteps roam? 
 Who lingers still to cherish and sustain, 
 And follows even to the last, dark Home ? 
 
 ** Healer of ills with which the world is rife, 
 
 Thou, FRIENDSHIP ! of the soft and gentle hand 
 Thou who dividest all the cares of life, 
 Whose love, unchanged, all ordeals can with 
 stand ; 
 
 And Thou who by her side hast constant stood, 
 And who, like her, the soul from grief canst 
 sever, 
 
 Thou, INDUSTRY ! who weariest not in good, 
 Creating evermore, destroying never ; 
 
 " Thou who, to rear the sempiternal pile, 
 
 But grain, indeed, on grain of sand doth cast, 
 Yet from the roll of ancient Time, the while. 
 Days, years, a lifetime, strikest off at last." 
 
 Sydenham read well a rare accom 
 plishment. Celia thought she had never 
 seen him look so handsome. 
 
 "Beautiful !" she exclaimed, "and so 
 
 just ! I shall ask Mrs. Mowbray to let 
 
 me go over the original with her. I 
 
 must go." She rose : Why, Lela, 
 
 6 
 
 how wet your dress is ! What have you 
 been about ?" 
 
 "That mare of yours is hard-mouthed." 
 
 "She ran away ?" 
 
 "Something like it. Nay, Celia, nay, 
 darling papa ; your anxious looks fright 
 en me far more than Brunette did. Mrs. 
 Hartland is quite safe." 
 
 " How was it, my child ?" said Syd 
 enham, his voice calm, though all color 
 had forsaken his cheeks. 
 
 " Perhaps I was off my guard for a 
 moment, interested in the conversation 
 it was about you, Celia. A colt racing 
 in the pasture startled the mare near the 
 bottom of the hill, and she started off. 
 I m satisfied I could have taken her up, 
 only good Mr. Harper tried to stop her, 
 and made things worse. So, as I had 
 no mind to drive into town at that John- 
 Gilpin pace, I ran the mare into the 
 pond, where I knew I could stop her 
 easily at expense of a sprinkling, as 
 you see." 
 
 " Thank God !" said Sydenham. 
 
 " She s not vicious, papa : I told you 
 so. She ran beautifully. If I had had 
 a stiff bit, instead of a snaffle, I know I 
 could have held her. But perhaps Mr. 
 Hartland had better sell her. She s 
 hardly safe for you to drive, Celia ; and 
 what a pity it is ! There isn t such an 
 other beauty in the county. I wish men 
 and horses were always as good as they 
 look. Dear papa, that was so frightened 
 about his runaway daughter" she kissed 
 him fondly "I m glad I got him to 
 smile once more." 
 
 Celia had put on her hat and shawl. 
 " No," to Leoline, who was about to do 
 the same. " My talk with your father 
 has made me feel more independent al 
 ready, and I shall go home alone. This 
 is the hour of your drawing-lesson, I 
 know. How do you get on ?" 
 
 " Charmingly, if you will trust to Aunt 
 Hannah, who, you know, has not the 
 heart to find fault with anything. Papa 
 is not so easily satisfied, and he is right." 
 
 " Good Mrs. Clymer ! I do believe 
 God never made a kinder heart. Where 
 is she this morning ?" 
 
 "In the village, I believe, visiting the 
 saddler s wife, who was taken ill in 
 
82 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 church last Sunday. I dare say you 
 will meet her on your way down." 
 
 "Good-bye, dear Lela. Mr. Syden- 
 ham, I shall never forget your kindness, 
 nor, I hope, your advice." 
 
 CHAPTER XIIT. 
 CHISKAUGA MATTERS. 
 
 " He mourns the dead who lives as they desire." 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 WHEN Sydenham, in fulfillment of his 
 promise to Alice Hartland, called on her 
 husband to speak of Celia Pembroke 
 and her suitors, it was with slender hope 
 that any good would result ; and the cold 
 and distant manner with which Mr. Hart- 
 land received his first allusion to the 
 subject convinced him that any direct in 
 terference on his part would injure rather 
 than benefit the girl s cause. This arose 
 not only from Hartland s impatience of 
 contradiction, and because he and Syd 
 enham were mutually antipathetical, but 
 also because circumstances that had oc 
 curred eight or ten years before had pro 
 duced, on the part of the former, a cool 
 ness toward the other which seemed but 
 to increase with time a coolness grow 
 ing out of a benefit conferred. In 
 some natures benefits unwillingly re 
 ceived rankle as deeply as injuries. 
 
 Inasmuch as the circumstances re 
 ferred to connect themselves with the 
 earlier fortunes of the neighborhood in 
 which our scene is laid, and afford an 
 opportunity to present to our readers a 
 member of Mr. Hartland s family better 
 worth their acquaintance than that gentle 
 man himself, they will bear with us, per 
 haps, while we revert to them. 
 
 Sydenham, when he made his home 
 close by a Western village, entered what 
 to him was a new world a world differ 
 ing more widely from that which swarms 
 in oui Atlantic cities than the people of 
 these cities differ from those of the 
 towns and villages of England. Still 
 greater, however, was the contrast be 
 tween the farmers and farm-laborers 
 around Chiskauga and the same classes 
 on the continent of Europe. 
 
 The young Fhiladelphian, when he 
 first crossed to the Old World, had spent 
 months in a pedestrian tour for a time 
 in the agricultural portions of England, 
 afterward among the peasantry of France 
 and of Germany. He had often found 
 among them simple goodness, patience 
 under hopeless toil, resignation beneath 
 grievous burdens. He had met a cheer 
 ful smile, a ready welcome. But the 
 spirit of the man was not there the 
 spirit that can look up with an honest 
 confidence, and feel that while it is no 
 man s master, neither is it any man s 
 slave. One felt they felt that between 
 themselves and the favored of fortune 
 there was fixed an almost impassable 
 gulf. 
 
 How great the difference he found in 
 the lowliest cabin of our rural West ! 
 Humble, often the means ; homely the 
 forms ; blunt, nor usually grammatical, 
 the manner of speech ; but a certain 
 rude independence, natural not assumed, 
 shone through a quiet sense of equality 
 in political rights and in the pursuit of 
 honors and office. The tone in which 
 hospitality was tendered assured one of 
 this. Seldom any apology for rough 
 fare or poor lodging ; or, if such was 
 made, not in the tone of humility one 
 meets with on the Rhine or in the 
 French chaumiere. 
 
 A trifling incident brought this home 
 to Sydenham. One evening, at the close 
 of a political meeting held in the open 
 air and in a remote portion of the 
 county, he had accepted an invitation, 
 from a farmer carrying his homespun 
 coat over his arm, to stay with him until 
 next morning. He found a large family 
 inhabiting a double log-cabin, with an 
 open entry separating the two compart 
 ments. " We re poorly fixed to take in 
 strangers like you, Mr. Sydenham," said 
 the farmer as they entered ; then added, 
 with a smile, "but I thought, as we ve 
 made out with our accommodations for 
 fifteen years, that maybe you d be willing 
 to put up with them for one night." 
 
 Supper, plentiful but badly cooked, 
 was served in the kitchen. Two grown 
 up daughters remained in that apart 
 ment for the night, while the rest of the 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 family adjourned to the other. Three 
 or four younger children there clambered, 
 by a short ladder, to the loft above, 
 while the guest and his host, sitting 
 down by a blazing log-heap, dropped 
 into a long chat ; the wife, on the other 
 side of the fireplace, knitting and listen 
 ing as silently as her ancestress, Eve, 
 when Adam was talking with the Angel 
 Raphael on the origin of the world and 
 other celestial mysteries. 
 
 The conversation branched off into 
 arguments on government, and Syden- 
 ham had occasion not for the first nor 
 the twentieth time since his arrival 
 among these primitive people to note 
 the common sense which marked the 
 man s judgment of men and things and 
 his views of national policy, albeit these 
 were couched in uncouth phrase and 
 interlarded with homeliest illustrations. 
 
 At an early hour the husband, after 
 covering up the fire with ashes, retired 
 to rest with his wife in one end of the 
 apartment, while to Sydenham was as 
 signed a cot bedstead, with clean sheets 
 and abundant bed-clothing, at the other. 
 The latter lay long awake, watching the 
 effect of the moonbeams shining through 
 the gaping apertures between the logs 
 of the cabin wall, and calling to mind 
 Waller s lines : 
 
 " The soul s dark cottage, battered and decayed, 
 Lets in new light through chinks that Time has 
 made." 
 
 If a certain abrupt rusticity of de 
 meanor, common especially to the older 
 settlers, jarred, at first, on Sydenham s 
 fastidious taste, yet, as he penetrated 
 the rough shell, he found beneath such 
 genuine qualities, so much that was fresh 
 and racy, mixed too with a quick sense 
 of humor, that his prejudice melted 
 away. These people, for example, were 
 strictly law-abiding ; yet with their re 
 spect for the law s behests was min 
 gled but little reverence for its external 
 forms. Witness an old anecdote, cur 
 rent among them : Nancy Leavitt, known 
 to all the county as widow of a thriving 
 farmer who had made his home there at 
 an early day, had been summoned as 
 witness in a suit pending between two 
 of her neighbors. This ancient dame 
 
 was hale and hearty, and she began 
 giving testimony with great self-posses 
 sion. But as she had lost several teeth, 
 her enunciation was somewhat indis 
 tinct, and her voice no longer as power 
 ful as in her younger days it had been. 
 Add to this that she wore what was 
 called usually a sun-bonnet, sometimes a 
 "poke-bonnet," made up of a liberal 
 allowance of pasteboard, covered with 
 gay calico, projecting farther than even 
 the Quaker fashion permits in front, and 
 with a voluminous cape, protecting the 
 neck from the sun, behind. 
 
 " Madam," said the judge, " we will 
 thank you to speak a little louder." 
 
 A second attempt did not seem to be 
 more successful, for the judge again 
 interrupted her : 
 
 " Witness, the court cannot hear a 
 word you say. Please to take off that 
 large bonnet of yours." 
 
 " Sir," she replied, " the court has 
 a perfect right to make a gentleman 
 take off his hat, but it has no right at 
 all to require of a lady to take off her 
 bonnet." 
 
 " Upon my word," retorted the judge, 
 "you seem to be so well versed in law, 
 madam, that I think you had better come 
 up here and take a seat on the bench 
 beside us." 
 
 Whereupon the old lady rose, dropped 
 a low curtsy, and, with the gravest face, 
 and to the infinite amusement of lawyers 
 and audience, added : I thank your 
 honor very kindly, but there are old wo 
 men enough there already." 
 
 When Anna Sydenham, on her death 
 bed, commended to her husband s care 
 the inhabitants of Chiskauga, she "build- 
 ed better than she knew." Yet it is 
 doubtful whether Sydenham, with his 
 lofty aspirations and his vague theories 
 of perfectibility, would have succeeded 
 in doing much practical good among 
 these people but for a fortunate incident. 
 While casting about, soon after his ar 
 rival, for some intelligent foreman or 
 manager accustomed to land operations 
 and farming business, and familiar with 
 the habits of the West, he became ac- 
 quninted with Ethan Hartlancl, son of 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Mr. Hartland by his first wife, a young 
 man who had returned, six months be 
 fore, from a four years residence in 
 Germany, where, in an excellent poly 
 technic institute, he had qualified him 
 self as civil engineer. Yet his tastes, 
 formed before he went to Germany, were 
 for farming pursuits. Modest and de 
 ficient in self-assertion, he preferred the 
 independence of rural life to the chances 
 in a profession where success depends, 
 in a measure, on patronage. Sydenham 
 made his acquaintance, and liked him. 
 He found him steady, industrious, per 
 severing a great favorite, too, with the 
 country-people on account of his good 
 nature and ready sympathy. Young as 
 Ethan was, Sydenham fell into a habit 
 of consulting him on his plans for the 
 sale and improvement of his property, 
 and for meliorating the condition and re 
 forming some of the habits of the popu 
 lation in the village and its neighbor 
 hood. He soon discovered that the 
 youth, under his quiet demeanor, had 
 opinions and a will of his own, and he 
 gradually began to entertain doubts 
 whether sundry of the somewhat am 
 bitious schemes he had himself projected 
 might not be advantageously modified by 
 the practical, business objections which 
 the ather interposed. 
 
 " I have more land," he said one day 
 to Ethan Hartland, " than any one per 
 son ought to possess while so many 
 hard-working men around me have no 
 homes of their own ; and I have been 
 thinking of a plan by which this in 
 justice might be remedied." 
 
 What do you propose ?" 
 
 "A workingman s land association. I 
 am willing to place at the disposal of the 
 members three or four thousand acres 
 at two-thirds of the present market 
 price. Let a certain number of laboring 
 men organize a joint-stock company, with 
 shares, say, of ten dollars. When the 
 number of shares acquired by any stock 
 holder is sufficient to purchase a home 
 for him, let him take it up. I will accept 
 payment for the land as it is sold. Let 
 him who is first ready to buy have the 
 preference." 
 
 "If you put the land at two-thirds its 
 
 market value, speculators would be likely 
 to come in and engross the whole." 
 
 " But I should make it a condition 
 that the company pass a regulation to 
 the effect that no member be allowed to 
 buy until he is ready to build and im 
 prove ; and that if, within a given time, 
 he did not make the improvements 
 specified, the land should fall back to 
 the company." 
 
 Even the passage of such a pro 
 vision might prove insufficient protection 
 against the greed of speculators." 
 
 " You are suspicious, Ethan, for so 
 young a man," said Sydenham, smiling. 
 
 "The facts are in my favor, Mr. Syd 
 enham. On my return from Europe I 
 spent a month with an uncle in Phila 
 delphia, and met at his house a Mr. 
 Disland, who had promoted just such an 
 association as you propose, and taken 
 stock therein. The company made a 
 judicious purchase of five thousand 
 acres of unimproved land, partly on 
 credit, and, guided by Mr. Disland s 
 advice, adopted the very regulation you 
 have just suggested." 
 
 " Indeed ! This interests me. What 
 was the result ?* 
 
 "At first all went well. Several of 
 the members turned their shares into 
 building lots or small farms, and im 
 proved these. Gradually all the stock 
 was taken up. Other settlers following 
 the example of the first, the land began 
 to increase in value. Thereupon the 
 shares rose to a premium. This at 
 tracted the attention of land operators, 
 who bought in pretty heavily, hoping for 
 a farther rise. Disappointed in this, 
 they wished to turn their shares into 
 land, but the rule in regard to improve 
 ment stood in the way." 
 
 " Did not that induce them to sell out 
 again ?" 
 
 " No. They combined together, in 
 trigued with the laboring men who held 
 shares, represented to them what an ad 
 vantage they would reap if each was al 
 lowed to secure a site at once, instead 
 of waiting till he had money enough to 
 build, and so losing the best lots. Then, 
 taking advantage of Mr. Disland s ab 
 sence from Philadelphia, they procured 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 a call for a public meeting of the stock 
 holders, had the obnoxious resolution 
 reconsidered and rescinded, and the next 
 morning, within a quarter of an hour after 
 the office opened, they entered, to the 
 amount of their shares, the most valuable 
 portions of the property." 
 
 " The rascals !" 
 
 " They considered it a fair business 
 transaction." 
 
 " Do you know how the matter finally 
 resulted ?" 
 
 " Mr. Disland returned the same day, 
 and sold out all his shares before even 
 ing. The stock gradually declined, poor 
 men being unwilling to enter and im 
 prove a bit of property lying by the 
 side of a larger tract held by some rich 
 man, who avowedly declined to do his 
 part, waiting for others to move, and 
 thus seeking to reap where he had not 
 sowed. In four or five months after 
 ward the association went to pieces." 
 
 " I think precautions might be taken 
 to prevent such a result. In conveying 
 the land to the company I might make 
 it an imperative and irrevocable con 
 dition that it should not be sold out 
 except under stringent improvement 
 stipulations." 
 
 " Our people are peculiar, Mr. Syden- 
 ham. Wherever, in larger or smaller 
 deliberative bodies, they have the right 
 to debate and decide, they want, to use 
 a common phrase, to have their full 
 swing ; not to be cramped by restric 
 tions, however wholesome, that have 
 been arbitrarily imposed. I think they 
 would not submit to the Constitution 
 itself if they did not know they had the 
 right to amend it." 
 
 Sydenham, struck with the sagacity 
 of these strictures, pondered the mat 
 ter ; and meeting Ethan next day, in 
 vited him to spend the evening at his 
 house. There the conversation was 
 renewed. 
 
 " I still think my plan of a land as 
 sociation practicable," said Sydenham, 
 " if the first movers are prudent in se 
 lecting their associates, and if they have 
 a wide range of choice. But it might be 
 less advisable here, where the number 
 of land purchasers is limited, and one 
 
 has to take them as one finds them. 
 Have you any substitute to propose ?" 
 
 The idea of selling land below the 
 current rates, and under strict improve 
 ment stipulations, seems to me practica 
 and very important. But why not go 
 directly to your object ? Retain in your 
 own hands the powers you propose to 
 delegate to an association. Say that 
 you set apart five thousand acres. Have 
 these laid out, in the vicinity of the vil 
 lage, in building lots of a few acres 
 each, and farther off have the land di 
 vided into small farms. Reserve from 
 sale each alternate lot and farm, and 
 offer the rest (giving several years 
 credit for part of the purchase-money) 
 at low and fixed rates. Instead of a 
 deed, give the purchaser a bond of 
 agreement containing a covenant on his 
 part to erect, say within a year, a habita 
 tion for purposes of occupancy, and to 
 make certain other specified improve 
 ments, with the right to demand a 
 warranty deed as soon as these condi 
 tions are fulfilled and the land is paid 
 for. Before the first two thousand five 
 hundred acres are sold out, the remainder 
 will have risen greatly in value." 
 
 I should be willing to stipulate that 
 I will sell the reserved lots and farms at 
 the same rates as before. The increase 
 of price will be due to the labor of 
 others, not to my own." 
 
 " That would be generous : yet I ad 
 vise not to encumber yourself with any 
 promise in advance. If the difference 
 between the selling price and the actual 
 value of these lands be great, great also 
 will be the temptation to circumvent you. 
 You may hereafter see fit to set apart a 
 portion of the surplus which you now 
 think of relinquishing, and to expend it in 
 works of public value to aid the schools 
 of the village, or in drainage, in opening 
 roads and avenues, and planting these 
 out with shade trees. Possibly that 
 might, in the end, be best for all parties." 
 
 Sydenham sat silent for some time : 
 then he asked, How old are you, 
 Ethan ?" 
 
 "Just twenty-two." 
 
 " You seem to have given much at 
 tention to this subject." 
 
86 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " I owe my ideas on it chiefly to Mr. 
 Disland, who has made it a study for 
 years." 
 
 The young man s modesty attracted 
 Sydenham : " Have you determined to 
 follow out your profession as engineer ?" 
 
 My father wishes it, but, so far, no 
 situation has offered. The former pres 
 ident of the Riverdale Railway, an inti 
 mate friend of my father, had promised 
 to give me a post on his road as assist 
 ant engineer, but he died, as you may 
 remember, a month before my return. 
 I can hardly say I regret that I missed 
 the chance, for I greatly prefer a farmer s 
 life." 
 
 " You managed a farm of your father s, 
 I think, for two years before you went 
 to Germany ?" 
 
 Yes, and should be glad to return 
 to it." 
 
 " Perhaps I can offer you something 
 better. You know, probably, that I 
 have between nine and ten thousand 
 acres in and around Chiskatiga. I am 
 quite ignorant of the details of Western 
 farming and land management, and I 
 want an educated young man as superin 
 tendent, to supply my deficiencies. I 
 know how thorough German training is : 
 it is an excellent preparation for our 
 faster life. I think we should suit each 
 other, Ethan. What say you ?" 
 
 "As my father has recently finished 
 paying for my education, I ought to con 
 sult him. But I feel most deeply the 
 confidence with which you honor me, 
 Mr. Sydenham, and should be delighted 
 to accept the situation." 
 
 " I can afford a salary of eight hun 
 dred or a thousand a year. I know you 
 could save me as much as that." 
 
 Give me sixty dollars a month, if 
 you find my services worth the amount. 
 I can pay my own board and live com 
 fortably for less ; and that is more than 
 a young man of my age can reasonably 
 expect." 
 
 " One can see that you come from a 
 German college, Ethan. Young Amer 
 ica will leave you behind. By the way, 
 when we talk business, let it be in Ger 
 man. How I envy you your accent !" 
 
 With that they parted, mutually 
 
 pleased. Not at all pleased, however, 
 when he heard of it, was Mr. Hart- 
 land, Sr. 
 
 Parents, especially those who, like 
 Ethan s father, are of an arbitrary turn, 
 are apt to forget that when their chil 
 dren reach adult age the time has ar 
 rived when advice should succeed au 
 thority. Mr. Hartland was angered that 
 his son, after four years spent in pre 
 paring for one profession, should select 
 another. " I hate such change of pur 
 pose in a young man," he said. 
 
 " You may remember, sir, the son 
 replied in a respectful tone, " that when 
 you were about sending me to Europe, I 
 begged you, instead, to let me study im 
 proved agriculture on Professor Mapes 
 farm. You yourself selected for me the 
 profession of engineer. I am grateful for 
 the expense you incurred in qualifying me 
 as such, and in giving me an opportu 
 nity to see foreign countries and to learn 
 German. I have always been ready, at 
 a day s notice, to go into the field if a 
 situation presented itself. But six months 
 have elapsed, and I do not wish to be a 
 burden on you, now that a chance offers 
 to make my own livelihood." 
 
 " Have I ever sent you in a board- 
 bill, or refused to pay your store- 
 accounts ?" 
 
 " No, sir : I am grateful that you have 
 not. But that is no reason why I should 
 remain dependent upon you longer than, 
 is necessary." 
 
 " You prefer to be dependent on Mr. 
 Sydenham." 
 
 Ethan did not reply. He saw it was 
 a matter of feeling, not of reason. The 
 next morning, after Mr. Hartland and 
 his tin case had gone out botanizing, 
 Mrs. Hartland spoke to the son. 
 
 " My dear Ethan," she said, " there 
 is no one living from whom I would 
 sooner see you accept employment than 
 from Mr. Sydenham. But don t vex your 
 father. You know he could never en 
 dure opposition." 
 
 " I know, mother ; but then 7 cin t 
 endure dependence." 
 
 " Not on your own father ?" 
 
 " No. I would accept the Axton farm 
 from him, and trouble him for nothing 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 more ; but you know he has no inten 
 tion to give it me." 
 
 " No, he doesn t like putting prop 
 erty out of his own hands. But he 
 never refuses you money when you want 
 it." 
 
 " I am no longer a child, to ask him 
 for every dollar I need." 
 
 " I have to do so." 
 
 " I know you have, and that s all 
 wrong." 
 
 " Oh fie, Ethan ! to talk of your 
 father so !" 
 
 It s the truth, mother." 
 
 " Must not a husband support his 
 wife ?" 
 
 " Yes, but he needn t dole out every 
 five-dollar note as if she were a pensioner 
 on his bounty." 
 
 " The money is his, to give or not as 
 he pleases. He made it all." 
 
 " I don t see that. If we hadn t you, 
 mother, how much would he have to pay 
 for an ordinary housekeeper, not to say 
 some one that would hold his property 
 as well together and make us all as com 
 fortable as you do ? I wouldn t under 
 take it for five hundred a year. I do 
 believe I can manage Mr. Sydenham s 
 land with less trouble. It s nearly eight 
 years that you ve been with us, mother ; 
 and if all had their dues, I think father 
 would open a bank account for you, and 
 place three or four thousand dollars to 
 your credit." 
 
 < Did you get these ideas in Ger 
 many, Ethan ? When you marry are 
 you going to pay your wife five hundred 
 a year as housekeeper ?" 
 
 " I shall be too poor for that ; and 
 then the mistress of a domestic estab 
 lishment is far more than hous&fri^i; 
 she s house//0/</<?r." 
 
 " How do you propose to manage, 
 then ?" 
 
 " I do not intend to ask any girl who 
 doesn t understand housekeeping, and 
 who can t tell what it costs. I ll ascer 
 tain how much she wants a month to 
 keep house and to cover her personal 
 expenses, and I won t marry till I can 
 spare her that. Then I ll put enough 
 cash to last for a month or two in her 
 bureau drawer, and ask her for the key 
 
 now and then, so I can see to it that it 
 doesn t run out." 
 
 Mrs. Hartland laughed : Bache 
 lor s dreams, Ethan ! I expect nothing 
 else than to see you marry a girl who 
 don t know whether coffee needs roasting 
 before it is ground. Young people al 
 ways do make up beautiful theories 
 beforehand." 
 
 " Well, mother, my only theory just 
 at present is, that it won t do for me to 
 sponge on my father any longer. It s 
 wrong." 
 
 " How hard set you men are in your 
 opinions ! Ethan, you ve never dis 
 obeyed your father yet ; and when he is 
 dead and gone it will be a comfort to you 
 to think that you never did." 
 
 It must come to an end some time, 
 mother. As well now as later. I may 
 have a household myself in a few years, 
 and then maybe he ll object to that 
 arrangement about the bureau drawer." 
 
 The wife felt the justice of all this. 
 But she felt more strongly still how 
 serious is often the first breach between 
 father and son. Alice Hartland was one 
 of those of whom it is written that they 
 shall be called the children of God. Hu 
 man strife even war itself, no doubt 
 has its mission, yet the peacemakers are 
 to be the ultimate rulers of a civilized 
 world. 
 
 " Dear Ethan," she said, you have 
 always been such a comfort to me in 
 the house, especially since you returned 
 from Europe. God knows how much 
 more willingly I should see you accept 
 Mr. Sydenham s generous offer than to 
 have you going off, to remain for months 
 or years from home, and then settling 
 down at last, perhaps, as resident engi 
 neer in some distant State. I hope it 
 will never come to that, and I know you 
 have a right to choose. But you re 
 member Paul says : All things are law 
 ful for me, but all things are not expe 
 dient. Your father has paid much for 
 your education. Cannot you give way 
 to him a little? Cannot you agree to 
 wait a few months ? Then, if there 
 seemed no chance of a situation as en 
 gineer, I think he would give way." 
 
 Alice s mediation was successful. The 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 compromise was made. For six months, 
 during which Ethan kept up his mathe 
 matical studies and sought in vain for 
 employment in the field, Sydenham re 
 served for him the place he had offered. 
 Then, without further opposition on his 
 father s part, the young man accepted it. 
 Hartland overlooked the contumacy of 
 his son, but he never forgave Sydenham. 
 
 Now that our readers know something 
 of Ethan s connection with Sydenham, 
 and of the cause that led to the antip 
 athy which grew up in the mind of Mr. 
 Hartland, Sr., toward his son s employer, 
 it is time that we return to the current 
 of events that followed Syclenham s un 
 successful intervention in the love affairs 
 of Celia Pembroke. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 THE MILLER AND THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 TEX days elapsed. Then, one even 
 ing, Cassiday came to report progress to 
 Cranstoun. 
 
 "A devilish hard time of it I ve had," 
 he said. " That miller of yours expects 
 a man to do two days work in one." 
 
 " You ve found out nothing ?" 
 
 "He gave me little chance. But I 
 like to keep a promise when I m well 
 paid for it." 
 
 Let us have it, then." 
 
 Widow Carson s boy Tom has been 
 hired by Mowbray, at a dollar a week, 
 to rub down that gray gelding of his 
 once a day and clean out the stable on 
 Saturdays. I thought it would be con 
 venient to take the widow for my washer 
 woman, so I got acquainted with the 
 boy." 
 
 " Not bad, that." 
 
 " It s a stylish gelding enough, but 
 there s a splint coming on the near fore 
 leg." 
 
 " What s that to me, you incorrigible 
 horse-jockey ?" 
 
 " And the shoe of that foot 
 
 " You used to be straightforward, 
 Delorny 
 
 "Cassiday, if you please, while I m 
 here." 
 
 " Very well. You used to be straight 
 forward in telling a story, Mr. Cassiday. 
 \Vhat do I care for splints and horse 
 shoes ?" 
 
 "A horseshoe s an important thing. 
 The rider has been lost for lack of one 
 before now ; and the rider of that, same 
 gray may have cause to curse that very 
 shoe." 
 
 Go on your own way, then." 
 
 " On one side the iron has a notch in 
 it, and on the other there s a nail that s 
 been badly driven in, and the head s 
 turned over a little. A man can tell the 
 print of the shoe among a hundred." 
 
 " You ve tracked him ?" 
 
 "He meets Ellen damn h!m ! about 
 a quarter of a mile north of the road, and 
 half a mile below the mill, near the bluff 
 bank of the creek, where the brush is 
 thick. It s an unfrequented spot." 
 
 " You saw him ?" 
 
 " And heard him, last Saturday after 
 noon, reading to her from my name 
 sake, too Byron s poems." 
 
 " How did you know it was Byron ?" 
 
 " We had an old copy in the Squire s 
 stable at home, and 1 used to read it at 
 night, by the lantern, when the horses 
 were restless and wouldn t let me sleep : 
 that was what made me think of Byron 
 for a name to go by. He was dealing 
 out to her some love-verses. I could 
 have throttled the infernal scoundrel 
 where he sat." 
 
 "You take up Ellen s case warmly." 
 
 " Did not you tell me the girl mustn t 
 be ruined, and ar n t you paying me 
 thirty dollars a month to look after her?" 
 
 " She s very pretty, isn t she, Cassi 
 day ?" 
 
 "If there are any prettier girls, I 
 haven t been lucky enough to light on 
 them. And she s as good and as modest 
 as she s pretty. I ll bet all I m worth 
 the poor thing wouldn t let that rascal 
 say three words to her if she didn t be 
 lieve he intended to make her his wife. 
 She ought to be some honest man s 
 wife." 
 
 " Your s, perhaps ?" 
 
 "Why not ?" 
 
 " Well, there are some small mat 
 ters" 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 "That you and I were engaged in 
 together long ago. Yes, I remember. 
 But then we don t take any more heavy 
 risks now. We have both reformed, 
 you know. We re repentant sinners. 
 And you would like to marry " 
 
 Cranstoun s eye warned Cassiday that 
 he might go too far ; so he added : 
 
 " To marry some rich, handsome girl ; 
 and no doubt you ll do it, too, one of 
 these days." 
 
 " Are you serious, Cassiday ?" 
 
 " Never was more serious in all my 
 life. Didn t I tell you I had set up re 
 spectable, as you ve done. I ve been 
 thinking it must feel very comfortable 
 when a man has a house of his own over 
 his head, like this of yours." 
 
 " But then " said Cranstoun, putting 
 his hand to his mouth and turning up 
 his little finger. 
 
 " Yes, I know," rather dejectedly. 
 "That cursed drinking has been the 
 ruin of me. But I haven t touched a 
 glass since I came here, nor I don t in 
 tend to. I felt mean about it when I 
 was talking, last night, to to the miller 
 at supper." 
 
 " I wonder," Cranstoun thought, 
 " whether a fancy for a young girl really 
 could reclaim a sot like that ?" But he 
 only said : " Was the daughter at sup 
 per, too ?" 
 
 " Of course. The handiest girl about 
 a table, Mr. Cranstoun ! I believe she 
 knows what a man s thinking about be 
 fore he asks for it." 
 
 " The miller s pretty well off himself, 
 and he ll look for a son-in-law that s 
 well to-do in the world." 
 
 " And why shouldn t I be well-to-do ? 
 I ve made some money here already." 
 
 How was that ?" 
 
 " I heard that Mr. Sydenham wanted 
 a handsome pony for a lady. Nelson 
 Tyler, who has an eye for a horse, told 
 me where to find the snuggest fourteen- 
 hand mare in three counties, and lent 
 me a nag to go after her. Small, tho 
 roughbred head ; eyes like a deer s ; 
 shoulder thin and high, running hand 
 somely back ; arched neck ; short- 
 coupled ; legs flat and clean and slender 
 as any racer s I ever backed ; the least 
 
 little bits of ears ; coat like silk ; mane 
 as fine as a young girl s hair, and drop 
 ping half way to the ground ; color just 
 the thing dark bay, with black legs. 
 Where the old Dutchman who owned 
 her got such a beauty I can t imagine. 
 He thought her too spirited and too 
 light for his work : I got her for a hun 
 dred and thirty-five." 
 
 " And sold her to Mr. Sydenham " 
 
 " For a hundred and seventy-five, and 
 cheap at that. Forty dollars clear, you 
 see, for a few hours work." 
 
 " But Miss Sydenham has a saddle- 
 horse already." 
 
 "It was not for her he bought the 
 mare." 
 
 " How do you know ?" 
 
 " Would you like to hear something 
 about Mr. Sydenhanrs motions for the 
 last ten days ?" 
 
 " Such things never come amiss." 
 
 "Well, the same day I hired to the 
 miller, Miss Pembroke and her aunt 
 started out, at nine o clock in the morn 
 ing, to visit Mr. Sydenham. Mrs. Hart- 
 land returned about eleven, but Miss 
 Celia didn t get back till nearly one, 
 though Miss Sydenham wasn t at home." 
 
 " How do you know she wasn t at 
 home ?" 
 
 " She drove Mrs. Hartland back ; 
 there was a runaway scrape, and if the 
 girl hadn t been a trump, and rushed 
 the mare into that pond close to town, 
 they might both have had their necks 
 broken." 
 
 "Anything more ?" 
 
 " Mr. Sydenham returned the visit 
 next day. Then he set about getting a 
 lady s horse. Then he bought, at Jacob 
 Hentzler s, the handsomest side-saddle 
 and double bridle bit and bridoon, all 
 bang-up that were to be had in the vil 
 lage. And this morning, being Miss 
 Celia Pembroke s birth-day, he sent 
 down the old coachman on one of the 
 carriage horses, leading that beauty of a 
 pony saddle, bridle, white saddle-cloth, 
 ear-nets and all complete a birth-day 
 present to the heiress." 
 
 " Confound his impudence !" 
 
 " She don t care for him, Mr. Crans 
 toun : she s looking another way." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Upon my word, Mr. Del Mr. Cas- 
 siday considering that you ve been 
 doing two days work in one at that mill, 
 you seem to have been making good use 
 of your extra time. Pray how did you 
 happen to find out the state of the young 
 lady s heart ?" 
 
 I was on hand when she and the 
 aunt started for Mr. Sydenham s. Mow- 
 bray came along on his gray, and I saw 
 her color up red as a peony, and cast a 
 look at the windows of her uncle s house 
 like a guilty thing. It wasn t hard to 
 guess that the young scamp was the 
 favorite, and that old Hartland well, 
 that he didn t take to Mowbray, "and 
 probably did favor somebody else. I m 
 glad you think I ve been industrious. 
 If you care about any more informa 
 tion in that line, and will make it an 
 object, I m your man. There s one 
 thing I d like." 
 
 Well ?" 
 
 The mare that ran away, and might 
 have killed Mrs. Hartland, was sold to 
 her husband by the coachman, Potter. 
 I ve made the man s acquaintance : he 
 says Hartland looks as black as night at 
 him, and he s expecting every day to get 
 notice to quit when the month s out. A 
 word from you would settle it." 
 
 " You want to leave the house where 
 Ellen Tyler lives ?" 
 
 " Next month, yes. It s no use for a 
 fellow to see a girl every day as long as 
 she cares more for another. Besides, I 
 like being among horses better than 
 among meal-bags. And then Hartland 
 gives forty-five a month, and a house 
 just across the street from the stables. 
 It s small, but it s neat, and it s large 
 enough for two." 
 
 " Did you hear what Mowbray said to 
 Ellen ?" 
 
 " No. He read loud, but when he 
 spoke to her it was so low I could not 
 make it out." 
 
 " I must have another witness before 
 you leave the mill. I want you to watch 
 vour time and take the miller himself to 
 the spot, so he can see them there to 
 gether with his own eyes. They ll have 
 a nice time. Mowbray s not good for 
 much, but he s fiery enough ; and Nelson 
 
 Tyler, though he s hard to rouse, isn t a 
 man to stand any nonsense." 
 
 "An ugly job !" said Cassiday, hesi 
 tating ; and Cranstoun added: " You 
 needn t appear. Don t you see it s for 
 the girl s good, Cassiday ? These clan 
 destine meetings must be stopped, and 
 who can put a stop to them but her 
 father ? Do you want her to go on 
 meeting that kid-gloved fop in secret 
 till" 
 
 " Enough said !" broke in Cassiday. 
 " I ll see to it that the burly miller has a 
 chance at him." 
 
 "And I ll look to that matter about 
 the coachman s place." 
 
 Thereupon the two worthies parted. 
 
 The next Sunday afternoon the stout 
 miller and Cassiday might have been 
 seen not far from Tyler s mill, on the 
 road leading thence to Chiskauga, walk 
 ing away from the mill, as two men 
 might for a wager. Silent too. In the 
 case of one of them, however, not (if 
 physiognomy may be trusted) for lack 
 of thought. The usual bold, frank, good- 
 natured look of the miller seemed cloud 
 ed with anxiety or anger, the lips set, 
 the veins of the forehead swollen. Cas 
 siday stopped at a point where two large 
 poplars stood by the roadside close to 
 each other. After passing back and 
 forth along the road several times, ex 
 amining the ground carefully, he said : 
 "We are in time : he has not returned." 
 
 Then the men struck off into the 
 woods at right angles to the road, pro 
 ceeding north, and, as they approached 
 Chewauna Creek, slackening their pace. 
 \Vhen, at some distance through the 
 trees, there became visible a gray horse, 
 saddled and bridled, fastened to a sap 
 ling, Cassiday turned to note the effect 
 on his companion. A flush on the 
 cheek and a twitch of the right hand, in 
 which the miller carried a stout hickory. 
 " Rather him than me," thought Cassi 
 day ; then to the miller : " I did it for 
 the girl s good, Mr. Tyler, but I don t 
 want to appear in it. I m not used to 
 act the informer, and you don t need 
 me." 
 
 I should think not," was all the 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 other said as he strode through the 
 brushwood alone. 
 
 Ellen was seated on a low ledge of 
 rock, over which a horseman s cloak had 
 been thrown : Movvbray on the grass at 
 her feet, a book in his hand. 
 
 "It is such a pleasure to read to those 
 bright eyes of yours, dear Ellen. You 
 ought to be a poet s wife." 
 
 The young girl blushed with pleasure. 
 
 " It was like sunshine to me," he pur 
 sued, "when you used to come three 
 times a week to mother s French class. 
 Wouldn t your father let you come for 
 another quarter?" 
 
 " No : he says I have learned French 
 enough already ; and you know I am 
 nineteen." 
 
 "Then I must bring a French book 
 with me next time and let you read to 
 me, so you may not forget what you 
 have learned. When can I see you 
 again, Ellen ?" 
 
 Ere the girl could reply, the sound of 
 a heavy footstep caused Mowbray to 
 start to his feet. Ellen turned, recog 
 nized her father, and, acting on the im 
 pulse of the moment, ran off through 
 the underwood in the direction of the 
 mill. The two men remained confront 
 ing each other. 
 
 Mowbray was by no means deficient 
 in animal courage, but, as the Dane ex 
 pressed it, " Conscience does make cow 
 ards of us all." He avoided the miller s 
 fixed gaze. 
 
 " I m not surprised," the latter began, 
 "that you can t look a man straight in 
 the face." 
 
 Mowbray raised his eyes : " Why 
 shouldn t I look you in the face ? I 
 happened to be riding through these 
 woods hunting a board-tree to cover our 
 wood-shed. I met your daughter and 
 stopped to have a chat with her. We 
 got acquainted when she was taking 
 French lessons from my mother." 
 
 " Yes. I wish I had run my hand in 
 the fire rather than ever suffer the girl to 
 darken your doors." 
 
 "Have you a good board-tree any 
 where on your land that you want to 
 sell, Mr. Tyler?" 
 
 "A liar too ! Do you go hunting 
 
 board-trees all the time in the same 
 place ? yesterday was a week, for in 
 stance, when you came here with Byron s 
 poems in your pocket ?" 
 
 Mowbray flushed scarlet, but he re 
 strained himself, conscience-smitten; 
 and Tyler added : " You young gentle 
 men think it fine, spirited amusement to 
 cozen a poor young girl that knows no 
 better than to believe you. You have 
 respect neither for God nor man." 
 
 " Ask Miss Ellen if I ever treated her 
 otherwise than with respect." 
 
 If you had" 
 
 "I ll abide by whatever she says. 
 I m willing to suffer any punishment if 
 she declares I ever did. Ask her." 
 
 " I ll ask her whether you ever asked 
 her to be your wife, and the poor child 
 will say no, and will weep as if her 
 heart would break. Pin not going to 
 ask you that question : God knows I 
 want no such upstart as you for a son- 
 in-law ; but I ve another question I d 
 like to ask." 
 
 Well, sir ?" 
 
 " Suppose you had a sister and I a 
 son. Suppose that my son met your 
 sister secretly, without your mother s 
 knowledge, without yours. Suppose you 
 found this out, and that you had every 
 reason to believe my son never meant to 
 marry your sister was actually courting, 
 at the very time, a richer girl and only 
 flirted with the other, and tried to win 
 her foolish heart, for his own amuse 
 ment nothing worse, observe ; and sup 
 pose you found him, one day, making 
 love to her in a lonely spot, and telling 
 her it was like sunshine to him when 
 ever he met her. Suppose you had 
 happened, that day, to have a good 
 stout hickory with you, what do you 
 think would have been the probable 
 result ?" 
 
 " But the case is not the same." 
 
 "Yes, I know. I m a clod: you ie 
 some of the porcelain of the earth ; or 
 at least you think you are, and that 
 often answers just as well. What you 
 do to me and mine I have no right to 
 do to you and yours. That doctrine 
 may answer in Russia, where they sell 
 the working-people along with the land 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 they live on.* It won t do here. What s 
 the difference between us, Mr. Mow- 
 bray ? Nobody ever asks me twice for 
 a debt ; and the story goes that s more 
 than you can say. There s not a neigh 
 bor I have that won t bear witness I 
 never willfully injured him or his. You 
 know there s one neighbor, at least, who 
 would lie if he said that of you. Are 
 you more respectable than I am ? Not 
 in God s eyes : I m not at all sure if 
 you are in man s, either. Now I want 
 to know about that son of mine, and 
 what would happen if you caught him 
 courting your sister, and you with a 
 stout cane in your hand ?" 
 
 " You won t listen to what I have to 
 say to you, and I don t choose to 
 answer a question when it implies a 
 threat." 
 
 Oh, you don t ?" 
 
 " No gentleman would." 
 
 "John Mowbray, you shall have a 
 piece of my mind. I suppose you would 
 scorn to break into my house and get 
 at my strong-box, and, if you found a 
 couple of hundred dollars there, to go 
 off with it under the cloud of night. If 
 you did play me a trick like that, you 
 wouldn t deny that you deserved the 
 penitentiary ; and if anybody saw you 
 at such work, you d be very sure to get 
 there. Now I think a midnight thief a 
 decent, respectable man compared with 
 you. He risks his life to get my money: 
 there s some spunk in that ; and he may 
 need it who knows ? to feed a wife 
 and children. Then in a month or two 
 I can make it up again. But you steal 
 from me my very life my child s heart, 
 my child s honor. You do this in mere 
 wantonness of purpose, out of no need, 
 only out of profligate selfishness. She 
 trusts you, and you deceive her : she 
 loves you. and you betray her. None 
 but a villain would do that : none but a 
 base, treacherous coward would do that. 
 John Mowbray you are both !" 
 
 And the old man, in his hot indigna 
 tion, unconsciously raised the cane he 
 held in his hand. 
 
 Up to this point, Mowbray, exceed 
 ingly desirous to avoid a brawl with 
 
 *The Russian serfs were not emancipated until 1862. 
 
 Ellen s father, had done his best to curb 
 his temper, though his blood boiled 
 when the miller first called him a liar. 
 But the villain and the coward ! And 
 the menace of the cane ! It was more 
 than his father s son could bear. His 
 rage, long pent up, burst all bounds. 
 Scarcely knowing what he did, he drew 
 from a pocket a large spring- knife, 
 snapped it open and rushed on Tyler. 
 
 The miller, who had kept his eye on 
 him, stood quite still and threw away 
 his cane. With a sudden jerk of his 
 left hand he clinched, with the grip of 
 a vice, Mowbray s uplifted arm ; then 
 with his right he seized the blade of the 
 knife, wrenching it from the other s 
 grasp with a force that sprained the 
 wrist ; then, letting him go, he snap 
 ped the thick blade in two as if it had 
 been a pipe-stem, pitched the pieces 
 over the cliff into Chewauna Creek, and 
 signed contemptuously to the young 
 man, saying : 
 
 Get ye gone for a fool ! What 
 business had you to meddle with edge- 
 tools ?" 
 
 If Mowbray s blood had not been in 
 a ferment, he might have appreciated 
 the generosity that let him off so easily. 
 But he was maddened ; and he grappled 
 fiercely with his opponent, his passion 
 lending him a force which took the 
 miller by surprise. Mowbray struck him 
 two or three violent blows. Then, for 
 the first time, the animal in Tyler was 
 fairly roused. For a minute or two he 
 had to do his best ; but he was a vete 
 ran wrestler, who in his youth had never 
 been beaten ; and age had but little 
 diminished his extraordinary strength. 
 Closing with Mowbray, in a few minutes 
 he had tripped him up, caught him, as he 
 was falling, in his arms, and borne him, 
 despite his struggles, to the verge of the 
 cliff. It \vas a sheer descent of full forty 
 feet to the bank of the creek, and that 
 was covered with sharp-angled rocks. 
 Had Mowbray at that terrible moment 
 pleaded humbly for his life, it is just 
 possible he might have lost it through 
 the contempt he would have inspired ; 
 but pride and passion overcame fear: he 
 said not a word, and when he had ex- 
 
TYLER AND MOWBRAY. 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 93 
 
 linusted himself by terrible but fruitless 
 effort, and felt in that clutch of steel tjiat 
 he was overmastered, he submitted si 
 lently to his fate. Nelson Tyler stood, 
 for a few moments, as if irresolute it 
 was no bad subject for a group of Her 
 cules and Antaeus then, turning from 
 the precipice, he flung the young man on 
 the ground with stunning force. In fall 
 ing, Mowbray s head struck against a 
 stray root of a tree just visible above 
 the ground, and he lay insensible. 
 
 The miller stood looking at him, 
 He s had enough," he said ; then 
 hastily descending to the creek, by a 
 circuitous path well known to him, he 
 
 brought back a hat-full of water just as 
 Mowbray had recovered consciousness 
 so as to sit up. The wound on his 
 head was trifling, and the cold water 
 soon revived him. Not a word passed 
 between the men except the question : 
 " Can you ride home ?" and the answer: 
 Yes." 
 
 Tyler brought the horse, assisted 
 Mowbray to mount ; and, as he gave 
 him the reins, he said, in his deep bass 
 tones : 
 
 "Thank God, young man, that He 
 preserved you from death and me from 
 murder." 
 
PART V. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 ELLINOR ETHELRIDGE. 
 
 CELIA told Leoline the exact truth 
 when she said, after the conversa 
 tion with Sydenham, that she was return 
 ing home hopeful and encouraged. But a 
 few words, how wise and encouraging 
 soever, so long as they fail to remove 
 daily-recurring annoyances, afford alle 
 viation only. One cannot take a fire in 
 one s hand by "thinking on the frosty 
 Caucasus." Hartland s grim looks were 
 real things as real as frost or rainy 
 weather for they chilled her more than 
 either. Sydenham s mediation, she saw, 
 had only irritated her guardian ; but when 
 his mysterious prescription reached her, 
 on the morning of her birth-day, in the 
 shape of a beautiful pony, it proved an 
 habitual comfort, in substantial form, 
 that almost offset the grim looks. Bess 
 so she named the little mare became 
 a petted favorite at once ; and the spirit 
 ed creature returned her mistress daily 
 caresses, after a time, with almost hu 
 man affection. She would follow Celia 
 everywhere, though at large, even 
 through a crowd. 
 
 Morbid thoughts usually spring either 
 from feeble health or from idleness. It 
 is a difficult matter to get rid of such by 
 sitting down and seeking to reason one s 
 
 94 
 
 self out of them. We do better to re 
 move the cause ; and this we can often 
 effect by some simple arrangement of 
 external circumstances. This young girl, 
 while she reaped the advantages, suffered 
 also the evils, which money brings. With 
 a competence already assured, she was 
 subjected to no wholesome demand for 
 exertion of mind or body. She had 
 finished her education, or what is called 
 such by those who forget that the de 
 velopment and cultivation of our faculties 
 go on not only through the life which 
 now is, but doubtless through that which 
 is to come. Had she been at the head 
 of her own household, a sense of duty 
 would have kept her busy ; and the 
 actively busy have no time to be senti 
 mental. But she had no vocation 
 nothing imperatively calling her off from 
 trifles and summoning to the realities of 
 life. 
 
 Sydenham, even if he did not realize 
 all this, had prescribed wisely. Bess 
 became educator as well as physician. 
 As Celia gradually contracted the habit 
 of riding out for an hour or two every 
 fine day, the effect on health and spirits 
 was notably salutary. She dwelt less on 
 petty annoyances than formerly. On 
 horseback she seemed to get away from 
 them. The custom of the country per 
 mitted her to ride unattended ; and when 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 95 
 
 out in the woods her thoughts took freer 
 scope and a fresher tone. 
 
 After a time she found a companion 
 with whom to ride one who was at 
 once a puzzle and a pleasure to her. 
 
 In most villages there is to be found 
 some mysterious personage, whom the 
 villagers cannot exactly make out ; who 
 dropped down among them, they scarcely 
 know how ; with whose antecedents they 
 are very imperfectly acquainted : some 
 one, perhaps, whose manners and bear 
 ing are at variance with his apparent 
 circumstances, and who becomes, by- 
 turns, an object of curiosity, of admira 
 tion and of suspicion. 
 
 Nor was Chiskauga without her 
 sphinx s riddle, welcomed by village 
 gossip. It had made its appearance 
 about five years before the present epoch 
 of our story, in graceful guise to wit, 
 in the form of a young lady of very 
 striking appearance : not pretty, cer 
 tainly. Handsome ? Well, one scarcely 
 knew whether to call her so or not. 
 Stylish-looking she certainly was in face 
 and in person, though her manners were 
 very quiet, even reserved. Her features, 
 though expressing dignity and intelli 
 gence, were irregular, but no one would 
 call her plain who looked in her beauti 
 ful soft eyes. They were a little dreamy. 
 Those might have thought her proud 
 who did not note how uniformly unob 
 trusive her deportment was. Did these 
 expressive features indicate spirit ? One 
 would have said so but for a despondent 
 look that was habitual to her. 
 
 She had brought a letter to Mr. Syden- 
 ham, introducing Miss Ellinor Ethel- 
 ridge from England, an orphan. It was 
 from a Mr. Williams, an elderly Quaker 
 gentleman of Philadelphia, with whom 
 Sydenham had accidentally made ac 
 quaintance at Pisa. They had traveled 
 together to Florence and Rome, and 
 Sydenham had been delighted with the 
 benevolence and the inquiring spirit of 
 his new acquaintance. 
 
 What the exact tenor of Mr. Williams 
 letter was did not transpire, except that 
 it contained a warm recommendation of 
 the bearer as a person in every way well 
 qualified tu fill the post of teacher a 
 
 situation, it appeared, which the young 
 lady desired to obtain in some quiet 
 country place. 
 
 Sydenham s influence and exertions 
 soon procured her a school, to which the 
 principal people in the place gradually 
 sent their children. He was himself a 
 frequent visitor, and he was pleased and 
 surprised with the good judgment and 
 ability which Miss Ethelridge displayed. 
 No such teacher had ever before ap 
 peared in Chiskauga. Aside from music, 
 in which she was not a proficient, her 
 qualifications were admirable among 
 them a familiar acquaintance with French, 
 which she spoke with the fluency of 
 a native. This brought about an ac 
 quaintance with Dr. Meyrac s family, 
 and after a time they received her as 
 boarder. With Madame Meyrac, fas 
 tidious in her likings, she became a great 
 favorite. 
 
 Celia, desiring to perfect herself in 
 French, had taken private lessons from 
 her ; and, notwithstanding a five years 
 difference in their ages, was strongly 
 attracted to her teacher. For a year or 
 two her advances had been met, on the 
 part of Miss Ethelridge, with a degree 
 of coldness which would have repelled 
 -her in almost any one else ; but the soft 
 eyes, with their spiritual light, and the 
 cultivated tones of a low, sweet voice, 
 drew her on with a strange fascina 
 tion, and her persistent love thawed the 
 frost at last. Beneath, she found rare 
 qualities a noble spirit, generous and 
 impulsive, covered, however, with a reti 
 cence so strict that Celia knew no 
 more of this stranger s early history up 
 to the time of which we are now writing 
 than the rest of the Chiskauga world 
 did. But if this woman, to others grave 
 and undemonstrative, withheld even from 
 Celia her confidence, she granted her at 
 last, in unstinted measure, affection 
 unwillingly, it seemed, as if she were 
 yielding to a reprehensible weakness, but 
 with all the warmth of a genial nature 
 breaking over the bounds of self-imposed 
 restraint. And for the little kindnesses 
 which Celia s position enabled her to 
 bestow she returned a measure of grati 
 tude out of proportion to the benefits 
 
5 6 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 conferred. One of these, which the girl 
 had recently offered, seemed to touch her 
 more than any other she had received. 
 
 It happened that Cranstoun, in fulfill 
 ment of his promise to Cassiday, had 
 spoken of the latter to Hartland; and 
 having exhibited the certificate which 
 the groom had received from Rarey at 
 testing his ability as horse-trainer, he 
 persuaded Hartland to try the new 
 comer s skill jn reclaiming Brunette, the 
 runaway. So satisfactory had been the 
 result that when a young city friend of 
 Celia s, a timid rider but fond of the 
 exercise, came for a day or two to visit 
 them, the uncle permitted his niece to 
 ride Brunette and to lend Bess to her 
 visitor. The " brown beauty " behaved 
 admirably, and both young ladies came 
 home delighted with the trip. 
 
 This suggested to Celia a plan, to 
 which, as Mr. Hartland had somewhat 
 demurred to her solitary strolls on horse 
 back, she hoped to obtain his assent. 
 One evening, when her uncle, with infi 
 nite self-satisfaction, had been exhibiting 
 to her a magnificent beetle yet unde- 
 scribed, and one of the finest specimens 
 he had ever added to his collection, her 
 instinct bade her avail herself of the 
 rare good-humor which her praises of 
 the insect s brilliant colors had called 
 out. She broached her proposal, which 
 was, that she might be allowed, occasion 
 ally, on days when her aunt did not re 
 quire the dearborn, to have the use of 
 Brunette for Miss Ethelridge, so that 
 that lady might join in her rides. 
 
 Hartland, after reflecting a little, gave 
 a hearty assent ; for which Celia would 
 have been more grateful had she been 
 quite sure that his ready compliance 
 with her wish was due to kindness alone. 
 She was thankful, however, especially to 
 her aunt, who joined warmly in the plan 
 and placed Brunette at her disposal dur 
 ing three clays a week. 
 
 At the German saddler, Hentzler s, 
 Celia early next morning picked out a 
 saddle, bridle and accoutrements, the 
 exact counterparts of her own, and her 
 self accompanied the man who carried 
 them to Dr. Meyrac s. Ellinor was 
 absent, but came up to her room, where 
 
 Celia awaited her, a few minutes later. 
 Her first look of surprise at sight of her 
 friend s gift, which had been deposited 
 on the floor, changed to one of sadness 
 it seemed almost of pain so suddenly 
 that Celia, disconcerted, presented her 
 offering with hesitation. 
 
 " For me !" was all Ellinor said, in an 
 incredulous tone " for me !" And when 
 Celia disclosed her project, telling what 
 a pleasure it would be to have such com 
 panionship in her rides, she was startled 
 by the effect her words produced. She 
 had never seen her friend give way to 
 deep emotion in all the five years of their 
 acquaintance ; and it was evident that 
 Ellinor tried hard now for self-control. 
 In vain ! The tears would come the 
 sobs could not be restrained. 
 
 "Celia," she said, at last "darling 
 Celia, I used to have friends who called 
 me Ellie : I have none now. They 
 used to plan for my happiness as you do 
 as no one else has done since since 
 a dear friend died. If you treat me as 
 you are doing to-day, I must be Ellie to 
 you Ellie, dear one, Ellie! What 
 years since I heard my name !" 
 
 Celia, startled by this unexpected 
 burst of feeling, threw her arms about 
 Ellinor s neck, called her Ellie," and 
 "darling," and other pet names besides, 
 and then cried heartily, as if she had 
 just lost a friend instead of finding one. 
 
 Her tears arrested Ellinor s. She 
 took the excited girl in her arms and 
 soothed her as a mother might. 
 
 "Dear child!" she said: "how self 
 ish I am, giving pain to you when you 
 were recalling to me dreams of pleasure ! 
 I wish so much to gweyou pleasure ; and 
 then your gift was such a temptation !" 
 
 Celia looked up and met the sad, long 
 ing eyes : 
 
 " You are not going to let me call you 
 Ellie, and then refuse the only little bit 
 of comfort I have the chance to offer 
 you ? And the kindness is to me, not 
 to you. Please, please believe me ! 
 there s nobody not even Leoline that 
 I feel drawn to as to you." 
 
 " Yes, that s it. That is all wrong." 
 
 " All wrong that I should love you, 
 Ellie ?" 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 97 
 
 < Wrong that I should have asked 
 you to call me Ellie, as things stand. 
 What do you know of me, Celia ? Who 
 am I ? Why did I come here alone ? I 
 was but twenty when I reached Chis- 
 kauga, and I have had dear friends. Yet 
 I am sought for by no one, cared for by 
 no one. I scarcely receive a Jetter 
 never but from one person, and upon 
 him I have no claim. You have given 
 me your love, from pity maybe, or be 
 cause your heart is warm and trusting, 
 and you knew I needed love. But have 
 I a right to accept it and explain noth 
 ing ? You are so young and guileless ! 
 You do not know the world and its false 
 pretences and its crooked ways. Ought 
 I to take advantage of that ?" 
 
 " I know you are an orphan as I am ; 
 and I dare say there was no uncle and 
 no kind aunt, like mine, to take the or 
 phan in and care for her. Is not that 
 enough ? Have I ever asked to know 
 more ?" 
 
 Never : that is the worst of it. If 
 you had been inquisitive, I should have 
 had an excuse for reticence." 
 
 "It needs none. I have known you 
 five years, Ellie, and have loved you 
 nearly as long. If you are not good, 
 nobody is." 
 
 The tears glistened again in Ellinor s 
 eyes. 
 
 "If I live," she said, "you shall 
 know, some day, whether I am worthy 
 of your love or not. Keep that beauti 
 ful faith of yours till then. We grow 
 old when we lose it. God, in his mer 
 cy, send that your trust in his creatures 
 may never be betrayed !" 
 
 "Mr. Sydenham said, the other day, 
 that you had done so much good here 
 that your pupils, as they grew up, would 
 be an honor to the place." 
 
 "Thank God !" Then, after a pause : 
 " When they are mothers of families and 
 I an old woman, I shall have friends in 
 them." 
 
 " But as you are a young woman still, 
 and working hard for them, you ought 
 to have a ride now and then to do you 
 good. Macbeth asked that doctor of 
 physic, with the long black gown, if 
 he could not minister to a mind dis- 
 7 
 
 eased ? I think Bess can. That s my 
 experience." 
 
 " What do you know about a mind 
 diseased, little pet?" 
 
 Celia blushed : she would have been 
 ashamed to talk of her sorrows to one 
 like Ellinor forsaken, alone. The 
 quick eye of the latter saw and inter 
 preted the emotion at once. " Forgive 
 me," she said ; then picking up the 
 bridle Celia had brought for her, with 
 its white web-reins and blue silk front 
 let : " Where did you find anything so 
 pretty as this ?" 
 
 " Mr. Sydenham had a set of horse 
 equipments made, or sent for, expressly 
 for me, by Mr. Hentzler, and this is a 
 duplicate set which the saddler got up, 
 or procured, at the same time, thinking, 
 I suppose, that Bess would set off mine 
 to advantage, and that somebody might 
 fancy the pattern." 
 
 " One recognizes Mr. Sydenham s 
 taste : it is faultless. Every article is 
 perfect, even to this beautiful riding- 
 whip with its knobs wound with silver 
 wire. Ah ! from Swayne & Adeney ! 
 I thought I detected London work. 
 The covered buckles of that bridle were 
 never made in Chiskauga." 
 
 " I am so glad it all suits you." 
 
 " I could not help admiring it, but it 
 does not suit me, dear Celia." She 
 stopped, seeing how much pain she 
 gave : " You ought to have a companion 
 in your rides, but there is Leoline, nearly 
 your own age, in your own rank a far 
 more fitting associate than I." 
 
 " Leoline is a dear, good girl, merry 
 as she can be, and I like her ever so 
 much. Now and then she rides with 
 me more usually with her father. But 
 I want you: I need you, Ellie." 
 
 Me, dear child ?" 
 
 " Yes, you do me good. I feel better 
 and quieter when I ve had a real chat 
 with you. And we can have such long, 
 long talks on horseback in the woods. 
 Don t you like riding ?" 
 
 " I used to like it very much." 
 
 " Did you ever take riding-lessons ?" 
 
 " For nearly two years, before I left 
 London. It was my chief amusement 
 then." 
 
9 8 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " Ah ! : Celia took her friend s hand 
 and patted it coaxingly " now do be a 
 good girl, Ellie. I ve been wanting so 
 much, for two years past, to take riding- 
 jessons. I know I need them. Mr. 
 Sydenharn gave me some hints about 
 my seat in the saddle : I m certain he 
 thinks I ride badly. You have praised 
 me for my progress in French. Who 
 knows but what I may do as well in 
 riding ?" 
 
 Strange ! Still that despondent look. 
 Celia read refusal in her friend s face. 
 
 "Ellie," she continued, "I m not too 
 proud to accept a gift from you. Won t 
 you make me a present of a quarter s 
 riding-lessons ?" 
 
 " Little plotter !" It was said with a 
 sad, sweet smile, but something in the 
 tone or look convinced Celia that she 
 had not reached the depth of her friend s 
 objections, whencesoever arising. She 
 made one last effort : 
 
 "There s another reason why I want 
 you ;" and with that she blushed a 
 little, and Ellinor s expression changed. 
 " My guardian is a good man, but he is 
 not a cordial one. Yet he agreed cor 
 dially to this proposal of mine when I 
 spoke to him about it. I think I know 
 the reason. There is a young man 
 against whom Mr. Hartland has very 
 strong prejudices ; and he imagines that 
 I shall not be able to meet him so often 
 if you and I ride together sometimes." 
 It is Evelyn Mowbray." 
 "Yes." 
 
 Do you wish to meet him alone ?" 
 " Not often. We can be friends only, 
 for two or three years at least ; and I 
 am so anxious to do nothing that shall 
 offend my guardian." 
 
 Ellinor sat silent for a minute or two. 
 " God forgive me if I do wrong !" was 
 the thought which occupied her. " You 
 are right," she said at last : " it is best 
 not to meet Mr. Mowbray too often." 
 
 " Then help me do right there s a 
 darling ! See !" taking up the riding- 
 whip : " here s a tiny silver shield : 
 mine has exactly such a one, and Mr. 
 Sydenham had my initials engraved on 
 it. There s just room for Ellie: it 
 won t hold Ellinor. I m going to take 
 
 it to the watch-maker s you know he 
 engraves nicely." 
 
 " I don t need a memento of this day, 
 Celia." 
 
 " Well, I shall carry off your whip 
 with me, at all events ; and let me see, 
 to-morrow is Saturday : you do not keep 
 school, and we can take the morning 
 for it to-morrow at half-past eight I ll 
 be here. Potter shall call for your sad 
 dle and bridle at once : I only had them 
 brought here to show to you. It s your 
 hour for school, Ellie : you haven t time to 
 argue with me any longer. Good-bye!" 
 The little strategist had carried the 
 citadel by assault. Ellinor let her go, 
 saying only, " It s such a comfort to be 
 able to teach somebody without asking 
 payment in return ! You shall have 
 your riding-lessons, Celia." 
 
 Ellinor mounted Brunette next day. 
 Even Celia s unpracticed eye detected 
 the finished grace with which she rode. 
 Whether she felt the inspiration which 
 Bulwer may have realized when he de 
 clared that, "give him but a light rein 
 and a free bound, he was Cato, Cicero, 
 Caesar," I know not. But, as they 
 cantered swiftly through the woodland 
 glades, her eye appeared to kindle with 
 a spirit, and her stately figure to dilate 
 with a commanding power, which Celia 
 had never seen in her before. Some 
 old character, hidden till now under the 
 veil of grief or despondency, seemed 
 emerging. The village teacher was trans 
 formed. For a time her thoughts had 
 strayed off, far off, beyond her control. 
 
 Then, awaking to the present, she 
 drew rein. She was in the Chiskauga 
 woods once more. 
 
 "The elbows a little closer to the 
 body, Celia," she said. " That is well : 
 if it seem stiff at first, the feeling will 
 wear off by habit. I think I had better 
 knit up that bridoon rein for you till 
 you obtain more complete management 
 of the bit." 
 
 " I thought that was the snaffle rein/ 
 "A snaffle, as my riding-master took 
 pains to tell me, has a bar outside of 
 the ring, on each side, and it is used 
 alone: the bridoon, you see, has none 
 it is used along with the bit, but inde- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 99 
 
 pendently of it. The bridle hand lower, 
 dear. That is important, especially in 
 rapid riding." 
 
 That new creature whom Celia had 
 admired, curbing her horse in queenly 
 fashion beside her, a few moments be 
 fore, was gone. It was again Miss 
 Ethelridge, the village teacher, pains 
 taking, with an eye on her pupil and 
 giving her advice from time to time. 
 As they were approaching home on their 
 return, she said, with a smile : " My 
 riding-pupil will do me as much credit 
 as my pupil in French did." Then, 
 with changed tone and manner, she 
 added : " You have given me such a day 
 as I have not had for years, dear child 
 for years ! Dante was only half right 
 when he spoke of the gwef we suffer 
 by recalling happy times in the past." 
 
 Two days a week was all Celia could 
 persuade Ellinor to agree to. " I took 
 only two riding-lessons each week my 
 self," she said. The second day, when 
 they were about to mount, she asked 
 Celia, Would you mind letting me ride 
 Bess a little ?" 
 
 " You shall have her most willingly." 
 
 " She doesn t rein back readily, and 
 she should be taught to passage." 
 
 " To passage ?" 
 
 "To move off sideways, her head 
 turned just a little, so as to let one foot 
 cross in front of the other. It is very 
 convenient sometimes, when one is riding 
 in company." 
 
 They were not to have their talk to 
 themselves this time. After a ride of 
 some miles in the woods, they heard 
 galloping behind them, and turning saw 
 Ethan Hartland and John Evelyn Mow- 
 bray approaching. Celia was a little 
 surprised, for the young men were sel 
 dom seen together. Mowbray rode up 
 at once beside Celia, and Hartland, with 
 apparent hesitation, slowly moved his 
 horse to the other side. 
 
 " Cousin Celia," he said, we had no 
 intention of intruding on you and Miss 
 Ethelridge. Mr. Mowbray asked me to 
 show him a piece of land belonging to 
 Mr. Sydenham which he thinks of 
 purchasing." 
 
 Ellinor, after a single glance at the 
 
 speaker, turned quickly to Mowbray, 
 who spoke, almost as if her look needed 
 a reply : " Yes, mother finds cord-wood 
 getting to be so expensive that she pro 
 poses to buy a bit of woodland, from 
 which we can supply ourselves." 
 
 They rode on, a little way, four 
 abreast, then came to a spot where the 
 road, cut into a hill and flanked with 
 ditches, narrowed considerably. 
 
 "We crowd you, Miss Ethelridge," 
 said Hartland, reining back. 
 
 " Perhaps we had better ride on," 
 said Mowbray, and, without waiting for 
 Celia s answer, he put his horse to a 
 canter, Brunette keeping up. Ellinor 
 checked Bess, prompted by the evident 
 incivility of leaving Hartland behind ; 
 but the animal much to her surprise, 
 for it had hitherto seemed perfectly do 
 cile reared, made one or two dashes 
 to the front, then, when checked, stamped 
 impatiently, neighing the while ; and, 
 when put in motion again, curveted so 
 violently that a rider with less practiced 
 hand and less assured seat might well 
 have been in danger. But Ellinor, tho 
 roughly trained, sat with skill and self- 
 possession, such as is said to have de 
 ceived the poor Peruvians into the be 
 lief that Pizarro and his followers formed 
 a portion of the animals they rode. 
 Hartland forgot his apprehensions for 
 her safety in admiration of her horse 
 manship ; but when, after the mare was 
 reduced to submission, she still fretted 
 against the bit as impatiently as ever, he 
 said : 
 
 " Celia has stopped, alarmed, I think, 
 for your safety, Miss Ethelridge. Had 
 we not better ride up ? The road is 
 wider now." 
 
 " It is spoiling Bess to let her have 
 her own way," replied Ellinor ; yet she 
 acted on the suggestion and touched the 
 mare with the whip. No dog ever 
 showed joy more plainly at his master s 
 return than did the high-spirited animal 
 when once more by her mistress side. 
 She rubbed her head against her as if 
 seeking the accustomed caress. Celia 
 could not withhold it, but she said : " I 
 am ashamed of you, Bess : how could 
 you behave so ?" 
 
100 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 It seemed almost as if the creature 
 understood the tone of reproach. She 
 drooped her head and submissively 
 obeyed the slightest touch of the rein. 
 
 " Have you had any difficulty in de 
 taching her from Brunette when you 
 were riding her, Celia ?" said Ellinor, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Not the least : I have separated 
 them again and again, and Bess has 
 always obeyed at once. I cannot under 
 stand her behavior to-day." 
 
 "I can. It is not her comrade, it is 
 her mistress, she is unwilling to leave. 
 I knew just such an instance once," in 
 a low voice. Poor Bess !" she added, 
 patting the mare s neck, " if that is your 
 only fault " What memory was it that 
 gave so touching a tone to the broken 
 words ? Whatever it was, it was harshly 
 dispelled the next moment. 
 
 " Celia," said Mowbray, " it will never 
 do to let that pony get so willful. You ll 
 have no peace with her. She ought to 
 be broken of such tricks at once. I 
 wish you d let me take her in hand for 
 a day or two." 
 
 Ellinor s eyes had been fixed on Mow- 
 bray during this speech, and she turned 
 to Celia as if anxious for her reply. 
 
 Thank you, Evelyn, but I prefer to 
 manage her myself. Miss Ethelridge 
 will help me : I am taking riding-lessons 
 from her." 
 
 Mowbray s brow clouded. He seemed 
 on the point of making some additional 
 remark, but checked himself. They 
 rode on for some distance, silently at 
 first afterward exchanging a few com 
 monplaces, until they reached a cross 
 road, little more than a bridle-path, 
 leading deeper into the woods. Then 
 Hartland said: 
 
 Our road leads off here to the right, 
 Mr. Mowbray." 
 
 " Are you very busy this afternoon, 
 Mr. Hartland ? We might accompany 
 the ladies as far as their ride extends, 
 and then have time, in returning, to 
 look at this land before sundown." 
 
 Another day I shall be glad to show 
 it to you, but I have several things 
 which I have promised Mr. Sydenham 
 that I would attend to this afternoon." 
 
 The tone was barely civil. Celia, 
 who knew her cousin well and liked him, 
 had a dim feeling that there was some 
 thing wrong, especially when she saw a 
 frown darkening the face of Mowbray, 
 who, having no longer excuse for delay, 
 coldly doffed his hat to the ladies and 
 rode off with Hartland. 
 
 If either of the riders who remained 
 regretted this departure, one of their 
 horses evidently did not. Bess resumed 
 all her spirit and gentleness, arching her 
 neck, as with pride or pleasure, and 
 glancing with her bold, bright eyes at 
 her mistress a mute protest, one might 
 almost have supposed it, against another 
 separation. Ellinor ran her fingers 
 through the long silky mane admiringly. 
 
 ".I shall nat have the heart to correct 
 this pretty creature for her one sin," she 
 said. "I have the same weakness for 
 her mistress that she has. She means 
 only love, not harm. Should one be 
 blamed for that ?" 
 
 " We are told that to him who loveth 
 much shall much be forgiven." 
 
 Ellinor looked up quickly : she saw 
 that Celia was not thinking of her. 
 "That is God s own truth." she said, 
 reverently : then after a pause " yet we 
 have no right to indulge even love at 
 expense of others." 
 
 This time it was Celia who looked up. 
 Ellinor turned it off: " Bess won t an 
 noy you with her fondness : she ll be 
 good at your bidding, if she is perverse 
 with others." 
 
 A fit of musing fell on the girls as 
 they rode home. Something had jarred 
 on Celia s consciousness, but she had 
 forgotten it next day. Not so Ellinor: 
 she laid up what seemed trifles in her 
 heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 THE CANDIDATES. 
 
 "Audi alteram partem." 
 
 PAPA dear," said Leoline, as they 
 rode one morning toward Tyler s Mill, 
 " who is this Mr. Creighton that we are 
 going to hear ?" 
 
 Candidate to fill a vacancy in Con 
 gress, against Mr. Emberly." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but who is he ?" 
 
 " Have you any recollection of Mr. 
 Williams ? But no you were too young 
 then." 
 
 The Quaker gentleman who traveled 
 with us in Italy ? Why, I remember 
 the very day we made acquaintance with 
 him." 
 
 Are you sure of that, my child ?" 
 
 It was in the cathedral at Pisa. He 
 asked the guide about Galileo s lamp. 
 No, not Galileo s, but the lamp that was 
 accidentally set swinging while mass was 
 going on, and Galileo noticed it, and it 
 helped him to invent the pendulum." 
 
 " It suggested to him the principle of 
 the pendulum, you mean : yes, that is 
 the very Mr. Williams. Eliot Creigh- 
 ton is his nephew a young lawyer liv 
 ing about fifty miles from here." 
 
 A good speaker, is he ?" 
 
 " They say so. I take an interest in 
 him. He is, I believe, a Unitarian ; and 
 I saw, this morning, an anonymous 
 handbill attacking him on account of his 
 religious opinions, and abusing him as 
 an infidel." 
 
 " I m glad of that : I mean I m glad 
 he will have to defend himself." 
 
 Why, my child ?" 
 
 " It will be nice : we shall see what 
 he s made of. We shall see whether 
 he ll let them catechise him. A man 
 that s a coward won t do for me." 
 
 I like pluck myself. Moral courage 
 is the rarest of qualities among our pub 
 lic men. But, in a political contest, 
 where the party vote is so nearly bal 
 anced as in our district, there is great 
 temptation to temporize and smooth 
 things over." 
 
 " Surely you wouldn t vote to send a 
 man to Congress who could not stand 
 temptation, papa?" said Leoline, in 
 dignantly. 
 
 " Not if another offered who could," 
 smiling at her warmth. 
 
 " I hope Mr. Creighton can." 
 
 We shall see." 
 
 The trysting-place was Grangula s 
 Mount so called after an Indian chief 
 who had formerly held sway in these 
 parts. It was in the woods, about two 
 miles west of Sydenham s residence. 
 
 The topmost summit of this eminence 
 was bald, but a little way down, on its 
 eastern slope, were loosely clustered a 
 few broad-branching trees old oaks and 
 elms and dark hemlocks. Under the 
 spacious shelter of this detached grove 
 the eye commanded a magnificent view 
 over the village, the pretty lake beyond 
 and the expanse of forest and champaign 
 that surrounded both. The spot was a 
 favorite resort of the villagers on their 
 pic-nic excursions ; and Sydenham, de 
 siring to encourage these easy, healthful 
 social gatherings, had caused rustic seats 
 to be placed where the shade was deep 
 est for comfort and accommodation. 
 This had caused it to be selected, also, 
 as a convenient spot for public meetings, 
 political and sometimes religious. 
 
 A crowd was gathering fast. It was 
 a magnificent day calm, cloudless, but 
 the landscape veiled with the light, trans 
 parent, illuminated haze which marks 
 that beautiful episode in the autumn 
 season of the West, known as " In 
 dian Summer." As Sydenham and his 
 daughter advanced to their seats, Leo- 
 line exclaimed in delight ; and her father, 
 albeit familiar with whatever is most 
 striking in European scenery, stood still 
 in admiration. 
 
 It was at the epoch when the first 
 light finger-touch of frost sprinkles magi 
 cal coloring over dark-green oceans of 
 foliage. The woods, far more brilliant 
 in their decay than in the tropic of their 
 perfection, snowed like groves in fairy 
 land, pranked with all that is gayest in 
 the rainbow golden and primrose yel 
 lows ; tawny orange of every shade ; 
 deep, blood-red crimsons ; scarlets with 
 color of flame ; gorgeous purples, with 
 here and there a lilac tinge ; bright, 
 rich browns, shaded off into russet and 
 olive ; yet all harmonizing with a felicity 
 which human pencil seeks in vain to 
 emulate. A lover of Nature might well 
 have traveled a thousand miles to wit 
 ness the scene, if nearer home such ex 
 hibition of sylvan splendor was not to 
 be found. Yet most of the spectators 
 who now sat down in full view of the 
 wondrous prospect scarcely vouchsafed 
 a second look or a single comment. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Their thoughts were on something less 
 familiar the two candidates, both per 
 sonal strangers in the county, who had 
 just made their appearance on the 
 ground. They had agreed to travel 
 together and to speak alternately. On 
 this day, Mr. Emberly had the opening 
 .speech. He ascended an elevated plat 
 form, occupied, on festal occasions, by 
 the village band. 
 
 A thin, middle-aged man, clad in 
 black, with a slow step and somewhat 
 solemn aspect ; known by reputation to 
 many of the spectators as having filled, 
 a few years before, the post of president- 
 judge in an adjoining circuit a fluent 
 rather than forcible speaker. He began 
 by a compliment to the audience, eulo 
 gizing the appearance of the village and 
 surrounding country, then ran glibly over 
 the political topics of the day in parti 
 san fashion, hitting his opponent from 
 time to time with a touch of asperity, 
 but without allusion to his religious 
 sentiments, unless his concluding remark 
 might be so construed. 
 
 " Fellow-citizens," he said, " I here 
 rest my cause, assured of helping hands. 
 I am happy to have found among you 
 many who agree with me. not only in 
 politics, but on topics transcending in 
 importance all matters of secular debate 
 men with whom I have a bond of 
 fellowship closer than any party ties ; 
 dear friends who sympathize with me in 
 those opinions which will determine our 
 Future when earthly scenes shall have 
 passed away. That I have the hearty 
 good-will of all such men I know, and 
 with that I rest satisfied : it is not for 
 me to inquire whether I shall obtain 
 their votes also." 
 
 At this all eyes turned toward Creigh- 
 ton ; and Leoline, glancing round, noticed 
 that one or two men, who had been read 
 ing a handbill before the speaking began, 
 nudged their neighbors. She felt a little 
 nervous as Creighton rose. The young 
 man himself did not seem quite at ease. 
 
 Instead of ascending to the platform 
 which Emberly had occupied, and which 
 stood a little on one side, he took his 
 stand at the foot of a noble elm, di 
 rectly in front of the audience, who 
 
 were chiefly seated, row above row, on 
 the sloping hillside, so that he looked 
 up as he addressed them. 
 
 During the first ten minutes most of 
 his auditors had come to the conclusion 
 that the fluent Emberly was the better 
 speaker. No easy preface ; no concilia 
 tory commendation of themselves or of 
 their neighborhood : no sueing ; no 
 allusion, in deprecatory tone or other 
 wise, to his own claims or to his inex 
 perience. A plain review of the facts at 
 issue, curtly but carefully stated, rather 
 as if it had been committed to memory. 
 This called forth no token, expressed 
 aloud, either of dissent or of approba 
 tion ; a Chiskauga audience never in 
 dulged in any such it was contrary to 
 the habit of the country ; but the faces 
 were cold, and there was a smile, not 
 of friendly import, on the lips of several 
 prominent men on those of Amos Crans- 
 toun among the rest. Such a moment is 
 a turning-point in the career of a young 
 speaker. Creighton noticed the mute 
 irony : it stung him, shaking him free 
 from embarrassment at once. He took 
 up the subjects he had laid out, one by 
 one, just a little bit defiantly at first ; 
 but, as the spirit began to work, with 
 such earnestness and candor that, before 
 half an hour more had passed, the audi 
 ence had forgotten to criticise or to 
 admire ; had forgotten that it was Eliot 
 Creighton who was speaking to them ; 
 thought only of the facts submitted and 
 of the arguments made ; so completely, 
 by the magnetic tones, had they become 
 wrapped up in the subject itself. Seve 
 ral had stretched themselves on the 
 grass near him, their rifles beside them, 
 and now, the chin propped on a hand, 
 sat with eyes as eagerly fixed on the 
 speaker as if they had been tracking a 
 deer. 
 
 Animated by the attention he had 
 won, Creighton indulged, once or twice, 
 in a vein of humor that was natural to 
 him ; his allusions to Emberly and to 
 his arguments, sharp as the wit was, 
 still untinctured by ill-nature. That won 
 simple hearts, always open to a pleasant 
 jest. Several old farmers slapped their 
 thighs, in a manner which said as plainly 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 103 
 
 as a slap could say it, He ll do !" 
 And when at last, in illustration of some 
 point he had made, the speaker intro 
 duced, with graphic gestures, a sportive 
 anecdote, the hillside rang with laughter. 
 
 Then he paused, a sudden change 
 passing over his features, sternness suc 
 ceeding the light pleasantry. The whis 
 pered comments which his amusing 
 story had called forth instantly ceased, 
 and there was a hush of expectation. 
 Picking up from the grass beside him, 
 where he had laid it ere he began to 
 speak, a printed handbill, he unfolded it 
 as if to read its contents : then, seeming 
 to think better of it, he cast it from him 
 again ; and, selecting from among several 
 documents a small, time-stained-looking 
 pamphlet, and alluding now, for the first 
 time throughout his speech, to the fact 
 that he was a candidate, he said, quietly, 
 but with that emphasis which subdued 
 emotion imparts : 
 
 If you send me to Washington City, 
 it will not be as a propagandist to take 
 action for you in matters of religion : it 
 will be as agent or attorney to transact 
 your worldly business. But it is not 
 usual to ask a lawyer, before he is en 
 trusted with a cause, whether he be 
 Presbyterian or Universalist. Nor do 
 you catechise the tailor who sews your 
 coat, or the shoemaker who fits you with 
 a pair of boots. You want your busi 
 ness well done that is your affair : you 
 leave the man s creed alone that is his. 
 Now the same common-sense principle 
 which prevails in every-day life would 
 govern in politics also if voters, in this 
 matter, were left to themselves. Yet 
 ever since the commencement of our 
 government there have been found, from 
 time to time, those who have taken pains 
 to lead astray, on this point, the good 
 sense of the people. 
 
 " Would you hear what was put forth, 
 in the year 1800, when the author of the 
 Declaration of Independence was candi 
 date for the Presidency ? Then let me 
 read to you from a pamphlet of that day. 
 The writer says : < Consider the effect 
 which the election of any man avowing 
 the principles of Mr. Jefferson would 
 nave upon our citizens. The effect 
 
 would be to destroy religion, introduce 
 immorality and loosen all the bonds of 
 society. 
 
 " Such was the prophecy. Shall we 
 ask whether, four years afterward, when 
 he whom his enemies persisted in call 
 ing the infidel President took his seat, 
 the predictions of evil were fulfilled ? 
 whether religion was destroyed whether 
 immorality was introduced whether the 
 bonds of society were loosened ? The 
 questions are an insult to the illustrious 
 dead! 
 
 " Now, as then, we find men who en 
 gage in politics as they would gamble at 
 cards. But it is not the religion of the 
 heart that busies itself in this profligate 
 game. True piety is quiet, unobtrusive, 
 a keeper at home, a peacemaker. She 
 enters into her closet and prays there, 
 after she has closed the door. She 
 does not thrust herself into the turmoil 
 of party politics, catechising candidates 
 and sowing broadcast the seeds of intoler 
 ance and of all uncharitableness. True 
 piety, let it differ from me in the articles 
 of its creed as it will, I honor and re 
 spect. From my youth up I have been 
 trained to honor and respect it. But, 
 for its base counterfeit say, freemen of 
 Ohio ! answer and say, whether I should 
 better deserve the suffrages of brave and 
 upright men if I lacked the spirit to 
 scorn its slanders if I consented to 
 bow down my soul before its pharisaical 
 sway ?" 
 
 Creighton s voice was a low tenor, 
 musical and of great power ; and its 
 tones, as he warmed with indignant 
 emotion, swelled out over the hillside 
 and reached the edge of the forest, 
 where some little children were nutting. 
 They crept back on tiptoe, "to hear 
 what the preacher was saying." Wlien 
 Creighton recommenced it was in a 
 quieter key : 
 
 " When a friend asks me about my 
 creed when any good man, anxious 
 for my spiritual welfare, makes inquiry 
 touching my religious opinions I have 
 an answer for him, full and frank. But 
 when political intriguers, conspiring for 
 sinister ends, go out of their way to 
 charge upon me sentiments which as 
 
104 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 little resemble those I ever held as their 
 whole conduct in this affair resembles 
 uprightness and fair-dealing to such 
 men, impertinently obtruding such a 
 subject, I have no answer whatever. 
 
 "It may be that some of you, if I told 
 you my creed, might deem a few of its 
 articles heterodox. So be it ! They 
 are my own. I am answerable for them 
 at a higher tribunal than man s. I claim 
 for myself, as the good and noble Roger 
 Williams did of yore, that right of pri 
 vate judgment and free speech which it 
 is our country s proudest boast that 
 every American citizen may demand at 
 the hands of his fellow-citizens. To the 
 greatest it has not been refused to the 
 humblest it may not justly be denied. 
 Jefferson claimed it when he asked your 
 fathers votes for the office of chief 
 magistrate of the republic : I am equally 
 entitled to its sacred shield, though I 
 stand before you but one among the 
 undistinguished hundreds who now aspire 
 to a seat in the councils of the nation." 
 
 Not a sound nor a movement in the 
 audience. No one stirred from his 
 place. They sat with eyes intent on 
 the speaker, as if waiting for more. It 
 was not till Creighton, noticing this, 
 stepped forward with a smile and a blush 
 of pleasure at this mute compliment to 
 his eloquence, and thanked them grace 
 fully for the marked attention they had 
 given him. that the spell was dissolved 
 and the crowd arose. Then, indeed, all 
 tongues were loosed. 
 
 Some of the comments, even when 
 laudatory, were more forcible than ele 
 gant. As Sydenham stopped to speak 
 to Celia and her aunt, Leoline overheard, 
 from a knot of four or five gray-headed 
 men near them : 
 
 " If that young fellow didn t give it to 
 them good ! Now ain t he a horse ?" 
 
 " Well, he s slick on the tongue 
 very," said another; "but he s mighty 
 high and independent. He didn t seem 
 to care a chaw of tobacco whether we 
 gin him our votes or not. If a man 
 goes for him, he won t get a thankee for 
 it. Emberly s something like : he has 
 a civil tongue in his head." 
 
 " They re both blooded nags," broke in 
 
 a younger man who had come up during 
 the last remark ; "but I ll tell you what 
 it is : fair play s fair play. That hand 
 bill sort o sticks in my craw. A fellow 
 ought to have a chance. Here s just 
 three days to the election, and it s only 
 yesterday these dirty sheets showed their 
 faces here. I hear n they were kep 
 back in the other counties till the can 
 didates had spoke and gone. That s 
 stabbin a man behind his back. A 
 scamp that d be guilty of such a trick d 
 steal cold corn-bread from a nigger s 
 saddle-bags." 
 
 " Ye can t say P^mberly had anything 
 to do with the handbills." 
 
 " No ; but, to my thinkin there was 
 a touch of the sneak in the way he 
 wound up his speech about bonds of 
 fellowship. A man could see with half 
 an eye that it was a tub thrown out to 
 the Methodists." 
 
 " And you re a Hard-shell Baptist." 
 
 " Not soft enough, any way, to be 
 caught with such back-handed tricks." 
 
 Leoline s party passed on toward the 
 stand, so she heard no more, Syden 
 ham gave his hand to Creighton. " We 
 must become good friends," he said, 
 cordially. " Come and have a quiet cup 
 of tea at my house this evening. Or 
 cannot you ride home with us now ?" 
 
 " Thank you, much. But a candidate 
 is public property for two hours after his 
 speech, and I must call on my friend, 
 Miss Ethelridge. By six I can be with 
 you." 
 
 " That will suit us perfectly." 
 
 Celia, having come on horseback, 
 joined the Sydenham party as they rode 
 home. " So he knows Ellie ?" she 
 thought to herself ; " < my friend Miss 
 Ethelridge, he said. And she has only 
 one friend who writes to her. I wonder 
 if it is Mr. Creighton ?" But all this 
 she kept to herself. 
 
 " Isn t he splendid ?" said Leoline to 
 Celia : her father was riding in advance 
 with Ethan Hartland. 
 
 " Mr. Creighton ? I liked his speech ; 
 but you surely don t think him hand 
 some, Lela?" Celia was comparing 
 him, in her own mind, with Evelyn 
 Mowbray. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 105 
 
 I really can t tell what ladies call 
 handsome. Dr. Meyrac has a fine por 
 trait of Kosciusko. and Lucille Meyrac 
 and I were looking at it the other day. 
 She said it was an ugly face. Well, I 
 don t know. I think if its owner had 
 courted me right hard, I might have had 
 him." 
 
 And you think Creighton resembles 
 him ?" 
 
 " Wicked creature ! You would en 
 trap me into giving as broad a hint as 
 Desdemona gave to Othello 
 
 And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 
 I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
 And that would woo her. " 
 
 Well, Lela, why shouldn t you ad 
 mire him ?" 
 
 I like him. I like all brave and 
 frank men, who speak their minds nobly 
 who won t temporize and truckle who 
 won t be taken to task and trodden on. 
 But it s against my principles to care 
 for any one that is, really care, you 
 know who will never care for me." 
 
 Celia laughed : " So you ve made up 
 your mind already that Creighton never 
 will." 
 
 " Quite," Leoline replied with the 
 most sober and thoughtful air. " He 
 never would, even if he were to settle 
 here among us. I m not the least the 
 sort of person to take his fancy. 
 I m too like him. If I were fairly 
 brought to bay and hard put to it, I m 
 not at all sure but I could make some 
 such speech, myself. I felt like it when 
 he talked about bowing down his soul 
 how was it ? beneath Slander s phari- 
 saical sway. Such sort of men like 
 sweet, quiet, domestic women. Ah ! if 
 you were not disposed of, Celia ! The 
 very person to suit him !" 
 
 " But then I should never take a 
 fancy to him." 
 
 No. It s a pity, though." And 
 Leoline looked as serious as if she had 
 the whole matter on her own shoulders : 
 she was thinking of Mowbray, and com 
 paring the two men. Then she branched 
 off to the speech again : " What a ges 
 ture that was !" she threw up her own 
 arm as the thought crossed her "and 
 what a look, as he talked of Roger 
 
 Williams and claimed the right of free 
 speech ! How came it, I wonder, with 
 that slender figure and just medium 
 height, that he could throw so much 
 dignity into his bearing ?" 
 
 Sydenham overheard her and turned : 
 " In a measure, no doubt, because noble 
 sentiments impart noble expression ; but 
 it was partly due, I think, to an accident 
 or an intuition." 
 
 " How so, papa ?" 
 
 " Instead of getting on the platform, 
 as Emberly did, he took his stand on the 
 grass below his audience. Thus, in ad 
 dressing them, his head was naturally 
 thrown back a little, his eyes raised, and 
 when his emotions sought expression in 
 action, the gestures were all upward, 
 corresponding to sentiments elevated 
 and aspiring. I think clergymen do 
 wrong to ascend high pulpits whence to 
 deliver their sermons. There was a 
 simple dignity about Creighton to-day 
 such as young men seldom attain. But 
 if he had been boxed up and looking 
 down upon us, much of the expression 
 would have been lost." 
 
 Creighton came to tea. So, at an 
 invitation from Sydenham, did Ellinor 
 Ethelridge. Celia kept a promise given 
 to Leoline to come over in the course 
 of the evening, her cousin Ethan Hart- 
 land accompanying her. 
 
 Ethan informed Sydenham that the 
 chairman of a certain committee that 
 was about to convene sent a pressing 
 request for his attendance. 
 
 " You will excuse Mr. Hartland and 
 myself, I know, Mr. Creighton : it is in 
 your interest we meet. I leave you in 
 charge of the ladies." 
 
 They had a pleasant, lively party 
 after a while, music. Leoline played a 
 portion of the overture to the Trovatore, 
 then a fresh importation and just corning 
 into Cisatlantic favor. Afterward Creigh 
 ton sang "Ah che la morte ognora " to 
 Celia s accompaniment, and persuaded 
 Leoline to join him in "Ai nostri monti," 
 though she could but just reach the 
 lower notes. 
 
 After one or two of Schubert s songs, 
 Creighton spied a volume labeled Mo- 
 
io6 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 zart." "Ah !" he said, as he opened at 
 some selections from Don Giovanni, 
 it is refreshing to see anything so old- 
 fashioned." At his request Celia sang 
 Vedrai, carino ;" and together they ex 
 ecuted the duett, "La-ci darem." Their 
 voices harmonized admirably. 
 
 "You had music-lessons in Germany?" 
 said Ellinor to Creighton. 
 
 " Yes ; and I was about to ask the 
 same question of Miss Pembroke," 
 turning to her. Have you been 
 abroad ?" 
 
 " In Europe ? Never. But I had a 
 German teacher in Philadelphia.! 
 
 "Ah ! I thought so." Then he con 
 versed with Miss Ethelridge. His man 
 ner toward her was cordial- and unem 
 barrassed. Celia blamed herself .after 
 ward for having observed them so 
 narrowly. She could not make out 
 Ellinor s demeanor toward him. They 
 \vere old acquaintances, certainly ; but 
 it was not the manner usual between 
 intimate friends of the same age, even 
 if of opposite sex. There was deep 
 respect in it, as if Creighton had been 
 twenty years older than she her guard 
 ian, perhaps, who had cared for her 
 from her infancy. Yet he seemed to be 
 rather the younger of the two. Evi 
 dently she took the warmest interest in 
 his welfare. 
 
 " Is your election doubtful ?" she said. 
 
 "Very doubtful. I shall probably 
 lose it." 
 
 Celia, who had taken one of her 
 friend s hands between hers, felt it 
 tremble as Ellinor asked, "Because of 
 that vile handbill ?" her eyes flashing. 
 
 " It will cost me a good many 
 votes." 
 
 " Surely not !" exclaimed Leoline ; and 
 she proceeded, in her animated way, to 
 repeat the conversation she had over 
 heard as they were leaving the ground. 
 
 Creighton laughed heartily : " It s very 
 amusing, this electioneering, though it is 
 tedious enough sometimes. I feel flat 
 tered by the old man s comparison. The 
 horse is a noble animal, and the farmer s 
 best friend, too." 
 
 " But you have no idea how well your 
 defender s hit about the cold corn-bread 
 
 came off," said Leoline. "I know your 
 speech made a good impression." 
 
 " There is in our people a strong 
 sense of justice and love of fair play, to 
 which one seldom appeals in vain. The 
 handbill would probably have aided 
 rather than injured me, had they left me 
 a chance of reply. But they chose their 
 time well." 
 
 " 111, you mean," said Leoline, in 
 dignantly. 
 
 Creighton smiled. 
 
 " How can you take it so easily ?" she 
 went on. " I do believe you forgot, 
 while we were singing just now, that 
 Monday next is election-day." 
 
 " One likes to shake off the dust in 
 the evening. Do not grudge it to me, 
 dear Miss Sydenham. That last duett 
 took me back to Gottingen. Miss Pem 
 broke s voice and style reminded me so 
 much of a charming family of musicians 
 I used to visit there." 
 
 "And you actually forgot that hand 
 bill ?" persisted Leoline. 
 
 " The evil which others seek to do us 
 is worth forgetting only." Creighton 
 turned toward Miss Ethelridge as he 
 said it. 
 
 Again that tell-tale hand ! But this 
 time Ellinor gently withdrew it from 
 Celia s clasp. 
 
 At this juncture Sydenham and Ethan 
 Hartland returned. 
 
 " Mr. Creighton," said the latter, 
 "your concluding remarks were taken 
 down in shorthand, and are now in type 
 for our Chiskauga Gleaner, of which we 
 have hastened the publication one day, 
 so that it will appear to-morrow. An 
 extra thousand will be printed and sent 
 over the county. Do not fear the result 
 at our precinct. There is reaction al 
 ready. Here you will outrun the party 
 vote." 
 
 Creighton expressed his thanks in 
 strong terms. 
 
 " It is we who are your debtors," said 
 Sydenham, warmly. " We have tempta 
 tions enough to hypocrisy already among 
 us, without suffering an honest man s 
 creed to be made a political test. I am 
 sorry you live so far from us." 
 
 " I liked the expression of those faces 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 107 
 
 on the hillside to-day. I like the social 
 atmosphere of your little place ; and I 
 have serious thoughts, when the election 
 is over, of returning this way and asking 
 you if you have not a small dwelling- 
 house to rent or sell." 
 
 "You shall be heartily welcome. 
 Come and make your home with me for 
 a day or two." 
 
 " But if Mr. Creighton has to go to 
 Congress, papa ?" 
 
 " Then his time will be short ; but we 
 shall be thankful even for a flying visit." 
 
 " One doesn t like to be beaten, Miss 
 Sydenham," said Creighton, "and I 
 have had dreams of being useful if 
 elected ; but if Emberly is to be Con 
 gressman, it may be all for the best. A 
 man s traducers often do him good. I 
 am very sure I shall spend a pleasanter 
 winter here, if I succeed in finding a 
 home in this pretty village of yours, 
 than I should in Washington City." 
 
 " At all events," said Leoline, we ll 
 do our best to make it up to you if these 
 rascals, with their handbills, hoodwink 
 the people. Won t we, Miss Ethel- 
 ridge?" she added with sudden impulse, 
 noticing that lady s anxious looks. 
 
 Ellinor colored just a little, was em 
 barrassed for a moment, then replied, in 
 a quiet tone : " Mr. Creighton deserves 
 all we may be able to do for him." 
 
 Creighton seemed about to reply to 
 her, but he merely bowed and expressed, 
 in warm terms, his sense of the kind 
 ness with which he had been received at 
 Chiskauga. 
 
 They parted, with sentiments of mu 
 tual esteem. 
 
 That evening Celia spent twice the 
 usual time in doing up her hair. The 
 comb dropped on her knee, and she 
 dropped into a musing fit : " He liked 
 the faces on that hillside ! Did he, in 
 deed ! I think I could pick out one in 
 the village that has more attractions for 
 him than that whole audience, and can 
 do more to make a winter pleasant to 
 him than all of us put together : I saw 
 him glance across at her when he talked 
 of settling here. Then I should like to 
 know what chance a man has of judging 
 
 the < social atmosphere of a place which 
 he has inhabited for just two-thirds of a 
 day ; especially when half of that pro 
 tracted period was spent in two rooms 
 Dr. Meyrac s parlor and Mr. Syden- 
 ham s drawing-room. How transparent 
 men are when they fall in love !" 
 
 Then the labor of the comb was re 
 sumed, but by and by there was another 
 intermission : " I wonder whether a wo 
 man ought to reverence a man before 
 she marries him he about her own age, 
 or even if he were two or three years 
 older. I don t the least believe that I 
 could. Isn t there a text about perfect 
 love casting out fear ? " Another pause : 
 " It s best not to let even a dear friend 
 hold one s hand when it s not convenient 
 to have it known what one is thinking 
 about. But never mind, poor, dear 
 Ellie ! If that s your secret, it s safe 
 with me." 
 
 Before Celia went to sleep she had 
 come very decidedly to the conclusion 
 that Ellinor Ethelridge either was, or 
 very soon would be, engaged to Eliot 
 Creighton. 
 
 The vote was close, but Creighton 
 lost his election ; and six weeks after 
 ward Chiskauga gained an addition to 
 her population in the shape of an honest 
 lawyer and estimable young man. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 LABOR LOST. 
 
 ONE day, about a week after the elec 
 tion, Celia received, through the post- 
 office, the following anonymous letter : 
 
 " Miss CELIA PEMBROKE : 
 
 " You are basely deceived, and you 
 ought to be informed of it. J. E. M. 
 has private assignations with Ellen Ty 
 ler in a lonely part of the woods on the 
 bank of Kinshon Creek, about half a 
 mile below her father s mill, where he 
 reads poetry and makes love to her. 
 Not long since the father caught them at 
 it, and they had a tussle which M won t 
 forget in a hurry : he carried the marks 
 home. The girl is simple and innocent, 
 
loS 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 and no doubt believes that he intends 
 marriage. You know best whether he 
 does or not. The miller might give 
 her a couple of thousand dollars, but 
 there is a good deal of difference between 
 two and forty. 
 
 " The writer has seen you often, but 
 is unknown to you. If you wish to 
 know whether he is telling you a lie or 
 not, ask Nelson Tyler. The new groom 
 that Mr. Hartland lately engaged, and 
 who worked several weeks at the mill, 
 could, if he would, tell you something 
 about it. ONE WHO KNOWS." 
 
 "Cranstoun !" was Celia s first thought 
 when she read this startling epistle. She 
 went over it a second time. The spell 
 ing throughout was correct, but not a 
 stroke of the writing seemed his. She 
 was familiar with his hand, having copied 
 several law-papers made out by him for 
 her uncle. And this almost resembled 
 a school-boy s handwriting. 
 
 It annoyed her very seriously, espe 
 cially the innuendo about her forty thou 
 sand dollars ; but it did not unsettle her 
 faith in Mowbray. She knew that her 
 lover was acquainted with Ellen, for she 
 had seen her frequently at Mrs. Mow- 
 bray s, when the girl came thither for 
 her French lessons ; and she thought it 
 likely enough that Evelyn, in the course 
 of his rides perhaps in search of wood 
 land to purchase might accidentally 
 have met Ellen, and even, for once, have 
 read to her. But what of that ? She 
 called to mind that only two or three 
 months since, one day that Ethan Hart- 
 land met her in the woods, they had sat 
 down together on a log and he had read 
 to her, from a pocket edition of Thom 
 son s Seasons, some passage appropriate 
 to the sylvan scene around them. To 
 be sure, Ethan was her cousin ; but 
 then cousins do marry sometimes, 
 though she had heard Sydenham express 
 the opinion that they never should.* 
 
 * Celia, like many others, had probably failed to 
 distinguish between affinity and consanguinity. Ethan 
 was not Celia s cousin-german, being a son by Thomas 
 Hartland s first wife, not by Celia s aunt. He was, 
 therefore, related to her by marriage only, not by blood. 
 But it could only have been to marriages of cousins by 
 biood that Sydenham, a man of discrimination, had 
 objected. 
 
 Celia was not the girl to discard one to 
 whom she had given her confidence be 
 cause he laughed and chatted with some 
 one else : those who do ought to delay 
 marriage until they learn better. She 
 had read that wonderful thirteenth chap 
 ter of First Corinthians, and she acted 
 up to its declaration, that Love thinketh 
 no evil. 
 
 She thought : " Shall I trust an anony 
 mous scribbler rather than one I have 
 known since childhood ? And then the 
 creature thought me dishonorable enough 
 to act the spy on Evelyn s actions to go 
 asking a comparative stranger whether 
 the man I am engaged to is a rascal or 
 not, or putting the same question to a 
 servant who came not six weeks ago to 
 the village, from nobody knows where ? 
 What a mean wretch he must be him 
 self!" And, with that, after glancing 
 once more over the letter, she threw it 
 contemptuously into the fire. 
 
 Thus, as generous natures are en 
 listed in favor of the persecuted, this 
 covert attack on Mowbray reacted in 
 his favor. His mistress held but the 
 more faithfully to her troth because 
 others sought to malign and to injure. 
 
 Ten days later, Cranstoun and Cassi- 
 day sat together, in the evening, conver 
 sing. The latter spoke, in reply to 
 some inquiry addressed to him : 
 
 " It s hard to come round them, Mr. 
 Cranstoun these highflyers especially, 
 like Miss Celia. You never can tell 
 how they ll take things." 
 
 " You re sure she got it ?" 
 
 " You posted it yourself. How could 
 it miscarry ?" 
 
 " What makes you think it did harm 
 rather than good ?" 
 
 " First, the black looks she cast at 
 me for three or four days after we sent 
 it. She s over that now, I take such 
 capital care of Bess ; and then I told 
 her what a splendid seat she had, and 
 how much better she handled her reins 
 since she took riding-lessons from the 
 school-teacher. She s a stunner, is Miss 
 Ethelridge. I ve been out fox-hunting 
 with the old Squire that fathered me, 
 and I ve seen those Irish girls take their 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 109 
 
 fences it s a sight to see, Mr. Cran- 
 stoun ! but if she s not up to any of 
 them, may I never back horse again ! 
 I praised her to Miss Celia, too. She 
 liked all that. She knows I m a good 
 judge. So I ve got into favor again ; 
 but if she d had her way the first day 
 or two, good-bye to that snug little 
 shealin where I hope to see Ellen one 
 of these days." 
 
 Is that all your evidence ? Black 
 looks don t amount to much." 
 
 " No, it isn t all. Yesterday we had 
 the sorrels out Mr. and Mrs. Hartland, 
 Miss Celia, and who else, do you think, 
 in the carriage ?" 
 
 " Not Mowbray ?" 
 
 Mowbray ! Why he dar n t come 
 within our doors. The beaten candi 
 date, Mr. Creighton." 
 
 " What ! Currying favor with Hart- 
 land already ?" 
 
 " Looks like it. He told the old man 
 he d make him a present of some speci 
 mens, I think he called them stones 
 or something that he had collected in 
 Europe." 
 
 So he is going to settle here ? 
 
 Did not you hear he was bargaining 
 with Mr. Hugo for his house, just this 
 side of Mrs. Mowbray s, on the lake 
 shore? As pretty a cottage as there 
 is in the village, with a handsome lawn 
 clear down to the lake." 
 
 " What does he want with a house ?" 
 
 "His mother s a widow, and she s to 
 keep house for him." 
 
 Mr. Cassiday, you were explaining 
 to me how you knew that our letter had 
 missed its mark. What has all this to 
 do with it ?" 
 
 " I m coming to that. Hartland and 
 this Creighton hitch horses together in 
 politics. When we were out driving 
 they had a heap of talk about that hand 
 bill, you know." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Miss Celia, she joined in. And the 
 way she abused every man that would 
 not sign what he wrote ! I did not quite 
 hear it all. She was telling some story, 
 I think, to her uncle : in course she 
 didn t say a word about our little attain 
 But she was as bitter as gall ; and some 
 
 how she brought it round that any scamp 
 that would abuse another, and not set 
 his name to it, wasn t too good to steal 
 cold corn-bread from a nigger s saddle- 
 bags." 
 
 " You are surely mistaken. She could 
 never have said anything so coarse as 
 that." 
 
 " Her dander was up, I tell you. I 
 heard her as plain as I hear you. Pretty 
 hard on us, wasn t it ?" 
 
 She may repent that one of these 
 days." 
 
 Something in the tone caused Cassi 
 day to look up surprised ; but Cfans- 
 toun was not thinking of him, and didn t 
 notice it. The groom feigned indifference, 
 and said, in an easy tone : "Anyhow, 
 that s a lost ball. I thought it was well 
 shot, too. I ve known a good deal less 
 than that play hell in a family before 
 now. I wonder what on earth the girls 
 see in that stuck-up coxcomb of a Mow 
 bray to cajole them so ? If I were as 
 mean as that fellow is, I d want to creep 
 into a nutshell." 
 
 Cassiday understood the meaning of 
 the smile with which Cranstoun received 
 this, and replied to it : 
 
 " Well, Mr. Cranstoun, you ve a right 
 to think just what you like about me : 
 we ve done some hard things, in our 
 day, to raise the cash you and I. But 
 if I loved a girl as well as I as well as 
 maybe that rascal himself loves Ellen, 
 for I d like to see the man as could 
 stand that smile of hers may the foul 
 fiend catch me if I d turn away from her 
 for money-bags ! You don t believe 
 what I m telling you, and a fellow that s 
 as bad as me has no right to complain. 
 But I m a gentleman s son, if it is on 
 the wrong side of the blanket. And if 
 gentlemen are wild, there s some things 
 some of them won t do. That father of 
 mine never paid his tailor s bill that I 
 know of, but he d have shot himself 
 sooner than let a racing-debt run over 
 the day it was due." 
 
 " Maybe somebody else would have 
 shot him if he had tried that game on 
 them." 
 
 He had his faults, the old Squire 
 had rest his soul ! as mother knows 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 and me, to our cost ; but he d stand the 
 click of cocked pistol just as you would 
 a knock at your door ; and he d put a 
 ball through a good-sized wedding-ring 
 at fifteen steps, every other pop." 
 
 " So you think Mowbray s meaner 
 than you ?" 
 
 We say just what we like to one 
 another, Mr. Cranstoun ; so it s all right 
 for you to ask me that. But if John 
 Mow bray should take it in his head to 
 follow suit, he might have a chance of 
 finding out which was the best shot him 
 or my father s son." 
 
 " I have no objection to your trying, 
 and I hope you ll hit him, Cassiday. 
 But all I meant to ask was, whether you 
 didn t think Movvbray was after the 
 dollars, and not after Mr. Hartland s 
 niece." 
 
 " I ll give you a plain answer to a civil 
 question. If Ellen and Miss Celia had 
 a fair start, with two thousand a piece, 
 the niece would be nowhere, distanced, 
 beaten out of sight. I ll bet two to one 
 on that, and put up fifty any day." 
 
 " Stranger things have happened than 
 that you should have a chance to find 
 out, before another twelvemonth s gone, 
 whether that would have been a safe bet 
 or not." 
 
 It was more than Cranstoun would 
 have said had he not been thoroughly 
 out of humor, as baffled plotters are 
 wont to be. 
 
 Cassiday took his hat and departed 
 without a word, except the remark that 
 it was time his horses had their supper. 
 As he was measuring out the oats, the 
 import of Cranstoun s last speech seemed 
 to dawn upon him. " I must look out for 
 my wages," was his reflection : " these 
 guardians are the very devil. Who 
 would have thought it, with that sancti 
 monious look of his ? Cranstoun ought 
 to know ; he s constantly here, closeted 
 with him ; but the old fellow must be 
 hard up if he has laid hands on Miss 
 Celia s cash. Any way, he has promised 
 he d pay me the last day of every month, 
 and I ll hold him to it. He can t get 
 anybody that ll keep things as tight and 
 bright as I do. I hope he won t run 
 high and dry and have to sell his horses. 
 
 I d be hard put to it to find such another 
 place." 
 
 It was a snug berth. Cassiday had 
 thriven on perjury so far. Some rogues 
 do thrive to the end of the chapter the 
 earthly chapter^ which is but a small 
 portion of the great Book of Life. Some 
 accounts seem to be squared here. 
 Others, unsettled, are carried over. The 
 Roman who said that no man should be 
 accounted happy till Death sealed his 
 good-fortune looked but a little way. 
 There are heavy debits of which he took 
 no account. 
 
 What has been happening to Cassi- 
 day s victim ? Did the world smile or 
 frown upon him after his release from 
 prison ? We left him knocking at his 
 own door for admission. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 GOOD OUT OF EVIL. 
 
 How wonderfully does the principle 
 of Compensation intervene in human 
 affairs ! How bright as a grand old 
 Reformer, poet and philosopher has sug 
 gested how bright is often the silver 
 lining of the darkest cloud! 
 
 It was a terrible injustice that had be 
 fallen our friend Terence ; and yet, had 
 the lines always fallen to him in pleasant 
 places, it is doubtful whether, throughout 
 a prosperous lifetime, he would ever have 
 known such supreme and unalloyed hap 
 piness as when just emerged from the 
 gloom of prison-life he took in his arms 
 his weeping wife weeping because no 
 language other than tears could express 
 the fullness of her joy. If all had gone 
 well with him, it is doubtful if he would 
 ever, with so stirring a conviction of 
 mercies vouchsafed, have kissed his 
 sleeping babes, lying there unconscious 
 alike of the storm that had passed and 
 of the sunshine that was succeeding it. 
 
 He was better as well as happier. 
 There had been, till now, little or no evi 
 dence of the spiritual to be detected in 
 that thoughtless, careless nature. Yet 
 it was there. It always is where warm 
 affections exist. It came forth now, at 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 the moment when these affections were 
 stirred to their depths. Not with much 
 outward demonstration : the man did 
 not go down on his knees, but his heart 
 knelt to the Giver of all good. No set 
 form of thanksgiving came to his lips, 
 beyond the single exclamation that burst 
 from him as Norah, between sobs, re 
 turned his passionate kisses : 
 
 " The Lord be praised for this blessed 
 hour !" 
 
 Only an exclamation, yet almost as 
 long as that of the publican who im 
 plored for mercy to him a sinner. All 
 that sleepless night, as the young Irish 
 man gradually came to realize his great 
 deliverance, his soul prayed in more than 
 words. The effectual fervent prayer 
 the availing one often ascends ungar- 
 mented by human phrase, in robeless 
 purity. 
 
 I do not assert for Terence anything 
 like a change of heart. Nature, as Lin 
 naeus has expressed it, makes no great 
 leaps. She does not deal in sudden 
 transformations. The seed, the plant, 
 the blossom, the fruit, these are the 
 types of her gradual workings. If there 
 be examples of men regenerated by a 
 single experience, these are so rare as 
 only to prove the general rule of patient 
 progression. In the present case the 
 young man s better nature had been 
 stirred : that was all. After influences 
 must decide whether the first impression 
 was to grow and strengthen, or to fade 
 out, leaving him to sink back again to 
 the level of his former life. 
 
 One of these influences followed close 
 on his release. During the evening of 
 the next day, Kullen, the prison-agent, 
 came to see his emancipated client. No 
 need to say how he was received ! 
 Norah gave him both her hands, unable 
 at first, in her agitation, to utter a word ; 
 but, in default of speech, she offered to 
 the preserver of her husband her matron 
 cheek to kiss. Terence spoke with all 
 the warmth of his country : 
 
 " Mister Kullen, it s ovvin to you that 
 I m alive, and, more nor that, that I can 
 stand up and face the world like an hon 
 est man. It s all owin to you, wid yer 
 cheering ways and yer lovely stories, 
 
 that Norah s got a husband and the chil- 
 dher s got their father back agin. It s no 
 earthly use to speak about payin such a 
 debt as that ; but sure ye know, Mister 
 Kullen " here the tears rose to the poor 
 fellow s eyes " sure an ye know, with 
 out iver my tellin ye, that, as long as 
 Norah and me s got a roof over our 
 heads, come rain, come shine, let it be 
 mornin or noon or black midnight, ye ll 
 be as welcome to our fireside as the 
 flowers in May." 
 
 Then he hesitated, as if he didn t 
 know exactly how to proceed. At last 
 he brought out : "An, Mister Kullen, 
 you wouldn t be refusin a poor fellow 
 the little he can do for you. I heard 
 down yonder it was Walter Richards 
 tould me that yer salary s but a small 
 one, Mister Kullen, for all the good ye 
 do. Now, ye see, I ve got two hundred 
 and fifty dollars in the bank, and sorra a 
 bit o use I have for it now, becase I 
 can t buy the house, and that was all I 
 laid it up for " 
 
 Here the prison-agent interrupted him : 
 " You need not say a word about that, 
 Terence : the State pays me for what I 
 do, and it wouldn t be honest to take pay 
 twice, you know. But, since you are 
 willing to do me a pleasure, what if I 
 were to ask you for something that might 
 cost you more than two- hundred and fifty 
 dollars ?" 
 
 Terence s face brightened : Sure 
 an I can borrow the rest," he said. 
 
 " No, I don t approve of a man get 
 ting into debt. You can do it without 
 borrowing. How long have you the 
 lease of this house ?" 
 
 " Till the first of May comin : that s 
 near five months and a half." 
 
 " Have you clone well with it ?" 
 
 " Very fair. Last year it cleared me 
 seventeen hundred and fifty dollars. 
 And this year, if it hadn t been for that 
 damned 
 
 Norah laid her hand on his arm : 
 " Not to-day, Teddy darlint not to-day, 
 just when the Lord sint ye back to me." 
 
 "Well, thin, I won t swear, Norah, 
 ef ye don t like it. But ef it hadn t 
 been for that scoundrel Bryan bad luck 
 to him ! sure there s no harm in callin 
 
112 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 him what he is, and wishin him his 
 desarts I d have made two thousand 
 dollars clear this very year ; and I can 
 live on half o that and lay by the other 
 half." 
 
 How much of the profit you make 
 is from the bar and how much by 
 lodgers ?" 
 
 " It s close on half and half." 
 " So you expect to clear from the bar, 
 between this and the first of May, some 
 seven or eight hundred dollars ?" 
 " Full that." 
 
 " Unless some rascal like that Delorny 
 should play you just such another trick 
 as he did." 
 
 "Yes, Mister Kullen ; but I ve hearn 
 old sailors, as has been to the war, say 
 that a cannon-ball niver comes through 
 the same hole twice." 
 
 " Well, Terence, to confess the truth, 
 I don t think it likely that anybody, in 
 the next six months, will accuse you of 
 going into a bed-room at night and steal 
 ing a hundred and seventy dollars. But 
 something as bad might happen. Norah, 
 did Terence use to swear when you 
 lived in Cumberland county ?" 
 
 " No, Mister Kullen, niver a bit : he s 
 larnt it" 
 
 " Behind the bar-counter ?" 
 The young wife flushed scarlet, and 
 looked at her husband. 
 
 "You re a good girl, Norah," said 
 Mr. Kullen. I see I shall have your 
 help. Terence, what would you say if 
 that eldest boy of yours were to come 
 out with an oath ?" 
 
 Deny knows better nor that, Mr. 
 Kullen : his mother s larned him 
 better." 
 
 I m glad to hear it. I once knew 
 an excellent man who had served as 
 lieutenant, and then as captain, for fifteen 
 years under the First Napoleon. He 
 came to this country poor and learned 
 English perfectly. He had received a 
 college education before he entered the 
 armv, and he set up school and became 
 an excellent teacher. One habit of the 
 soldier, however, clung to him. When 
 his pupils proved unruly he would swear 
 One day he was much shocked to hear 
 a youngster of twelve, who had been 
 
 vith him a year or two, utter a round 
 oath. * Dick, don t you know you 
 mustn t swear ? said his teacher: it s 
 .vrong and it s vulgar. < But if it s 
 wrong, Mr. Tinel, said the boy, half 
 afraid to finish his question if it s 
 wrong, why do you swear ? < Because 
 I m a damned fool, was the rejoinder: 
 don t you be one too ! Now, Terence, 
 f little Dermot, imitating his father, 
 should venture on an oath, would you 
 like to give him such a reply as that ?" 
 
 Norah interposed : " Where s the 
 loss to be droppin a word or two out o 
 yer talk, Teddy asthore and a bad word 
 at that that ye should be refusin the 
 likes o Mr. Kullen ?" 
 
 " Well, it s little enough to promise 
 for them as has done so much for me : 
 I won t swear no more." 
 
 " But for your children s sake, and 
 for your own, I want you to do some 
 thing else, Terence. It s a good deal 
 to ask you. I want you to give up that 
 seven or eight hundred dollars in a 
 word, to close your bar." 
 
 Norah clasped her hands with a look 
 of entreaty. Her husband sat silent, 
 looking first at her, then at Mr. Kullen. 
 The proposal evidently took him by 
 surprise. 
 
 Listen to me before you answer," 
 pursued the agent, "and then I ll leave 
 you to talk it over with Norah there. 
 It would be a terrible thing, Terence, if 
 a man like you, that God has given so 
 good a wife to, were to go to the bad. 
 And, let me tell you, that might happen. 
 Men are not depraved sots because they 
 frequent a bar-room, but they re on the 
 way to be good for nothing, or worse. 
 Then, a tippling-house attracts riff-raff. 
 Yours attracted Delorny, a common 
 drunkard. See what came of it. You re 
 not safe among such men." 
 
 Norah turned pale, changed her seat 
 to one close to her husband and took 
 his hand in hers. 
 
 "It s true, Terence," added Kullen. 
 " You re easy and good-natured just the 
 sort of man that might take the color of 
 his life from the ways of his associates. 
 Just the man, too, to be imposed on by 
 swindlers. But no man is safe with 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 1*3 
 
 thieves and perjurers around him. An 
 innocent man s always more or less at 
 their mercy ; and next time I mightn t 
 be there to help you out." 
 
 The tears were in Norah s eyes. 
 Terence wiped them away with a gentle 
 ness one would hardly have expected of 
 him, and kissed her. 
 
 "That s not all," said Kullen. "Do 
 you think a man deserves to be helped 
 out, if, after Ije has once been warned, 
 he still keeps on with a business that 
 makes men worse instead of better ? I 
 lived many years in the West, where 
 crimes then were rare and could be 
 easily traced to their source ; and I 
 know that two-thirds of them began in 
 tippling-houses, and in the habits that 
 grew out of them. Two crimes out of 
 every three that were committed, Ter 
 ence ! and growing out of just such 
 places as that room of yours below, 
 where Patrick Murphy is tending bar." 
 
 At this juncture little Dermot came 
 into the room. Kullen and he had made 
 close acquaintance during the visits of 
 the former to Mrs. O Reilly, when he 
 brought her news how her husband fared 
 during his imprisonment ; and the child 
 ran, delighted, to his friend. Kullen 
 took him on his knee and resumed : 
 
 " The very day you were arrested, 
 Terence, you would probably, but for 
 the arrest, have bought this house. The 
 chances are you would have kept it, sell 
 ing brandy and whisky to all comers, 
 till this boy of yours was a young man ; 
 perhaps till he got into the habit of 
 coming, two or three times a day, for a 
 dram ; perhaps till he learned to make 
 companions of such men as Bryan De- 
 lorny. Are you quite sure Providence 
 did not send you to prison that day, so 
 that this chubby little fellow might grow 
 up under more wholesome surroundings 
 and with better associates ? You love 
 that wife of yours, Terence, and well she 
 deserves it. Have you ever thought 
 that it might break her heart if Deny 
 turned out a drunkard ?" 
 
 Norah had listened with ever-increas 
 ing excitement ; and now she threw her 
 arms round her husband s neck, gave 
 him one bright, hopeful look, then laid 
 8 
 
 her head on his bosom and sobbed as if 
 her heart would break. 
 
 Love has its triumphs in the humblest 
 breast. The good fellow, more than 
 half persuaded by Kullen s earnestness, 
 was wholly won over by his wife s silent 
 emotion. 
 
 Whisht, lassie," he said, passing his 
 brawny hand soothingly over her long 
 soft hair whisht, then, me darlint. 
 D ye think I d bring up that babe to be 
 a drunkard ? I know what ye d be axin 
 me, acushla, and d ye think I d refuse 
 ye, this very day that the Lord brought 
 me back to yer arms ?" Then to the 
 prison-agent : " Maybe the arrest was 
 His doin , Mr. Kullen. It looks like 
 He sint you to that cell to save me life 
 and me character ; and who knows but 
 what He s sint ye here to-day to talk to 
 me about Derry and that bar ? It ll be 
 all I can do " he winced a little at this 
 " to make the two ends meet without 
 the bar. But, ony way, I ll not be after 
 standin out agin the Lord and you 
 and the lassie. Til sell off the liquors 
 and quit the trade bright and early to- 
 morra." 
 
 Norah looked up, smiling through her 
 tears. "Thin my heart s continted," 
 was all she said. 
 
 Before Kullen went he said to Ter 
 ence : " I heard when I was in Cumber 
 land county that Norah s a famous dairy- 
 woman. You understand market-gar 
 dening and keeping stock and managing 
 horses. If you choose to go into the 
 country when you leave this house, I ll 
 recommend you to a friend of mine in 
 the West, who wants a man and his 
 wife to take care of his farm. Would 
 you like to ride a real horse, Master 
 Dermot ? 
 
 < Wouldn t I, Mr. Kullen ?" said young 
 America. 
 
 Terence kept his promise. His for 
 mer companions were not a little sur 
 prised ; and one of them, a strapping 
 young fellow, said that same evening, 
 when Terence announced to them his 
 intentions : 
 
 " So, Teddy, you ve turned milksop 
 since they had you under lock and key." 
 
 Terence s eyes flashed and he had an 
 
U4 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 oath on the tip of his tongue, but he re 
 membered his promise to Norah : 
 
 " I ve changed some of my opinions, 
 Mister Malone, bein I don t intend to 
 sell no more drinks to the likes o you. 
 But there s one opinion 1 haven t changed 
 at all, at all, Mister Malone." 
 
 What s that ?" 
 
 "That whatever a man s sintiments 
 is, he ought to stand up to them like a 
 man /" the last three words very dis 
 tinctly accented. 
 
 Thereupon Terence deliberately laid 
 off his coat on a chair, and took his 
 place in the centre of the room ; adding, 
 in a civil tone : " Any time ye re ready, 
 Mister Malone." 
 
 But Malone didn t seem quite ready, 
 and the others interfered : 
 
 Not the last evening, O Reilly : let s 
 part good friends, any way." 
 
 "Ye re no coward, Terence," said 
 Malone : " nobody ever said you was. 
 And sure a man has a right to his opin 
 ions, and a right to sell liquor or not as 
 he pleases." 
 
 Terence resumed his coat, and they 
 all parted in amity. Whether Malone s 
 conciliatory speech just though the 
 aphorisms were which it contained 
 tended to raise him in the estimation of 
 the man he had offended, we need not 
 too curiously inquire. 
 
PART VI 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 THE SIX-ACRE LOT. 
 
 THROUGHOUT the winter that fol 
 lowed Terence s liberation from 
 prison and Creighton s defeat for Con 
 gress, events of great importance to some 
 of our Chiskauga acquaintances were 
 ripening ; yet on the surface matters 
 seemed to proceed smoothly enough. 
 The place made progress, socially and 
 intellectually. 
 
 Under Ethan Hartland s supervision, 
 Sydenham s land operations had turned 
 out (as all bargains worthy to be called 
 good, do) profitable alike to seller and 
 buyer. There had, indeed, been attempts 
 to evade the prescribed stipulations for 
 building and improvements : men pleaded 
 illness or bad luck pleas sometimes 
 fsigned, sometimes real and Syden 
 ham s easy temper induced him to grant 
 indulgence. This, as Hartland showed 
 his employer, usually resulted in a sale 
 to third parties, who bought on specu 
 lation and refused to improve, setting up 
 the plea that the seller had waived his 
 right to enforce the provision on that 
 subject. 
 
 The young man said, one day : Mr. 
 Sydenham, may I speak to you very 
 frankly?" 
 
 "If you think well of me, Ethan, 
 
 you will speak, to me frankly at all 
 times." 
 
 " Thank you. If a purchaser, through 
 ill health or bad management, is unable 
 to pay his land-notes at maturity, and if 
 you give him an extension of time in 
 which to pay them, it is entirely your 
 affair. If you can afford it, and if the 
 man has done his best, I think it kind 
 and wise in you to do so. But if he 
 fails to comply with the stipulation for 
 improvement, have you the right to in 
 dulge him ? You gave public notice, 
 through me, to all who desired to pur 
 chase, that your land would be sold only 
 to those who would build and occupy it. 
 You permitted me, also, to head the 
 bonds of agreement with the words, 
 <-No purchase without improvement. 1 1 
 was a virtual promise on your part, upon 
 which men depended ; and, because of it, 
 your land has been sold much more 
 rapidly, for purchasers know well that 
 the tendency of occupancy and improve 
 ment is to give additional value to all ad 
 jacent property. Thus it is no longer 
 your affair only. Others are injured if 
 you give way." 
 
 That is a just view of the case." 
 
 " May I bring suit against these non- 
 complying speculators ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 It made quite a flurry among them. 
 "5 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 One man, who had bought up three or 
 four farms, was overheard threatening 
 personal violence against Mr. Sydenham. 
 This coming to his ears, he sent for 
 Ethan. 
 
 Hereafter," he said to him, " I will 
 take no excuse or apology whatever for 
 violation of our improvement covenants. 
 If you find any case where a deserving 
 man, from continued sickness or other 
 unavoidable misfortune, cannot comply 
 with these, report it to me, and I will 
 lend him the money that may be neces 
 sary to fulfill his engagement. In all 
 other cases press the suits to a verdict." 
 Ethan smiled : " Have you heard of 
 the threats Tom Bellinger has been 
 making?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I thought so." 
 
 I hold it a duty to see to it, so far 
 as I can, that those who defy the law 
 shall make nothing by it." 
 
 Tom is from Western Missouri : 
 they re a wild set there. Shall you arm 
 yourself?" 
 
 " With a good, stout cane yes ; but 
 I have no idea I shall need it. There is 
 an old proverb that threatened folks 
 live long. " 
 
 Tom Bellinger subsided ; and several 
 other well-dreesed men, who, for a month 
 or two past, had been seen saunterin 
 with gilt- headed canes, through the 
 streets of the village, gradually disap 
 peared. Chiskauga survived their ab 
 sence. 
 
 One, however, more obstinate than 
 the rest, remained and resorted to law 
 his plea being that covenants for build 
 ing and other improvements to be com 
 pleted within a given time were of no 
 binding force, and that a purchaser, even 
 after such covenant in writing, was en 
 titled to a deed as soon as the purchase 
 money was paid. The court, however 
 decided that covenants of that characte 
 constituted a lawful consideration, in 
 which time was an essential element 
 and that non-compliance with them wa 
 legal cause of forfeiture. 
 
 From this time on, Sydenham addec 
 to the covenants of his land-agreement 
 a provision that no assignment of sue 
 
 ^reements should be made before the 
 mprovements were completed; and. thai 
 n pain of forfeiture. This and the 
 ther covenants somewhat retarded the 
 ales for a time ; yet within five years 
 rom the day Ethan became manager the 
 rst two thousand five hundred acres 
 were all sold and occupied. The al- 
 ernate farms and lots that had been 
 eserved from sale had, meanwhile, 
 isen in value about seventy-five per 
 cent. 
 
 Then Sydenham instructed his agent 
 
 offer these remaining two thousand 
 five hundred acres at seventy-five per 
 cent, advance on the prices to which, so 
 far, he had adhered ; but as this left the 
 
 and still at two-thirds only of the cur 
 rent market rates, and as, by this time, 
 t had become evident that Sydenham s 
 stipulations of sale resulted quite as 
 much to the benefit of the purchaser as 
 to his own, this last-offered land went 
 off even more rapidly than the first. At 
 the end of three years more which 
 brought it up to the preceding spring- 
 Ethan, one afternoon, reported the whole 
 sold out. 
 
 "What net gain have I made." Syd 
 enham asked Ethan, "by the advance 
 of price, on this second installment of 
 farms and building lots ?" 
 
 So far, about fourteen thousand dol 
 lars ; but when your land-notes are paid 
 up, there will be some eight or ten thou 
 sand more." 
 
 " You have managed well. The sales, 
 
 1 think, do not include a six-acre build 
 ing site on the lake, just north of the 
 Elm Walk a site you admired, one day, 
 Ethan, as the prettiest we had." 
 
 I remember. It is unsold ; I fol 
 lowed your instructions to reserve it, 
 and to have it neatly fenced^ in and 
 nicely graded, and laid out and planted. 
 I could have sold it fifty times over. I 
 refused two thousand for it last week : 
 it is worth much more than that." 
 
 "Make out a deed of it to yourself, 
 and bring it to me for signature to-mor 
 row morning. Nay," he added, as he 
 noticed the young man s look, "it is my 
 turn now : you had your way last time. 
 You made me do violence to my con- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 117 
 
 science by accepting your services for 
 three years at seven hundred and twenty 
 dollars." 
 
 Which you increased, first to a 
 thousand, and then to twelve hundred." 
 It ought to have been fifteen hun 
 dred long ago. Please credit yourself 
 at that rate from the close of this half 
 year. As to the two thousand, I owe 
 you twice that sum, fairly reckoned ; 
 only I thought the lot was as much as I 
 could get that obstinate nature of yours 
 to accept. And then, listen ! I have ad 
 ditional work for you to do. You need 
 not look so incredulous I have." 
 
 The tears glistened in Ethan s eyes, 
 but Sydenham proceeded as if he had 
 not noticed them : 
 
 " You have been studying practical 
 architecture of evenings, I know, and I ve 
 had proof enough what a neat draughts 
 man you are. I want a plan of a house. 
 Now, don t be frightened, man : I m not 
 going to offer to build you one : you ll 
 have to lay by money, and attend to 
 that, one of these days, yourself." 
 Ethan could not help smiling. 
 Ah !" said Sydenham, " now we 
 can attend to business. I wish to have 
 a Land-Trust Account opened on the 
 books of the estate. Let it be credited 
 with that fourteen thousand dollars, or 
 whatever the gain by advance on land 
 has been. Then add to the credit what 
 ever more may come in from the same 
 source. You must help me expend this 
 fund for the benefit of the village and of 
 the neighborhood." 
 
 " It is a pleasure to work for you, Mr. 
 Sydenham." 
 
 " Then pray set about the plan of my 
 building." 
 
 " When I know what you want." 
 " Tea, in the first place," said Syden 
 ham, as the bell rang. Stay with us, 
 Ethan, and let us talk this over." 
 
 Mrs. Clymer had gone out for the 
 evening, and Leoline presided at the tea- 
 table. 
 
 To an understanding of Sydenham s 
 views, it should be premised that there 
 were in the village two small public 
 libraries one belonging to a Working 
 Man s Institute, established ten years 
 
 Before, and the other the township library. 
 The first had been aided by a gift from 
 ydenham and by a legacy of one thou 
 sand dollars left by an eccentric old gen 
 tleman named Lechaux : it contained 
 about twelve hundred volumes. In the 
 township library, to which Sydenham 
 and others had contributed, there were 
 six hundred; but both were in small, 
 inconvenient premises, and were kept 
 open one evening only in the week, when 
 books were lent out ; there being no 
 fund to pay a librarian. The one public 
 hall in the village would seat five hun 
 dred people, but was owned by a com 
 pany of young men, some belonging to 
 the brass band and others members of a 
 Thespian society, and could only be had 
 on rent from them. It was used for 
 balls, concerts, theatrical representations, 
 township meetings, political gatherings 
 and the like. 
 
 "What I want," said Sydenham to 
 Ethan, " is a plain, substantial, two-story 
 brick building the lower story laid out, 
 at one end, as a library and reading-room, 
 and at the other as a small lecture-room, 
 to hold two hundred persons ; the library 
 to contain all the books belonging to the 
 Institute and to the township, with room 
 for two or three thousand more ; and the 
 lecture-room to be free for public read 
 ings, for literary or scientific lectures, 
 and for the meetings of the Agricultural 
 and Floral societies. The upper story I 
 intend for school-rooms." 
 For Miss Ethelridge ?" 
 Yes. I learn that she is likely soon 
 to be crowded out of the two rooms she 
 is now occupying in the public school ; 
 and they have long been too -mall for 
 her." 
 
 " Altogether too small. She engaged 
 a second assistant teacher last week. 
 But there is one objection to the plan." 
 "And that is ?" 
 
 " The noise of the school-rooms above 
 might disturb the frequenters of the 
 reading-room. Ah ! I have it ! Eight 
 or nine inches of deafening below the 
 upper floor. Then Miss Ethelridge s 
 classes are always so orderly and quiet. 
 It can all be arranged, Mr. Sydenham." 
 "We have a half-acre lot just oppo- 
 
iiS 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 site Mr. Hartland s : take that. Will 
 six or seven thousand dollars put up 
 the building." 
 
 " The latter, at all events." 
 " Then set apart, for the object, seven 
 thousand from our land-trust fund." 
 
 Leoline startled them by breaking in 
 here : Papa, I do believe you are the 
 very best man that ever did live. I m 
 so glad for dear Miss Ethelridge." 
 
 Ethan s face brightened with pleasure, 
 and, as he looked at Leoline s kindling 
 eyes, with admiration. 
 
 I m delighted that you think I ve 
 been behaving well, dear child," said 
 Sydenham, smiling: "perhaps I shall 
 stand some chance now of a second cup 
 of tea. I ve been wondering when you 
 would make up your mind to pour it 
 out." 
 
 " The common lot, papa ! Good deeds 
 shine like farthing candles in a naughty 
 world. But, since virtue is not its own 
 sufficient reward, there ! not a grain too 
 much sugar, not a drop too little cream." 
 " Lela dear, I want you to take a good 
 look at that engraving, in the library, 
 from Dubufe s picture." 
 
 " Of the poor widow who put two 
 mites into the treasury ?" 
 
 " Do you remember what was said of 
 her ?" 
 
 " That while others had lavished their 
 charities, she had given more than they 
 all." 
 
 "Yes. They, of their abundance, 
 cast in offerings, but she, of her penury, 
 cast in all she had. " 
 
 " I think you d have handed out the 
 two mites, papa dear." 
 
 " Who knows ? I have never been 
 tried. In giving these people this build 
 ing I do not abate one comfort, either 
 yours or my own." 
 
 " But I think they ought to do their 
 part." 
 
 " So do I, Miss Leoline," said Ethan ; 
 " I wish you would try to persuade your 
 father to let me head a subscription with 
 his name for seven thousand dollars, to 
 be paid only on condition that half as 
 much more is subscribed by others. 
 The fitting up and furnishing of such a 
 building will cost some fifteen hundred 
 
 dollars, and we ought to have two thou 
 sand, in addition, to purchase standard 
 works that are much needed. That 
 would make the thing complete. It 
 isn t the best plan, Mr. Sydenham, to let 
 people, in a village like this, get into the 
 habit of depending on one man for all 
 public improvements. They value more 
 that to which they have partly con 
 tributed." 
 
 To this Sydenham finally assented. 
 "They shall have the management of 
 the library and lecture-room," he said, 
 "provided no charge beyond lighting 
 and heating is made for the latter." 
 
 " And you retain in your own hands 
 the disposition of the upper rooms ?" 
 
 That would be fair, and perhaps I 
 had better do so." 
 
 " Decidedly." Then, after a pause : 
 "You wish to give Miss Ethelridge what 
 aid you can ?" 
 
 " Certainly. She is an honor to the 
 place." 
 
 " Then perhaps, as I shall have leisure 
 on my hands now that we have sold that 
 land, you would not object to my offering 
 to give German lessons in her school 
 twice a week. Some of her pupils are 
 desirous of learning that language, and I 
 am anxious to keep up my familiarity 
 with it. But I shall have to say that it 
 is your time I am giving her: she would 
 not accept my volunteer aid." 
 
 " It is an excellent idea, Ethan. Carry 
 it out." 
 
 " May I join Mr. Hartland s class, 
 papa ?" said Leoline. 
 
 " By all means, my child. Thanks to 
 Miss Ethelridge, you read and write 
 French fluently enough. I shall be very 
 glad that you give some time now to a 
 language that has always been a favorite 
 with me. Ethan s accent is perfect." 
 
 When Ethan Hartland left Rosebank 
 that evening he could not make up his 
 mind to return directly home. A full 
 moon shone down brilliantly from a 
 cloudless sky. His heart needed the 
 quieting influence. It was full of grati 
 tude, and not without hope, but it was 
 restless : the hope was dashed with 
 uncertainty. 
 
The figure that Ethan saw on the Lake shore. 
 
 [Beyond the Breakers.] 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 119 
 
 He took a path leading up the hill 
 which surmounted Sydenham s residence, 
 and, when he reached the edge of the 
 forest at a point which overlooked the 
 valley for miles, he sat down to com 
 mune with that restless heart of his. 
 
 It was a warmer heart than Ethan s 
 common acquaintances at all imagined it 
 to be ; coming to him, not from his hard 
 father, but from the quiet, anxious, affec 
 tionate mother he still remembered so 
 well ; as gentle, though not with as much 
 character, as his stepmother. Strange, 
 that these austere social dictators so 
 often seek and win their opposites ! 
 perhaps from an instinctive feeling of the 
 need that, in the next generation, their 
 own asperities should be corrected. 
 
 If he knew, if he could but imagine" 
 that was the first thought "what a 
 kindness he has done me ! How much 
 more of a father than my own ! In 
 another year I shall have saved enough 
 to build in a very humble way, to be 
 sure but perhaps Then the heart 
 began to sink a little. " So far above 
 me so beyond my sphere ! in educa 
 tion, in manners, in accomplishments ! 
 She ought to be a queen ! Not that 
 she assumes ; ah no : who has less pre 
 tension than she ? But there is no sta 
 tion she would not grace. And what 
 have I to offer ?" 
 
 He looked dreamily out into the soft 
 moonlight : " It is not so brilliant as the 
 blaze of day, but how peaceful ! Who 
 knows but that she might be satisfied 
 with my lot ? Peace is so much in this 
 world peace and affection. And how 
 many, how many, miss them both !" 
 
 With that his thoughts reverted to a 
 large, formal dwelling down in the vil 
 lage, where the heart of one parent was 
 closed to him, and the pensive eyes of 
 another awoke sympathy and sorrow 
 reverted to that half home, then wan 
 dered down toward the lake, past a 
 stately avenue of elms, to a charming 
 spot, untenauted yet, but where Nature 
 and Art had combined to prepare a site 
 for a simple, happy home. Nothing, in 
 deed, to tempt worldly grandeur : a few 
 acres only, decked out with no ambitious 
 embellishment; fresh greensward sloping 
 
 gently down to the pebbly shore of the 
 lake ; back of that a little tastefully- 
 selected shrubbery intersected with a 
 gravel-path ; then a few clumps of trees 
 so disposed as to leave vacant a building 
 spot on the highest point of the site ; 
 back of that again, two or three acres 
 of blue-grass pasture. Commonplace a 
 worldling would have thought it dull 
 and commonplace : Ethan s thoughts in 
 vested it with a halo of light. The 
 young man dreamed dreams dreams 
 of a picturesque cottage among those 
 clumps of trees ; and from its porch, 
 shaded with woodbine and eglantine, he 
 looked out eastward on the lake ; then 
 across, on the left, to its pine-crowned 
 barrier of cliff, and saw the summer sun 
 rise from behind the pines. And in his 
 dream he thought : "Ah ! if she were 
 but here to rejoice with me in that glo 
 rious sunrise !" And, with that, there 
 was a light step coming from within, 
 and there was a gentle touch on his 
 shoulder ; and he turned to look into 
 eyes that he had never yet ventured, ex 
 cept in dreams, fairly to encounter. 
 Such eyes ! He had found out their 
 color at last ! 
 
 Then it all faded away, and he was 
 out in the dim world again, talking to 
 men, attending to business. How tedious 
 they were ! He thought it would never 
 end. But at last there came tender 
 moonlight, and he was walking, all alone, 
 down a familiar avenue, and thinking 
 that while he had been gone, exiled 
 from happiness, she had been sheltered 
 from the fervor of the noonday sun by 
 those old elms, and that she would come 
 forth, by and by, fresh and bright, to 
 meet him brighter than the sun, more 
 tender than the moonlight. Suddenly 
 he saw, within that paradise of his, 
 standing on the edge of the shingly 
 beach, looking out on the silver-tinted 
 lake, a figure in white : there was but 
 one form in all the world as graceful as 
 that ; and was it waiting for him ? He 
 approached it slowly, with hesitation, as 
 only half assured that he might, until it 
 turned upon him those eyes the same, 
 only darker in the moonlight ; and then 
 he felt his welcome. He struggled to 
 
120 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 ;peak as in dreams we often do in 
 vain. He awoke, on the hillside by the 
 edge of the forest, alone. 
 
 Was this Ethan Hartland, the plod 
 ding, the practical ? the hard worker 
 who had gone his round of humble duty 
 year after year ? the prudent manager 
 who had made so much money for his 
 employer ? What business had he with, 
 such dreams ? Would any of his friends 
 even Sydenham who knew him best 
 believe it of him ? Not one of them. 
 Yet this was the man himself: they were 
 acquainted only with the outer, work-a- 
 day semblance. 
 
 Nor though under the glamour of 
 Hope phantasms had been evoked was 
 this dream of Sydenham s man-of-busi- 
 ness all a dream. The moonlight was 
 there ; and there, in the distance, lay 
 the lake, with a streak of silvery light 
 dividing its blue waters. The Elm 
 Walk, too a dark line of foliage from 
 the village to those blue waters ; and 
 near to it, out in the moonlight 
 
 Ethan started up, strode down the 
 hill, through the silent streets of the 
 village, and then, urged by a strange 
 impulse, along that dark avenue, turning 
 to the left near its termination. No 
 white figure on the lake shore he al 
 most expected to see it but there, un 
 der his eyes, and in a few hours to be 
 his, lay the fairy-land of his dream 
 the dotted groups of trees, the dainty 
 shrubbery, the sloping lawn. These, at 
 all events, were real. And something 
 else which he had heard at Sydenham s, 
 that evening, was real too. " Twice a 
 week at least," he said, as he turned to 
 ward home " twice a week ! Thank 
 God for that !" 
 
 The summer had passed, and the au 
 tumn, bringing with it events which we 
 have already related. The subscription, 
 as suggested by Ethan, had been filled 
 out. The proposed building had been 
 erected and fitted up : the libraries con 
 solidated, additional volumes purchased ; 
 and the lecture-room had been opened, 
 with all due ceremony, by an address 
 from Sydenham. Three weeks after the 
 election, Ellinor Ethelridge removed to 
 
 her new rooms. Ethan s German class 
 had increased in numbers ; Celia and 
 Lucille Meyrac had joined it, and Leo- 
 line, the brightest scholar among them, 
 was a constant attendant. She thought 
 her new teacher " was very nice." 
 
 This brings us again to the time when 
 Celia Pembroke received that anonymous 
 letter. It was not followed up by any 
 others, but reports injurious to Ellen 
 Tyler s reputation were bruited about, 
 and became, after a while, a staple ar 
 ticle of village gossip. No one was able 
 to trace these tales to their source, ex 
 cept Cassiday, and in his heart there 
 sprang up a cordial hatred of Amos 
 Cranstoun. " The infernal hypocrite !" 
 he said to himself. " To pretend friend 
 ship for the girl, and tell me she mustn t 
 be ruined, and then set to work in the 
 dark and blast her name !" But Cran 
 stoun was still paying him thirty dollars 
 a month to watch Celia ; so he avoided 
 an open breach with him, and contented 
 himself with bitterly denying all scandal 
 ous stories about Ellen, and knocking 
 down Mrs. W r olfgang s stable-boy, Sam, 
 who was speaking 511 of her. 
 
 Mrs. Wolfgang was a widow lady, past 
 middle age, who had been many years 
 in Chiskauga. She was a sister of Mr. 
 Hartland the elder an unfortunate wo 
 man, sour and vicious, who seldom said 
 a good word of any one, and never 
 missed a chance to pass round a piece 
 of scandal. Through her, in the course 
 of the winter, Cranstoun contrived that 
 the evil rumors touching Ellen Tyler 
 should reach Celia s ears ; but when 
 Mrs. Wolfgang broached the subject, the 
 girl received it so frigidly that the nar 
 rator was fain somewhat to abridge her 
 story. Her comments upon it, however, 
 were sufficiently pointed and envenomed 
 so pointed, at last, that the resolution 
 Celia had made not to reply gave way. 
 
 " Perhaps you can tell me," she said, 
 who is the author of these slanders." 
 
 I only repeat what is the common 
 talk of the town," said Mrs. Wolfgang, 
 taken a little aback. 
 
 "You spoke so confidently that I 
 supposed you must know who set the 
 common talk of the town afloat. I dare 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 121 
 
 say it was the same tale-bearer who sent 
 me a letter two or three months since 
 on this very subject, and was ashamed, 
 as he well might be, to sign his name to 
 the falsehoods it contained." 
 
 " Oh, if you take it in that way, Miss 
 Pembroke, I have nothing more to 
 say." 
 
 " I am glad of it, Mrs. Wolfgang." 
 
 The lady flounced out of the room. 
 " The pert hussy !" she said, as she 
 issued into the street. Cranstoun shall 
 hear of this. He s a fool if he ll stand 
 that, even for forty thousand dollars." 
 
 Cranstoun did stand it for some time. 
 He was playing for a large stake, which 
 he was unwilling to lose by rashness, or 
 to forfeit so long as a chance remained. 
 But during a casual interview with Celia, 
 one day, at her uncle s house, that young 
 lady s manner was so unmistakably dis 
 couraging that he began to lose hope 
 and patience. A letter from England 
 which he received in April brought him 
 to a decision. " I may as well try my 
 fortune first as last," he said to himself: 
 " she drives me to it ; and, at the worst, 
 half a loaf is better than no bread." 
 
 Thus, progress and plotting kept pace 
 in our little village. A village is often 
 an epitome of the great world. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 PREPARING FOR AN IMPORTANT MOVE IN 
 THE GAME. 
 
 CRAXSTOUN was a man of quiet nerves 
 and well-controlled temper. He was rare 
 ly excited beyond equanimity, and not 
 easil) startled out of his self-possession. 
 
 But any one who could have looked 
 now through the Venitian blinds of his 
 office they were carefully dropped 
 would have doubted his right to the 
 character. 
 
 Whatever the cause, he exhibited a 
 degree of nervous agitation very unusual 
 with him. Now he paced the small room 
 in moody thought, head sunk and arms 
 crossed behind his back. Now he seat 
 ed himself before a large, baize-covered 
 table, backed by numerous pigeon-holes 
 for papers ; absently took up his pen 
 
 and drew a blank sheet before him j 
 then threw the pen down, pushed the 
 paper impatiently away, and fell into a 
 long and apparently unsatisfactory fit of 
 musing. 
 
 " I wish to God it were over !" he 
 said at last, half aloud. Then he took 
 from one of the pigeon-holes, and began 
 to read, a half sheet headed : COPY : 
 Letter to C. Pembroke: The letter, 
 dated the day before, might have puz 
 zled any one else to decipher, for it 
 was covered and blotted with erasures 
 and interlineations ; and the final docu 
 ment seemed very short, compared to 
 the original draft. It contained only 
 these words : 
 
 DEAR Miss PEMBROKE: 
 
 When I inform you that I have a 
 communication of the utmost importance 
 to make to you one which will disclose 
 to you much connected with your moth 
 er s early history, and much involving 
 your future welfare ; and one which, if 
 you do not hear it from me, may reach 
 you unexpectedly through some less 
 friendly source " (he had it, at first, 
 " less agreeable source," but agreeable 
 was erased and friendly substituted), 
 "and under less advantageous circum 
 stances I trust you will favor me with 
 an interview to-morrow at ten o clock, or 
 at any other day and hour more con 
 venient to yourself. I name to-morrow 
 at ten, because I learn that your uncle 
 and aunt will both be absent at that 
 hour, and I am quite sure " (these two 
 words underscored) "that, when you 
 learn the nature of the communication, 
 you will wish it made without witnesses. 
 I entreat you to believe this, and also 
 that I am, most respectfully, 
 
 "Your friend and well-wisher, 
 
 "AMOS CRANSTOUN." 
 
 How that brow cleared as the keen 
 eyes ran over the paper ! The brief 
 and unwonted signs of agitation had 
 passed away, and there sat the man in 
 his normal condition the passionless 
 player considering his next move in 
 the world s great game, calculating its 
 chances, settling down into conviction of 
 
122 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 its success. A complacent smile flitted 
 over his features a smile born of such 
 thoughts as these : 
 
 " Nature cut you out for a diplomatist. 
 Amos Cranstoun. A fool would barely 
 have asked her for a private interview 
 on matters of importance to her happi 
 ness, and would have had a plump re 
 fusal for his pains. But l /ier mother s 
 early history, and then a communica 
 tion which might reach her unexpectedly 
 through some less friendly source that 
 brought her down. Curiosity, anxiety, 
 apprehension I stirred them all. And 
 they, being stirred, dictated the message : 
 *Miss Pembroke will be at home at the 
 hour named. The gypsy would not risk 
 a committal on paper ! She thinks her 
 self cunning. Well, I must play the 
 game warily. But the devil is in it if I 
 don t win with such cards as I hold in 
 my hands." 
 
 We are told that the children of this 
 world are, in their generation, wiser than 
 the children of light. And so, in one 
 sense, they assuredly are. Cranstoun, a 
 true world-child, spurred on by lust of 
 wealth, of station, of power, had studied 
 his fellow-creatures not profoundly, for 
 the most astute rascality is not profound 
 but with sharp and careful eyes and 
 shrewd judgment. In regard to a large 
 portion of his species it might be said 
 that he knew them well. Especially 
 had his study been their weaknesses, 
 failings, besetting sins, selfish ambitions, 
 vulnerable points of temptation. To 
 these he had the clue within himself, 
 and he detected them with keen scent, 
 and employed them with efficient cer 
 tainty in a thousand cases in which a 
 better man would have overlooked or 
 neglected them. 
 
 Thus, in the race after riches and 
 honors, the world s children, wise after 
 their kind, often distance men who in all 
 true knowledge are as far above them 
 as the heavens above the earth. 
 
 But there is a point beyond which 
 this worldly wisdom reaches not. Crans 
 toun had heard, and had often read in 
 books, of generosity, self-devotion ; up 
 rightness that was proof against earthly 
 temptation ; love that, was stronger than 
 
 death. He had a vague belief that such* 
 things might be a belief about as strong 
 and definite as our grandmothers faith 
 in ghosts. These romantic fancies were 
 not " dreamed of in his philosophy ;" but 
 somewhere, in heaven or earth, they 
 might, for aught he could tell, have 
 existence. He had never detected them, 
 however ; and he never seriously calcu 
 lated upon them as disturbing elements 
 having power to defeat any plan upon 
 which he had set his heart. 
 
 Had Cranstoun, then, in his walk 
 through life, never encountered any man 
 without the taint of mercenary motive 
 about him ? never met the generous, 
 the devoted, the unselfishly loving ? 
 Beyond doubt he had met them, had 
 come face to face with them, time after 
 time. 
 
 But seeing, he perceived them not. 
 There was nothing in his character to 
 respond to or call out the noblest parts 
 of theirs. The key was wanting. The 
 highest virtues do not stalk forth osten 
 tatiously in the sunshine. They-do not, 
 like die almsgiving hypocrites in Jesus 
 day, sound a trumpet before them in the 
 synagogues and in the streets. They 
 enter into the closet of the heart ; and 
 he who would thence win them forth to 
 speech and sympathy, must possess the 
 signs and passwords of the soul s free 
 masonry. 
 
 There were men, then, beyond his 
 reach, because beyond his apprehension. 
 Virtue is a generously careless leader, 
 falling into many an ambush, paying 
 many a time the penalty of over-confi 
 dence ; but then, to fall back upon, she 
 has an inner citadel, its pure recesses 
 impregnable, because unknown, to her 
 enemies accessible to those only whom 
 she vouchsafes to guide. 
 
 The clock in Cranstoun s room struck 
 the half hour after nine. He started, 
 replaced the copy of his letter to Celia, 
 took from another pigeon-hole a package 
 of papers, the separate titles of which he 
 carefully examined before placing them 
 in his pocket; closed and locked the 
 many-celled depository of his secrets; 
 and, after adjusting his dress in an ad 
 joining room, issued into the street. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 123 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 THE DISCLOSURE. 
 
 WHEN Cranstoun was ushered into 
 the parlor, he found Celia sitting at the 
 centre-table, an open letter before her 
 the letter he had sent her the day before, 
 as his quick eye instantly detected. 
 
 She rose, indicating a chair. Crans 
 toun had made the ordinary inquiries 
 after her health, and then, somewhat 
 unexpectedly to him, she took the 
 initiative. 
 
 " You have written to me," she said, 
 taking up the letter, " that you have some 
 important matter connected with my 
 mother s history which you wish to com 
 municate. Have the goodness to inform 
 me what it is." 
 
 There was a subtle something in the 
 tone and the grave manner, rather than 
 in the words, which fell unpleasantly on 
 Cranstoun s ear. This young lady had 
 hitherto seemed somewhat embarrassed 
 in his presence, especially when he met 
 her alone. She had avoided his look, 
 and evinced trepidation sometimes when 
 he spoke to her. Now, though she 
 trembled a little, she looked him steadily 
 in the eye, and awaited his reply in a 
 quiet way for which he had not been 
 prepared. He felt that his power over 
 her was lessened Sydenham s influence 
 probably. No matter. He, Cranstoun, 
 was master of the situation now. All 
 this glanced through his mind during the 
 second or two which elapsed ere he 
 replied : 
 
 " It is of the utmost importance, Miss 
 Pembroke ; and I deeply regret to say 
 it is of an unpleasant character : I most 
 deeply regret the pain I shall have to 
 give you. Let me hope that you will 
 disassociate, in your feelings, the evil 
 tidings and unwilling bearer of them." 
 
 Her sudden pallor and look of alarm 
 reassured Cranstoun, and he went on 
 with more confidence : 
 
 " The property which you have always 
 considered yours does not legally belong 
 to you." 
 
 "Am I not papa s heir? Is that 
 what you mean ?" 
 
 " You were so young at the time of 
 
 your father s death, Miss Celia, that you 
 may not have noticed in his manner in 
 dications of a secret burden." 
 
 " I remember," Celia forced herself 
 to say, "that papa was often sad and 
 thoughtful." 
 
 " He had good reason to be so. At 
 the time he married your mother, and 
 for many years afterward, he had a wife 
 living in England. You will require 
 proof of this. It is contained in your 
 father s own letters." 
 
 He took a small package from an in 
 ner pocket, untied the red tape -which 
 bound it, and handed her the contents. 
 
 Poor Celia ! The stern realities of 
 life were upon her now. The actual 
 shadow had fallen across her path at 
 last. Mechanically she took from Cran 
 stoun the offered letters, opened one of 
 them, gazed on its contents. Her fa 
 ther s hand was remarkably fair and 
 legible, but the characters gave back, 
 for a time, no idea no more than to 
 an unlettered Indian they would. Her 
 mind, after the first stunning blow, wan 
 dered far away, back to her years of 
 childhood to her earliest memories of 
 her father of her injured mother. 
 
 " Did she know it ?" were her first 
 eager words. 
 
 " Your mother ? No. She died be 
 lieving herself your father s legal wife." 
 
 "Thank God! oh thank God for 
 that !" and the fast-flowing tears, for the 
 first time, would come. 
 
 Cranstoun looked on, in curious aston 
 ishment. He had just been communi 
 cating to an orphan girl, who till now 
 had borne a reputable name and enjoyed 
 a handsome fortune, the fact that she 
 was entitled to neither. He had thought 
 to overwhelm her with the idea of de 
 pendence, of poverty, of the world s con 
 tempt. And her first expression was 
 one of gratitude almost of joyful grat 
 itude, it seemed that another had been 
 spared the misery which seemed closing 
 around her ! 
 
 No matter," was his next thought : 
 "this can t last long." And in the ex 
 pressive countenance before him, mark 
 ing every change within, he already read 
 that she was gathering up the severed 
 
124 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 links of thought, arranging and com 
 bining, out of sudden confusion, what 
 were at first only vague shadows be 
 ginning, in short, to realize her actual 
 position. 
 
 Miss Pembroke " he began. 
 
 Pembroke is not my name. It was 
 not my mother s poor mother ! but 
 she thought it was ! She always thought 
 it was." And then the tears, in spite 
 of her best efforts, would force their way 
 afresh. 
 
 Miss Celia " 
 
 Yes, that is mine still. They can t 
 take it from me. Mamma gave it me." 
 
 "A name is of little consequence. 
 The chief point is, that the property 
 which you have always supposed you in 
 herited belongs to another. You are 
 not He hesitated. 
 
 Celia turned very pale, but she said, 
 in a low tone, " I know I understand 
 I am not a legitimate child. I have no 
 right to my father s property." 
 
 " No, only to your mother s. Your 
 father s estate goes, by law, to the near 
 est legitimate heir." 
 
 He had awakened a new train of 
 thought : Is she I mean, is my fa 
 ther s wife alive ?" 
 
 " No, she died nearly three years be 
 fore your father." 
 
 " And he had an opportunity to rem 
 edy the evil he had done, and did not do 
 it ! I don t believe it. I am sure oh 
 sure ! that he loved my mother. You 
 are not telling me the truth." 
 
 " I am, indeed I am. You need not 
 trust to my word for it. One of these 
 letters will prove what I say. But your 
 father had every disposition to legalize 
 his marriage with your mother." 
 
 Every disposition, and not do it ?" 
 
 "Yes. He was extremely sensitive 
 to the opinion of the world, and he feared 
 that a second marriage with your mother, 
 no matter how secretly solemnized, might 
 become generally known. Still more, he 
 feared to disclose the truth to her. The 
 very strength of his affection for her 
 held him back from confessing that he 
 had deceived her. and that she had been 
 living with him for years as 
 
 Cranstoun stopped involuntarily. Was 
 
 this Celia ? How the world s lesson 
 was telling upon her ! Every trace of 
 tears was gone. The glance was steady, 
 almost stern, and her tone was cold and 
 firm as she broke in upon his unclosed 
 sentence : 
 
 " You have no right, sir he had no 
 right to couple my mothers name, even 
 in thought, with any term except such as 
 may be applied to the best and the most 
 virtuous. She deserved and well you 
 know she commanded, even to the last 
 moment my father s unbounded con 
 fidence and respect." 
 
 " It was that very respect, Miss Pem 
 broke, which caused him to delay, day 
 after day, what he earnestly longed, but 
 had not courage, to do. Had he not, he 
 would, at least, have made a will." 
 
 " Could he have left his property, by 
 will, to mamma ?" 
 
 " To her, or to you or to any one. 
 His wife being dead, the dower in the 
 real estate was extinguished. He had 
 the entire control, free from incumbrance, 
 of all his property." 
 
 "And even that he failed to do ! But 
 perhaps " How new ideas were crowd 
 ing on Celia as the several phases of her 
 position, one after another, presented 
 themselves ! this time, however, the new 
 emotion had joy mingled with its sorrow. 
 "Perhaps he meant She stopped 
 again, and with flushed cheek and lighted 
 eye she asked Cranstoun, abruptly, 
 "Have I a sister?" 
 
 "Your father had, by his wife, one 
 child, a daughter. But 1 know he never 
 intended she should have any of his 
 property in this country. When he left 
 her mother, they separated by mutual 
 consent, and he made over to her half 
 his property, real and personal. At her 
 death it would go to her child." 
 
 "A sister a sister!" Celia repeated. 
 But the light gradually faded from her 
 eye, and she added: " Perhaps she would 
 despise me. She might feel as if I had 
 wronged her, and hate me. Am I her 
 sister, or does the law say I am not?" 
 
 "You are undoubtedly her sister of 
 the half blood, but I am not sure she is 
 alive." 
 
 " Has she been ill ?" 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 125 
 
 " Not that I know of. I am sorry that 
 I have to tell you a melancholy story, 
 that leaves everything in uncertainty. 
 At her mother s death, as your father 
 had not been heard of for years, and had 
 caused a report of his death to be circu 
 lated, she was received into the family 
 of her nearest relative, a Mr. a Mr. 
 Dunmore, her father s first cousin, a gay 
 man of the world, addicted to horse- 
 racing, and who was afterward appointed 
 her guardian. There she remained sev 
 eral years. Among the fashionable fre 
 quenters of this gentleman s house, a 
 captain of the Guards paid especial at 
 tention to Miss Mary " 
 
 "And she married this captain ?" 
 
 " She eloped with him, under promise 
 of marriage, it seems, but has not been 
 seen or heard of by her mother s rela 
 tions since." 
 
 Celia sighed deeply. She felt as if 
 the only gleam of sunshine in a stormy 
 sky had been suddenly shut out. She 
 would have given up all her property 
 willingly, she thought joyfully if there 
 by she could but have won a sister, a 
 sister s love ! 
 
 " But some explanation must have been 
 given," she said at last. " This captain " 
 
 " He prevaricated told first one story, 
 then another. There was a duel, I be 
 lieve. Finally, he protested, in the most 
 solemn terms, that he knew not where 
 she was ; that she had disappeared in 
 the most unaccountable manner ; and 
 that he had made every effort to trace 
 her, but in vain. The cousin believed, 
 or affected to believe, the story. Indeed 
 there seems pretty strong ground for the 
 conclusion that she came to an unfor 
 tunate end." 
 
 " Poor, poor sister !" And though 
 Celia s chaste ignorance failed to suggest 
 to her the horrors of which such a narra 
 tive opened up the possibility for a great 
 city has darker depths than those of the 
 swollen river, last refuge of the suicide 
 still, she could not but feel that her 
 own fate was mild and endurable com 
 pared to what had possibly been the 
 portion of one who was born to name 
 and to fortune. 
 
 Craustoun was obliged to recall her 
 
 thoughts to her own situation. " Miss 
 Mary, if she be alive," he said, is un 
 doubtedly heir to all the property which 
 you imagined that you had inherited 
 from your father, she being his only 
 legitimate child. If she is dead, Mr. 
 Dunmore is heir-at-law. But ten years 
 have elapsed since your father s death. 
 He had evidently not been traced by 
 his English relations. They know noth 
 ing, in all probability, of your existence, 
 nor have any clue to the property that is 
 in your guardian s hands. As you have 
 enjoyed it unmolested until now, I do 
 not see why you may not continue to do 
 so as long as you live, if if you will 
 only act prudently at this juncture." 
 
 What has prudence to do with it ? 
 I know, now, that the property is not 
 mine you have taken pains to tell me 
 that and you know it also." 
 
 " Very true. I know it ; and if I 
 were to sit down and write to your 
 father s cousin, whose address I have, 
 he. as heir-at-law, would sue and un 
 doubtedly recover. But I have known the 
 same thing for twenty years, and have 
 never written to him a word about it." 
 
 Celia was silent for some time, and 
 Cranstoun sat anxiously watching the 
 effect of the hint he had given. At last 
 she said : 
 
 " Mr. Cranstoun, you must have had 
 some motive for concealing all this so 
 long and for disclosing it to me now. 
 What was it ?" 
 
 Most persons would have been taken 
 aback by so downright a question, and 
 might have replied, in the commonplace 
 style, that if the young lady would but 
 consent to marriage, she would save for 
 tune and name ; otherwise, she would 
 surely forfeit both. But Cranstoun, 
 though a man incapable of appreciating 
 nobility of motive, had been partially en 
 lightened as to Celia s character by the 
 preceding conversation, and was too 
 shrewd not to perceive that such a move 
 would be false and unprofitable. In a 
 quiet tone he replied : 
 
 "As a member, however unworthy, of 
 the legal profession, it was, in one sense, 
 my duty to have made these disclosures 
 long ago to those concerned, so that 
 
126 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 the persons to whom the property law 
 fully belongs might obtain possession of 
 it. Cannot Miss Pembroke imagine 
 why I have not done so ?" 
 
 " I prefer to learn the reason from 
 you, sir." 
 
 "It is very simple. I have ever been 
 unwilling at this moment I am more 
 than ever unwilling to take any step 
 that should give you pain and do you an 
 injury." 
 
 " But this does not explain why you 
 have broken silence to me at last." 
 
 If I could have believed that I stand 
 as high in your esteem as I most earn 
 estly wish and hope to stand, you should 
 never have known a syllable of all I have 
 told you to-day. As it is, can you blame 
 me for seeking to inspire you with some 
 sentiments of of gratitude, of good-will, 
 through the knowledge that, by my for 
 bearance, you have lived in ease and 
 affluence, your name has been saved 
 from dishonor and your father s memory 
 from reproach. Miss Celia, I desire, 
 above all things in this world, your good 
 opinion." 
 
 How smooth the villainy ! How fair 
 the words in which it was clothed ! 
 
 Celia felt her way through it, as the 
 blind sometimes safely thread field and 
 forest, by an inscrutable instinct. 
 
 " Allow me to ask another question," 
 she said, after a pause. " Supposing 
 the forbearance of which you have spoken 
 to continue in the future as in the past, 
 do you expect me to live, as heretofore, 
 but with the consciousness ever present 
 that not a dollar I spend, nor an article 
 I possess, is, of right, my own ?" 
 
 " Most assuredly I do, Miss Pem 
 broke. It was your father s intention 
 to make your mother and yourself his 
 heirs. I have personal knowledge of 
 that. I am willing to make oath to it." 
 
 " No oath can make that mine which 
 belongs to another." 
 
 " I beseech you, Miss Celia, to make 
 no rash move, as you seem to purpose. 
 It would be the very extravagance of 
 Quixotic humiliation." 
 
 " You do expect, then or did expect, 
 at least that, if no one disclosed to the 
 heir-at-law to Mr. " 
 
 " Mr. Dunmore." 
 
 " That if no one disclosed the 
 truth to Mr. Dunmore, I would leave 
 him in ignorance, and go on using his 
 property as if it were mine. You are 
 mistaken." 
 
 A man of the world might, on mature 
 reflection after taking into view the 
 miserable anxiety which attends the 
 holding of property by uncertain tenure, 
 the chances of black-mail and like con 
 tingencies have come to the same con 
 clusion as Celia. She, at the moment, 
 had no such thoughts. Her womanly 
 instinct, cutting across them all, went 
 direct to the precept, " Render to every 
 man his due." Be such instincts ever 
 kept unspotted from the world ! 
 
 Cranstoun s version of it was, that, 
 instead of being actuated by common- 
 sense considerations of practical conse 
 quences as of the risks she ran, the 
 imprudence of placing herself at others 
 mercy, to all which it might have been 
 hard to reply the girl was moved by a 
 mere romantic fancy, a figment set up 
 under the name of honor, which he 
 might succeed in combating. 
 
 " This is madness," he said, earnestly 
 "sheer madness, Miss Pembroke. It 
 may be law, but it is not justice, that a 
 far-off relative of your father a gambler 
 and spendthrift whom he despised 
 should inherit his property to the exclu 
 sion of his own daughter. The spirit 
 of the law is, that the intentions of a dy 
 ing man, if they can be ascertained, should 
 determine the disposition of his property. 
 You propose, as to your father s proper 
 ty, by your own act to bring about a 
 disposition of it which you are quite sure 
 he never wished, never intended, and 
 which, if he were now alive, would be 
 abhorrent to his feelings. Most deeply 
 do I regret that I said a word to you on 
 the subject. But how could I for a mo 
 ment imagine that it would bring about 
 such a result ?" 
 
 " Is common honesty so rare a thing?" 
 was Celia s thought, but she did not ask 
 Cranstoun that question. She said to 
 him : " You desire to take back with 
 you my father s letters ?" 
 
 He bowed in assent. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 127 
 
 " Then allow me a few minutes to 
 look over them." 
 
 They confirmed everything that Cran- 
 stoun had said. A portion of one of 
 them, in which the main facts were the 
 most distinctly stated, she read with 
 amazement. Her father therein accept 
 ed an offer which, it appeared, Cran- 
 stoun had made to him, to maintain 
 silence on the subject of the previous 
 marriage s*o long as Mr. and Mrs. Pem 
 broke should live, on payment of ten 
 thousand dollars hush-money. She was 
 so startled when she came to this pas 
 sage that she interrupted her reading to 
 ask, Did you intend me to see all these 
 letters ?" 
 
 " Certainly," he replied. 
 
 He had asked her in marriage, he had 
 just expressed eager desire for her good 
 opinion, and yet he was willing she 
 should see this memorial of his shame ! 
 Even in the midst of her own bitter 
 griefs she could not help saying to her 
 self, "What manner of man is this ?" 
 
 As she handed him back the letters, 
 she said : " Some time since you did me 
 the honor to make to me, through my 
 guardian, a proposition which I declined. 
 I think you must be glad now that I de 
 clined it. We have neither thought nor 
 principle in common. You think me, 
 no doubt, a young woman lacking com 
 mon sense ; and I think you" she 
 paused, and then added " the last per 
 son who would wish to connect himself 
 in marriage with one who will hence 
 forth bear a stain on her name and have 
 to work for her living. I feel confident 
 I may now assure my guardian that your 
 proposal will not be renewed." 
 
 He rose, as much exasperated by her 
 coolness as it was in the nature of his 
 impassive character to be. He had 
 made his great move and been check 
 mated by a simple girl. 
 
 " You will do me a favor," Celia added, 
 "if you will send me Mr. Dunmore s 
 address." 
 
 He bowed, and left her without an 
 other word. 
 
 Two hours afterward Celia received 
 the following note : 
 
 " Mr. Cranstoun trusts that Miss 
 Pembroke will excuse him for delaying 
 to comply with her request for the ad 
 dress of the gentleman to whom the re 
 quest referred. 
 
 " Mr. Cranstoun will not write to 
 England for a week to come. If in. 
 that time he receives no letter or mes 
 sage from Miss Pembroke, he will con 
 clude that the resolution she has ex 
 pressed to-day is irrevocable, and will 
 act upon that resolution. 
 
 " Mr. Cranstoun reminds Miss Pem 
 broke that a knowledge of the facts he 
 communicated to her this morning is as 
 much a piece of property as any other. 
 He placed it at Miss P. s disposal with 
 out condition attached ; and Miss P. did 
 not see fit to avail herself of it. 
 
 " At the end of a week from this day 
 (under the contingency above referred 
 to), Mr. C. will proceed to dispose of it 
 elsewhere. Whether the information be 
 given in the proper quarter by Miss Pem 
 broke herself or by Mr. Cranstoun, the 
 result to Miss P. will be the same, but 
 the result to others will be very different. 
 In the latter case (i. e., if given by Mr. 
 C.), a reckless spendthrift will probably 
 secure for himself half the amount in 
 volved, while the other half may become 
 the rightful property of a man who will 
 not spend it in dissipation and horse- 
 racing. 
 
 " CHISKAUGA, April 9, 1856." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 THE FIRST DARK DAY. 
 
 " If there be an evil in this world, tis sorrow and 
 heaviness of heart. The loss of fame, of wealth, of 
 coronets and mitres, are only evils as they occasion 
 sorrow. Take that out, the rest is fancy, and dwelleth 
 only in the head of man." STERNE. 
 
 THE shield of our fate has ever two 
 sides, but, like King Alfred s headlong 
 knights meeting at the cross-roads, we 
 too often look but on one of them. 
 
 There is no stroke of earthly happi 
 ness so unquestionable that it entails not 
 mischiefs unforeseen, and no human mis 
 fortune so heavy that it brings not its 
 attendant mitigations. Barring the worm 
 
128 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 that dieth not, our short sight scarcely 
 suffices to distinguish what is calamity. 
 Evil changes to good, good to evil, even 
 before our eyes. But this is a lesson 
 taught only by experience. It is espe 
 cially in the days of impulsive youth, fresh 
 to enjoy, quick also to suffer, that we fail 
 to discern the reverse of the shield. 
 When the sun shines out, we rejoice. as 
 if it would never be obscured ; and when 
 the clouds arise and cover it, we droop 
 as iMts light were gone for ever. 
 
 If there be, aside from the stings of 
 conscience, one unmitigated evil, it is 
 that which a common phrase aptly ex 
 presses : we "lose heart" a loss, as 
 Sterne has well reminded us, worse than 
 of wealth, of station, of all this world 
 affords. For the world s goods and the 
 world s high places may be lost and won 
 again if, in the storm which swept these 
 away, we did not lose heart along with 
 them. 
 
 We speak of the night of adversity, 
 but the darkness is often within us, 
 rather than without ; and if we but pre 
 serve the spirit to retrieve, the courage 
 to undertake, the perseverance to prose 
 cute, Ajax s noble prayer will be an 
 swered in our case. The struggle we 
 may not escape to contend is man s 
 destiny but we shall have light to strug 
 gle by. 
 
 It was dark enough now around Celia, 
 poor child ! And when Cranstoun was 
 gone, and she was left alone with her 
 thoughts, she remained in the gloom, for 
 a time, with but a dim sense of some 
 vague and terrible misfortune of dis 
 grace, of desolation. 
 
 Gradually, as she recovered the power 
 to recall and arrange the thoughts that 
 had wandered off, like worldlings desert 
 ing the unfortunate, the realities of her 
 situation rose up, one by one, in array 
 before her. 
 
 Not at first the ruin of her fortune, 
 for the young and the generous, bred in 
 easy affluence, and to whom life s com 
 forts have come as comes the air to re 
 fresh and the sunlight to cheer us, do 
 not feel, at the time, even at its true 
 cost, the loss of money, though it be all 
 they possess. 
 
 But it was the position in which her 
 mother had stood she so good, so lov 
 ing: it was, even more, the conduct of 
 her father so fondly remembered, and 
 who had always treated herself and her 
 mother with indulgent affection. 
 
 Could it be ? That father to whom 
 she had ever looked up so dutifully, 
 whom all men had seemed so highly to 
 respect had his life with her mother 
 and herself been but one fong, acted 
 falsehood ? Was this the world in which 
 she had to live ? Who was true ? Whom 
 was she to trust? Could any one have 
 seemed more worthy of trust than her 
 father? 
 
 It is youth s sorest trial when on its 
 warm, trusting faith comes the first icy 
 breath of suspicion. W 7 ell may the 
 wounded spirit pray to be saved from 
 the infidelity of the heart, from skepticism 
 in human virtue, from unbelief in Truth 
 and Righteousness upon earth ! 
 
 Who was to be trusted ? Was he to 
 whom she proposed to commit the hap 
 piness of her life ? What would Mow- 
 bray say? What would Mowbray do? 
 
 It was with a start almost of terror that 
 Celia met the question as it arose in her 
 mind. Could it be that she was not sure 
 how her lover would feel how he would 
 act? Was she, indeed, losing faith in 
 humankind ? 
 
 Not quite that. But now, for the first 
 time, she became conscious of an in 
 stinctive impression that both Mowbray 
 and his mother prized station, set store 
 by wealth. 
 
 And what was she ? What had her 
 mother been? Not her father s wife. 
 The terms which a world, heartless and 
 undiscriminating, applies alike to the 
 vicious and the unfortunate terms that 
 grate so cruelly on the ears of the pure 
 and the young thrust themselves upon 
 her. She seemed to hear them spoken, 
 and she shrank, as from the public gaze, 
 under a feeling of degradation. 
 
 Her mind dwelt on this until the 
 thought stung like a venomous reptile.* 
 She rose and moved about, as if thus she 
 might shake it off. She closed her eyes, 
 as though to shut it out. But it seemed 
 only to stamp itself the more vividly on 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 129 
 
 her imagination. Then she began to 
 reflect that it would never leave her as 
 long as she lived that she would bear 
 it with her day by day. year by year at 
 night when she lay down, at morning 
 when she arose. The thought became 
 intolerable. 
 
 Ah ! if she could only go back twenty- 
 four hours ! could only feel as she had 
 felt yesterday, the day before, throughout 
 her life up to this very hour! What 
 would she not give to be again as she 
 was then ! to awake and find that all 
 she had just been suffering was but in a 
 frightful dream ! 
 
 It is often as true of happiness as of 
 time, that we take note of it only by its 
 loss. Celia suddenly bethought herself 
 ("it seemed to her hardly credible now) 
 how miserable she had sometimes fancied 
 herself! for what slight cause she had 
 bewailed her hard fate to her aunt, to 
 Sydenham ! 
 
 Sydenham ! A new train of ideas 
 arose with the name, the first faint 
 glimpse of light through the storm. 
 
 The words he had once spoken to her 
 the very words came back to her 
 now, in her sore affliction, as with a new 
 sense. She remembered the flashing 
 eye, she seemed to hear again the indig 
 nant tones in which he had said, No 
 man whose good opinion is worth caring 
 for will visit on the daughter the father s 
 sins. If any man ever does, take my 
 word for it you are well rid of him." 
 
 She felt that she could yet count upon 
 one sure friend. If the rest of the world 
 forsook her as the child of shame, he, at 
 least, would pronounce her innocent 
 her and the unmarried mother, well de 
 serving the love and reverence she in 
 spired, who had lived and died uncon 
 scious of her fate, unconscious of the 
 stigma that was one day to attach, through 
 her, to her daughter. 
 
 But even this gleam of comfort was 
 obscured a moment after. It flashed 
 upon her, as she recalled Sydenham s 
 words, that at the moment she first 
 heard them she had experienced a vague 
 apprehension, dispelled afterward by 
 Sydenham s disclaimer, that they might 
 apply to Mowbray. 
 9 
 
 How was this ? She trusted Sydera 
 ham, a mere friend ; her faith in him 
 was even stronger now, in the hour of 
 trial, than before ; but the man she had 
 loved and had chosen from all the world 
 as her future husband twice, while these 
 gloomy thoughts had been sweeping over 
 her, there had mingled with them almost 
 a doubt of his loyalty. What had Mow- 
 bray ever done to deserve this at her 
 hands ? 
 
 And then again she thought, if her 
 present position did change his views, 
 ought she to blame him? It was not 
 that she was poor now: he was not 
 much richer himself. It was not as if 
 she had discovered that she was born of 
 parents in the humblest condition of life : 
 she did not, she believed, think so meanly 
 of him as to imagine he would despise 
 her because of a lowly origin, so that 
 her birth was only honest; but now, dis 
 graced as well as disinherited, could it 
 reasonably be expected 
 
 She was going on with this reasoning 
 when there suddenly crossed her train 
 What if the case 
 What if Mrs. 
 Mowbray had been the deceived one, 
 and the stain had been cast on Evelyn s 
 birth ? 
 
 Oh how warmly the conviction gushed 
 to her heart that she would have met 
 him with open arms with a love far 
 stronger, in his day of sorrow, than when 
 all went well ; that she would have re 
 joiced unspeakably to be able to soothe 
 when the world frowned ; to prepare u 
 home, sheltered by changeless affection 
 from the blasts without a home where, 
 if her constant devotion could make it 
 bright to him, there should ever be 
 genial warmth and pleasant sunshine ! 
 But it was not and she sighed it was 
 not, she supposed, with men as with 
 women ! 
 
 She forgot, when she made this ex 
 cuse for her lover at expense of his sex, 
 that she had not, even for a moment, 
 lost confidence in Sydenham. But it is 
 little to be wondered at if the poor girl s 
 ideas, all startled into disorder by the 
 news that had burst upon her like a 
 clap of thunder from a summer sky, 
 
 of thought the idea- 
 had been reversed ? 
 
133 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 strayed hither and thither, without much 
 order or consistency. 
 
 A carnage at the door ! It was her 
 aunt and uncle returning. She retired 
 hastily to her room, there to reflect 
 whether she should communicate to 
 them what had passed. Her first impulse 
 was to speak of it openly. Then she 
 reflected that without fortune she be 
 came, as it were, a pensioner on their 
 bounty, until she could arrange some 
 self-supporting mode of life. Her aunt, 
 s le was quite sure shocked and pained 
 as she must be would never regard, in 
 that light, her sister s child ; but how her 
 uncle would look upon it she did not 
 quite know. So she concluded that she 
 would think over her plans for the future 
 before saying anything. This, at least, 
 was the reason she gave to herself. 
 There was another, unacknowledged, 
 that probably had greater weight the 
 natural reluctance to make the first trial 
 as to the effect which her disclosures 
 would produce on those around her. 
 
 She made a strong and not unsuccess 
 ful attempt to master her agitation. And 
 when, after half an hour, she descended 
 to the parlor, no suspicion was excited. 
 It is true that she went through the 
 petty duties of the day with a sort of 
 mechanical unconsciousness, and that 
 her aunt once rallied her, in a tone of 
 pleasantry, about her evidently absent 
 thoughts. But the day passed, as the 
 weariest days will ; and she retired 
 early to her chamber to sink into a long 
 reverie, crowded with the thoughts she 
 had so resolutely shut out while the eyes 
 of others were upon her. 
 
 When she sought rest, her mother s 
 image rose before her so distinctly, so 
 vividly, it seemed but yesterday she had 
 received her parting kiss. If she could 
 but have laid her head once more on 
 that faithful breast, and poured forth all 
 she felt, and told how her love for that 
 dear parent, that had grown with her 
 growth, seemed increased and renewed 
 within her, now that they were com 
 panions in misfortune ! (It was thus 
 Celia put it : her mother was alive to 
 her still.) And oh, if she could but 
 have heard, in reply, a mother s answer 
 
 ing words of sympathy ! those words of 
 the dear old time what was ever like to 
 them in after years ? that fell on the 
 young heart like fresh spring flowers on 
 the surface of a brook bright with glad 
 sunshine. The earnest longing so grew 
 upon her that she stretched forth her 
 arms as if to embrace a tangible form. 
 And then, as a sense of lonely grief came 
 back, she wept long and silently. But 
 at length youth and health triumphed 
 over sorrow, and she dropped into a 
 heavy sleep ; not, indeed, unbroken by 
 wildering dreams, but which lasted till 
 the slanting rays of the sun, just risen, 
 came cheerfully through an eastern win 
 dow athwart her bed-chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 TAKING HEART. 
 
 " Quale i fioretti, dal notturno gelo 
 
 Chinati e chiusi, poi ch il Sol gl imbianca, 
 Si driz.zan tutti aperti in loro stelo ; 
 Tal mi fee io di mia virtute stanca."* 
 
 DANTE, Inferno, Canto II. 
 
 WHEN any powerful emotion, whether 
 of joy or grief, has possession of us, it 
 can hardly be said to depart, even during 
 the forgetfulness of sleep. It rests, 
 almost with a palpable weight, on our 
 slumbering senses, as if importunate for 
 recognition on the first instant of return 
 ing sensation. And thus the moment 
 of awaking on the morrow after some 
 heavy stroke of affliction is like a re 
 newal of that on which the blow origin 
 ally fell. Our earliest consciousness is 
 a sense of some misfortune waiting to 
 assail us the very instant our eyes open 
 on the world. 
 
 But, after the first shock, Celia found 
 herself more capable, than under the 
 weary depression of the preceding even 
 ing, of reviewing, with some degree of 
 calm, the new phases of her destiny. 
 Sleep, that gives fresh power and zest 
 to enjoy, renews also, in youth especially, 
 our courage to suffer. A cold bath, her 
 
 * "As flowerets, by the frosty breath of night 
 
 Shut up and drooping, soon as daylight glows 
 Spring on their stems all open and upright, 
 Even so my wearied courage freshly rose." 
 
 PARSON S Translation. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 constant daily practice, while it braced 
 her limbs, seemed to extend its invigor 
 ating influence to her mind likewise. 
 Her toilet completed, she threw open a 
 window that looked out southward on 
 the valley, and sat down beside it. 
 
 To the healthy mind there is some 
 thing strangely hopeful in the fresh 
 morning air and the calm beauty of the 
 early landscape. It comes to the sor 
 rowful a reminder of happiness yet re 
 maining. Celia felt the encouraging im 
 pulse it imparted. 
 
 All, except it be impassive or defiant 
 spirits and our heroine was not one of 
 these bend before the first blast of ad 
 versity, the brave heart and the coward 
 ly alike. But there is this difference : 
 some are of an inherent feebleness that 
 is beaten down, like the slightly-rooted 
 maize-stalk, hopelessly prostrate, to rise 
 and flourish no more. Others, who at 
 first seem equally overwhelmed, have 
 within them a recuperative principle an 
 elastic spirit not to be subdued that 
 rallies when the immediate pressure is 
 removed, and rises, like the lithe willow, 
 erect, when the storm has passed. Hap 
 py he who is numbered among these 
 children of hope ! 
 
 It is often difficult, until the day of 
 trial comes, to decide to which of these 
 classes one belongs. This was now to 
 be determined in Celia s case, and the 
 first indications seemed favorable. 
 
 Hartland s house was situated, as we 
 have said, on the southern extremity of 
 the village. Beyond the shrubbery that 
 immediately surrounded it lay a pasture 
 clotted with small clumps of trees : the 
 green herbage, with Spring s freshness 
 on it, glistening in the morning dew. 
 Beyond that again were grain-fields, their 
 boundaries marked with a fringe of 
 dwarf copsewood ; and to the right, some 
 three-quarters of a mile distant, rose 
 that semicircular range of hills to which 
 we have already alluded, with orchards 
 which the rich pink blossom of the 
 peach, now in its early bloom, decked 
 out in gayest beauty. 
 
 Celia gazed on this placid, rural scene, 
 pensively, sadly it is true, but without 
 bitterness. The terrible impatience of 
 
 suffering which, the day before, had 
 caused her to pace the room as if to es 
 cape from a burden too heavy to bear, 
 was gone. She sorrowed, but no longer 
 as those who have no hope. The charms 
 of the external world brought soothing, 
 not flouting, to her sorrow. The small 
 birds that made their home in the 
 branches of the neighboring acacias, 
 their blithe notes ringing out cheerily in 
 the morning air, were welcome. Burns 
 poor, lost songstress complained to Na 
 ture of the earth s freshness and bloom 
 to the very birds that their songs 
 broke her heart ; and never did hopeless 
 desolation find truer interpreter of its 
 despair. He is steeped in misery to the 
 lips who is beyond the reach of consola 
 tion from our great Mother, smiling on 
 him in her daily beauty, speaking to him 
 in her thousand voices of love. 
 
 But though the sense of an intolerable 
 burden had passed away, poor Celia s 
 heart was very, very heavy. And she 
 began to think, more than the evening 
 before she had, of the loss of property, 
 and of the plan of life which it behooved 
 her, in consequence, to adopt. 
 
 A chance thought first brought home 
 to her a consciousness of the practical 
 workings of poverty. She felt an espe 
 cial longing, this morning, for her daily 
 ride for the free air, the quiet of the 
 shady forest, the bracing excitement of 
 quick and easy motion. But these were 
 luxuries which she would now have to 
 deny herself. She recollected that, in 
 her guardian s accounts, he had charged 
 her two dollars and a half a week for the 
 keep and care of Bess. She had never 
 bestowed a second thought on the item ; 
 but now it occurred to her that, if she 
 was to seek her own living, a hundred 
 and thirty dollars annually added to her 
 expenses, for an object not at all of ne 
 cessity, was an imprudence which she 
 must avoid. It cost her a pang to come 
 to this conclusion. To part with her 
 beautiful pony, so gentle, so spirited, 
 that she had learned to love so well 
 Sydenham s gift, too ! 
 
 The breakfast-bell broke in on these 
 
 unwelcome cogitations. Hartland kept 
 
 1 early hours, according to the primitive 
 
1 3 2 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 habits of the country: it was half-past 
 six. 
 
 The breakfast passed over without 
 comment. The uncle s thoughts were 
 engrossed with a butterfly a new species 
 he had found the day before and he 
 dilated to Celia on its beauty. Mrs. 
 Hartland looked anxiously at her niece 
 several times. As they rose, and after 
 Mr. Hartland had gone, she said, 
 
 " Celia, my love, are you not well ?" 
 
 " Quite well, dear mother, except a 
 slight headache, and, I believe" she 
 tried to say it lightly "a touch of low 
 spirits. An hour or two in the saddle 
 will do me good." 
 
 " Is anything wrong, my child? Has 
 Mow bray " 
 
 Do not alarm yourself about Mow- 
 bray and me. Nothing has occurred 
 between us except what you know. I 
 dare say it is all best just as it is." 
 
 There is something wrong, Celia. or 
 you would not 
 
 " Between Mowbray and me, nothing, 
 I do assure you, mother. I have not 
 seen him, or heard of him, for several 
 days." 
 
 "It is so unnatural for you to say, 
 while your uncle seems to become daily 
 more averse to your marriage, that it is 
 all for the best." 
 
 " Did I say so ?" 
 
 Did you not ?" 
 
 " I was thinking, I believe, how ne 
 cessary it is to be very, very sure of a 
 man s character before one marries him. 
 And you know, mother, that in two or 
 three years I shall be absolutely free to 
 choose, if, in the mean time, neither 
 Evelvn nor I change our minds." 
 
 "//"neither of you change !" 
 
 " Why should we not ? This is a 
 changeful world. Circumstances change, 
 and they say we are the creatures of 
 circumstances. And how much better 
 that a lover should change before mar 
 riage than a husband afterward!" 
 
 "This from you, Celia!" 
 
 " Is it not true, dear mother? And in 
 a world of such uncertainty, is it not 
 well to be prepared for the worst ? Have 
 I been so thoughtless hitherto," she add 
 ed, with a faint smile as she noted Mrs. 
 
 Hartland s increasing anxiety, "that if I 
 utter a sage reflection or two on the in 
 stability of human affairs, you must needs 
 conjure up mystery and misfortune ?" 
 
 " I do not know you, this morning, 
 my child. Your dear mother felt, when 
 she confided her orphan to my hands, 
 that she would never want a parent s 
 care or sympathy while I lived. And 
 you used to confide in me, Celia. 
 
 Poor Celia s tears, with difficulty re 
 strained till now, filled her eyes. She 
 threw her arms round Mrs. Hartland s 
 neck and kissed her again and again. I 
 do, oh indeed I do !" she said. My 
 own mamma could not have been kinder. 
 Pray, pray, don t cry. You shall know 
 all that has been vexing me. But not 
 now. I know Mr. Hartland expects 
 you in the library to color the sketch 
 of that wonderful butterfly he has been 
 describing to us ; and there is Bess at 
 the door. When I return you shall 
 know all." 
 
 "It has nothing to do with Mow- 
 bray ?" 
 
 " Dear mother that cares so much 
 about my happiness ! I have already 
 told you that nothing whatever has passed 
 between Mowbray and me that need dis 
 tress you." 
 
 " Then I dare say all will be well yet." 
 
 Perhaps." 
 
 " You are a riddle to me this morning, 
 Celia. But there is Mr. Hartland s voice. 
 A pleasant ride, dear child." 
 
 Through bypaths that skirted the vil 
 lage, Celia reached the main road leading 
 west toward the railroad station : then 
 she put the little mare to a canter, caught 
 a glimpse of Mr. Harper at work in his 
 flower-garden as she passed, arrested 
 the animal s inclination to take the side 
 road which turned off to Sydenham s 
 residence, and galloped on, without 
 drawing rein, until she- was fairly in the 
 shelter of the woods. There she checked 
 Bess s speed, and, a little farther on, 
 diverging from the main road into a path 
 on the right hand an ancient Indian 
 trace that led to Tyler s mill she found 
 herself traversing the same solitude that 
 had been broken, a hundred years be- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 133 
 
 fore, only by tread of wild beast, or of 
 the red man, scarcely less wild, who was 
 pursuing him. 
 
 There is something wonderfully tran- 
 quilizing in the deep stillness of these 
 primeval forests. Alone with Nature in 
 one of her most impressive garbs, that 
 which is natural and genuine in our feel 
 ings expands, and asserts the mastery 
 over the meretricious and the conven 
 tional. Under that stately shelter we 
 seem, in a measure, protected from the 
 capricious influences of an artificial world. 
 In the haunts of men the eternal prin 
 ciples of right and justice appeal to the 
 
 reason : here they speak to the heart. 
 We distinguish truth in society, but we 
 feel it in the solemnity of the forest. 
 
 This was telling now upon Celia. 
 Her rapid ride, too, had had its usual in 
 spiriting effect. The fresh bloom came 
 in her cheeks ; the languor was gone 
 from her eye ; her courage rose. The 
 spirit of the place was upon her: the 
 very color of her destiny seemed to 
 change under the influence of the scene. 
 
 As, in such mood and with slackened 
 rein, she passed slowly on, an incident 
 occurred, of which the results materially 
 influenced her fortunes. 
 
PART VII. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 A TALK IX THE FOREST. 
 
 " L alternative des succes et des revers a son utilite". 
 Nous nous plaignons de 1 inconstance de la fortune. 
 C est de sa Constance que nous devrions nous plain- 
 dre ; alors, en erfet, elle a plus de moyens de nous 
 coirompre."* 
 
 DEGERANDO, " Dn Perfectionnement Moral." 
 
 ONE of the long vistas characteristic 
 of the rude country-paths by which 
 the early settlers threaded their way from 
 cabin to cabin opened before Celia ; and 
 the animal she rode, raising its head and 
 pointing its small, taper ears, caused the 
 rider to look round, in expectation of 
 some one s approach. 
 
 The road before her was vacant, but 
 off to the right, through the open woods, 
 gay with blossoms of the dogwood and 
 the redbud, she thought she distinguish 
 ed in the distance a horseman, riding in 
 the same direction as herself. 
 
 It must be Sydenham," she thought, 
 for she knew that the bridle-path from 
 his residence to Tylers mill led through 
 these woods, and connected, a few hun 
 dred yards farther on, with the road she 
 was pursuing. Yes, it was he. But 
 how was she to meet him ? what to say 
 to him ? Should she reveal all, and ask 
 his advice ? 
 
 An hour before she would have shrunk 
 from such a disclosure. But now a 
 quickened pulse gave bolder impulses. 
 She took heart. She felt that the world 
 must soon know her real position ; and 
 who so worthy of her confidence, or so 
 capable to counsel her in her present 
 strait, as her mother s trusted friend, to 
 whom she was already beholden for so 
 much encouragement in her former trou 
 bles ah, such petty troubles they seem 
 ed now ! But if she was to say any 
 thing to him at all, it must be at once, 
 ere courage cooled : she felt that. 
 
 If she had any remaining hesitation, 
 
 * " The alternation of success and reverse is useful. 
 We complain of the inconstancy of fortune, but its 
 constancy would corrupt us more." 
 
 PEABODY S Translation. 
 34 
 
 it was dispelled by Sydenham s mannei 
 the evident pleasure with which he 
 met her, the cordial earnestness with 
 which he extended his hand and in 
 quired after her welfare. 
 
 " And Bess still continues to behave 
 well ?" he asked as they rode on to 
 gether. 
 
 No creature could behave better. 
 So full of spirit and so docile, too, 
 as she is ! She knows me, and I do 
 believe loves me, for she will come, 
 at my call, from the farthest corner of 
 our pasture. It is hard to part with 
 a favorite," she added, sadly, stoop 
 ing over the pony s neck and patting it 
 fondly. 
 
 The tone, more than the words, ar 
 rested Sydenham s attention. 
 
 " I know, Mr. Sydenham," she re 
 joined, looking up, that you must have 
 thought me foolish and unreasonable." 
 
 When ?" 
 
 Do you remember the day Brunette 
 ran away with Mrs. Hartland and Lela 
 the day we had that long conversation 
 together?" 
 
 "As if it were yesterday." 
 
 "You thought me weak and childish 
 then : do not deny it." 
 
 " I thought you inexperienced de 
 pressed without sufficient cause. I did 
 miss in you a certain force of mind a 
 spirit that often lies dormant within us 
 till circumstances call it forth." 
 
 " I am ashamed of myself when I 
 look back upon it. I know now exactly 
 what you must have thought of me. I 
 hope you are right when you say that 
 there is often within us more than ap 
 pears during prosperity. I had every 
 thing to make me happy in those days 
 everything : kind friends, a respected 
 name, an easy competency. I had noth 
 ing, absolutely nothing, as an excuse for 
 low spirits. The delay of my marriage 
 with Mowbray, how little, in reality, did 
 that signify ! I once heard you say that 
 girls marry too young in this country. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 35 
 
 So they do : they marry in haste, to re 
 pent at leisure." 
 
 Sydenham was thoroughly alarmed. 
 " What is the matter ?" he said. " Tell 
 me at once." 
 
 " Why do you imagine that something 
 terrible has happened ?" 
 
 "What is it, Celia ? It is useless to 
 attempt to deceive me. Some influence 
 is changing your character. It is not 
 the old Celia I used to know." 
 
 " Do I look as downcast now as when 
 I came to complain to you that day of 
 my hard fate ?" 
 
 " No : you are a different creature. 
 You are agitated, and I am sure some 
 thing is amiss. But there is a light in 
 your eye and a determination in your 
 tone that seem anything but downcast." 
 
 I am glad of it. At least you will 
 not feel contempt for me." 
 
 " Celia, do I deserve this ? Did I not 
 promise your mother that I would watch 
 over her daughter s happiness ? Why 
 will you keep me in suspense ? What 
 is it ?" 
 
 " My father deceived that mother you 
 knew so well. He was already married. 
 I am an illegitimate child. Not a dol 
 lar of my father s property belongs to me. 
 I am a penniless orphan, who must work 
 for her bread and make her own way in 
 the world." 
 
 "Good God !" 
 
 And Sydenham involuntarily checked 
 his horse so sharply that the spirited 
 animal started and reared against the bit. 
 
 For a moment the girl and her auditor 
 seemed suddenly to have exchanged cha 
 racters. She sat erect and quiet, her 
 graceful form drawn up to its full height: 
 her young face, shaded by the wide- 
 rimmed riding-hat, very sad indeed, but 
 quite calm ; and though her voice trem 
 bled somewhat, she spoke so deliberate 
 ly, and met Sydenham s first agitated 
 glance of alarm, astonishment, incred 
 ulity with a look so steady and collect 
 ed, that it took him almost as much by 
 surprise as the astounding tidings she 
 had just imparted. 
 
 But this was for the first moment of 
 excitement only, and then nature and 
 habit reasserted their power. Syden 
 
 ham s evident dismay was communicating 
 itself to Celia. He saw it, and it recall 
 ed his self-possession at once. Putting 
 his horse again in motion, he came close 
 to her side and spoke in his usual tone : 
 
 So ! You have surprised me. Ah, 
 this comes from Cranstoun." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " The man is capable of any duplicity. 
 Did he give you proof?" 
 
 " Papa s own letters, written about 
 seventeen years ago, admitting the fact 
 of his previous marriage, and adjuring 
 Cranstoun to silence." 
 
 " You are sure of the handwriting ?" 
 
 " Perfectly sure. Mamma preserved 
 many of papa s letters : I have read 
 them often, and I cannot be deceived in 
 this." 
 
 It may be," said Sydenham, after a 
 pause, for the strange influence Cran 
 stoun had maintained for years over one 
 so dissimilar to him in character and 
 station occurred forcibly to his mind. 
 "It may be probably it is. At all 
 events, the facts can be positively ascer 
 tained, and they shall be." 
 
 Oh they are true : do not doubt it, 
 Mr. Sydenham. They explain so much 
 in papa s conduct that was unaccount 
 able till now." 
 
 " I have admitted that they are prob 
 able. Well, Celia ?" 
 
 It is very terrible, is it not ?" 
 
 " No. I fear I have forfeited all claim 
 to be believed when I say so. You did 
 startle me, Celia that is the truth 
 coming out with that sudden, solemn an 
 nouncement, but there is nothing terrible 
 in what you told me." 
 
 " Have I not just cause for unhap- 
 piness ?" 
 
 " For unhappiness, no : for regret, 
 certainly. It is a very painful thing to 
 hear of a parent s misconduct." 
 
 " Oh so very painful !" 
 
 " And it would not be one s duty, as 
 it is, to watch over the preservation of 
 one s property if its loss were not an 
 evil." 
 
 " I remember well your once explain 
 ing to me how much independence there 
 is in forty thousand dollars." 
 
 "You have a good memory, and I 
 
1 3 5 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 will not gainsay that opinion. Independ 
 ence is the power to act, within lawful 
 limits, as we please ; and money adds 
 greatly to that power. I am very sorry 
 for your loss ; yet, after all, it may prove 
 a gain to you." 
 
 " I have often read," said Celia with 
 a sigh, " of the chastening and purify 
 ing effects of adversity." 
 
 " That sentiment is to be taken with 
 some grains of allowance. Many, doubt 
 less, have been able to say from the 
 heart, It is good for me that I have 
 been afflicted. But there is a grinding 
 adversity that crushes oftener than it re 
 forms. I have seen terrible things in 
 the course of my life, Celia not here, 
 but in the Old World terrible things 
 that make one shudder to recall them : 
 entire masses of human beings dying 
 for lack of food ; selling their youth and 
 their health, and at last their very lives, 
 for a pittance too small to keep body and 
 soul together. I was in Ireland during 
 that dreadful famine of 1847. It haunted 
 my dreams for years ! Ah, Celia, if you 
 could but imagine the utter destitution 
 that is the lot of millions, how small 
 would seem your present loss ! how 
 numberless the comforts that are still 
 within your reach !" 
 
 Sydenham s kindling eyes and stirring 
 words touched Celia to the soul. How 
 faithfully the heart feels for others when 
 it begins to learn sorrow by experience 
 of its own ! 
 
 " It is true," she said, submissively. 
 " I should be most unthankful if I for 
 got that I have far more to rejoice at 
 than to deplore. If I may but retain the 
 affection and esteem of my friends ! But 
 some of them of course I shall lose " 
 
 Is that your idea of friends ? I es 
 teem you much more than I did before. 
 To me there was always something pleas 
 ant and attractive about you, Celia. But 
 I confess you have sometimes seemed 
 to me, like many other girls one meets 
 with in the world, very good and amiable 
 doubtless 
 
 Love-sick damsels, in short." 
 
 " I never thought you that. But one 
 felt the lack of something vigorous, racy, 
 self-relying. You are graining that. You 
 
 bear this trial admirably well. I see 
 that it will be of real service to your 
 character. Why, it has strengthened it 
 already. You are coming out grandly, 
 Celia." 
 
 How grateful sometimes more genial 
 than sunshine, more welcome than the 
 first fresh air of spring comes the 
 breath of praise from those we love ! It 
 brings on its wings healing to the wounds 
 of sorrow, healthy invigoration to the 
 spirit sick and depressed. Wholly un 
 wonted as it was from Sydenham, it 
 proved to Celia, at this juncture, inex 
 pressibly soothing. Her heart felt braver 
 at each word. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Sydenham," she said, "if 
 others did but feel as you do, how 
 easily I could bear the loss of fortune, 
 and even of name ! But you, who never 
 deceive any one, even in kindness, will 
 not tell me that of those who flattered 
 the heiress none will desert the penniless 
 girl with a stain on her birth." 
 
 " You are right. I shall certainly not 
 try to persuade you that you will lose no 
 flatterers. I do not even say that you 
 will have the same chance which the 
 heiress might have had of enlarging your 
 circle of acquaintances." 
 
 " I know it well. Ah ! that true line 
 of the ballad The poor make no new 
 friends. " 
 
 " Now you are running away with the 
 idea. That line is touchingly true, and 
 it came from the experience of the heart, 
 whoever wrote it. But there is little 
 chance that it should ever apply to you. 
 You do not know I hope you never 
 will what poverty means." 
 
 " I must work for a living now." 
 
 " But that is not poverty in this coun 
 try, especially in a village like Chiskauga, 
 It is not even hardship, if one has an 
 education to fit for useful and profitable 
 employment, with good friends to inter 
 est themselves in procuring it ; and you 
 have both, Celia. No new friends ! 
 Look round you, and see how many 
 maintain themselves happily, reputably, 
 increasing both in money and in friends, 
 with far less resources. Your education 
 has been no common one. You have a 
 good knowledge of two foreign languages : 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 137 
 
 Ethan speaks highly of your progress in 
 German. Your talent for music, rare 
 by nature and carefully cultivated, is. in 
 itself, a competence. I admit that you 
 no longer possess the independence 
 which a surplus of money bestows ; but 
 you have a surer one, of which no man 
 can deprive you the independence which 
 lies in labor less honored than the other, 
 but more honorable. And if, in seeking 
 it, you find those whom you call friends 
 dropping away, let them go ! You are 
 better without them." 
 
 " You think, then, that this reverse of 
 fortune is a gain instead of a loss to me." 
 
 "The future must determine that. 
 Many pleasant things, of course, you 
 will lose by it the opportunity of travel 
 ing, for instance. I know you have 
 had dreams of Switzerland and Italy, 
 and I m afraid I had something to do in 
 nursing them. The very butterfly ac 
 quaintances that come round us when 
 the sun shines, though they may not be 
 friends, are often agreeable, well-informed 
 people, whom we may like to meet and 
 be sorry to lose. But then you gain 
 one of the essentials to happiness." 
 
 " What is that ?" 
 
 " A regular, settled object in life a 
 steady pursuit (I see you have deter 
 mined on that), requiring daily exertion 
 of body and mind. I d like to give you 
 for it touches your case a recollection 
 of my childhood ?" 
 
 " If it is not encroaching on your time, 
 Mr. Sydenham, I should be delighted. 
 But you came out on business, did you 
 not ?" 
 
 " Chiefly for exercise this fine spring 
 weather, with a message from Leoline to 
 Nelson Tyler about flour." They were 
 then within a few rods of the mill. "Let 
 me deliver it, and my time is entirely at 
 your service for the rest of the morning." 
 
 They rode up, and the miller, his gray 
 clothes well sprinkled with dust, came 
 out to greet them, and to ask Mr. Syd 
 enham what he could do for him. After 
 he had taken an order for two barrels of 
 flour, Celia, whose thoughts had reverted 
 to the anonymous letter, inquired after 
 Ellen s welfare. A slight shade came 
 over the miller s hearty manner and open 
 
 face, but after a moment s hesitation he 
 called to his daughter, his deep, base 
 tones reaching their dwelling, which 
 stood a little way off. Thence Ellen 
 came forward, fresh and neat indeed, but 
 with a look of depression over her pretty 
 features. When she recognized Celia, 
 a sudden blush overspread face and 
 bosom. 
 
 " Ellen," said her father, himself some 
 what embarrassed, " Miss Celia has been 
 asking after you." 
 
 Celia extended her hand and shook 
 Ellen s cordially. 
 
 " We seldom see you in town now, 
 Ellen," she said: "are you no longer 
 taking French lessons from Mrs. Mow- 
 bray ?" 
 
 The blush, which had been passing 
 away, deepened again. But the girl 
 struggled for composure: "No, Miss 
 Celia. Mrs. Mowbray s French class is 
 broken up, and and it s expensive to 
 take private lessons." 
 
 " Do you wish to join another class ?" 
 
 Ellen looked at her father. 
 
 " The reason I ask," added Celia, " is, 
 because I may have a French class my 
 self one of these days." 
 
 " You !" said the girl, her blue eyes 
 dilating with astonishment. " I thought 
 rich folks" 
 
 " I am not rich ; and, besides, it is a 
 good thing for young people to do some 
 thing for a living." 
 
 " I should be very glad, Miss Celia 
 that is if father She stopped, read 
 ing dissent in his face. 
 
 " It s very kind of you," he said 
 "very kind, Miss Celia: I shall not for 
 get it. If Ellen takes any more French 
 lessons, I ll send her to nobody but you. 
 But I think she s had as many as will 
 do her any good for the present. That 
 was a true word you said, miss, that 
 young folks should do something for a 
 living ; and this lass of mine " he 
 patted her head " she s a good girl, if 
 she does dress out now and then, and 
 even herself to them that cares little for 
 her she does what she can to take her 
 dead mother s place. I want to do the 
 best for her, if I only knew what is best. 
 If anything were to happen to me " 
 
I 3 S 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " Oh don t, father, don t !" said the 
 girl, her eyes full of tears ; and then, 
 ashamed of her emotion, she made a 
 sudden retreat to the house. 
 
 "You must excuse her, miss," said 
 Tyler to Celia : " she don t mean to be 
 uncivil, and it s done her good that you 
 spoke so kind to her; but she can t stand 
 it to think the old man must go one of 
 these days. Mr. Sydenham, you may 
 count on having that flour this evening." 
 
 They bade the miller good-morning, 
 and turning homeward rode on for 
 some time in silence. Then Sydenham 
 said : 
 
 " I am glad that we called there this 
 morning, and very glad that you spoke 
 to Ellen as you did. As the father 
 said, it did the poor child good." 
 
 < I like Ellen. But I was afraid you 
 might think me premature in beginning 
 to electioneer, as politicians say, for 
 pupils already." 
 
 Far from it. Promptitude is one of 
 the elements of success." 
 
 But that anecdote, Mr. Sydenham 
 Or was it an anecdote you were about to 
 tell me ?" 
 
 " Yes. My good father a man who, 
 even to extreme old age, maintained 
 habits of active employment was speak 
 ing, one day, of an English friend of his, 
 Mr. Walsingham one of those whom 
 the world considers eminently fortunate. 
 A man of letters, educated to every 
 classical attainment and. the inheritor of 
 a princely fortune, he had been able to 
 gratify, at a wish, his cultivated tastes. 
 He had married, in early life, an amiable 
 wife, and had seen his children (though 
 he never personally concerned himself 
 with their education) grow up around 
 him with the fairest promise. He had 
 a handsome town-house in a fashionable 
 square in London, and a country-seat 
 ten or twelve miles off, in the midst of 
 one of those magnificent English parks 
 the ideal of stately rural elegance, with 
 its trimly-kept lawn and its widespread- 
 ing chase, dotted over with clumps of 
 noble old trees, where the deer sought 
 refuge from the noonday heat and a lair 
 at nightfall." 
 
 " I have so often heard of these beau 
 
 tiful English parks, and dreamed that 
 some day I might see one." 
 
 " The dream may come true, for all 
 that is past, Celia. Mr. Walsingham 
 had. traveled over Europe, and brought 
 back, as mementoes of his journey, paint 
 ings and statuary by some of the best 
 masters, ancient and modern, with which 
 to adorn his favorite retreat. The house 
 itself (I have seen it since), with its rich 
 marble columns and balustrades, was a 
 fine specimen of the purest Palladian 
 manner, where all that luxurious refine 
 ment could devise had been unsparingly 
 lavished. There my father found his 
 friend with no occupation more pressing 
 than to pore over the treasures of his 
 library, and no graver care than to su 
 perintend the riches of a conservatory 
 where wealth had brought together, from 
 half the world, its choicest plants and 
 flowers." 
 
 "What a charming life !" exclaimed 
 Celia. " How happy he must have 
 been !" 
 
 " That was my father s thought. They 
 spent some days in undisturbed quiet : 
 not an incident, beyond the conversation 
 of a sedate and intellectual family circle 
 and the arrival and departure of a friend 
 or two, to break the complete repose. 
 Delightful it was to my father, no doubt, 
 in contrast with the city bustle and the 
 constant occupation he had left. One 
 morning he said to his host : < I have 
 been thinking that if I ever met with a 
 man who has nothing left to desire, you 
 are he. Health of body, cultivation of 
 mind, a charming family, wealth and all 
 it procures whatever Nature and Art 
 present of most beautiful you have 
 them all. Are you not completely hap 
 py ? Never, my father said to me, 
 should he forget the dreary sadness of 
 the unexpected reply : < Happy ! Ah, 
 Mr. Sydenham, I committed one fatal 
 error in my youth, and clearly have I 
 abied it ! I started in life without an 
 object, even without an ambition. My 
 temperament disposed me to ease, and 
 to the full I indulged the disposition. I 
 said to myself, " I have all that I see 
 others contending for : why should I 
 struggle ?" I knew not the curse that 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 39 
 
 lights on those who have never to strug 
 gle for anything. Had I created for 
 myself a definite pursuit literary, scien 
 tific, artistic, social, political, no matter 
 what, so there was something to labor 
 for and to overcome I might have been 
 happy. I feel this now too late ! The 
 power is gone. Habits have become 
 chains. Through all the profitless years 
 gone by, I seek vainly for something to 
 remember with pride, or even to dwell on 
 with satisfaction. I have thrown away 
 a life. I feel, sometimes, as if there 
 were nothing remaining to me worth 
 living for. I am an unhappy man. That 
 was my father s story. I never forgot 
 it, and I trust I have profited by its 
 lessons." 
 
 "And so will I, Mr. Sydenham. In 
 deed, indeed, you shall not have to fore 
 go your good opinion of me. I know 
 how much you have been doing to bene 
 fit our village and its inhabitants. Per 
 haps oh, in a very humble way I know 
 iti must be but yet perhaps I may be 
 able to aid you, just a little, while I pro 
 vide for my own support." 
 
 " You are thinking of a school. That 
 is right. You really possess a gift for 
 teaching, as grateful Ellinor Ethelridge 
 can testify." 
 
 " Dear Ellie ! I have been able to 
 assist her so far ; but then ah, what a 
 pity ! If now I begin a school in oppo- 
 ition to hers " 
 
 " It might be an injury to her, you 
 think ? So it might. But yet, if that 
 is really necessary, there is nothing 
 wrong in it. Every merchant who be 
 gins a business may take from the profits 
 of those already engaged in the same. 
 We ought to be generous to others, as 
 you have been to Ellinor, while we can 
 afford it ; but it may become equally a 
 duty, if circumstances change, to be just 
 to ourselves." 
 
 Celia sighed : "I am beginning to 
 find out the pleasant things I have lost." 
 
 " The exercise of generosity is one of 
 the most pleasant things that money 
 permits." 
 
 " But I am resolved never to take any 
 of Ellie s scholars away from her, even 
 if they apply to me." 
 
 " Very good. One can be generous, 
 you see, without being rich ; and such 
 generosity is worth more, for it costs 
 more, than what we carelessly give from 
 superfluity. But perhaps there need be 
 no competition between you. I know 
 that Miss Ethelridge has almost daily 
 offers of pupils whom she refuses, fear 
 ing to take a greater number than she 
 can do justice to. These applications 
 would be more numerous still if she 
 could teach music, as you can. What 
 if you were to join her and carry on the 
 school in partnership ? I am sure there 
 will be found enough for both to do." 
 
 When they came to talk over the de 
 tails of the plan, Sydenham asked, 
 " Have you not some money which came 
 to you through your mother ?" 
 
 "About sixteen or seventeen hundred 
 dollars, I think my uncle once told me. 
 That is legally mine, is it not ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly, even if all the rest is 
 gone. Now let me give you one or two 
 business hints that occur to me. Shall 
 you propose to Miss Ethelridge to be 
 equal partner with her in her school ?" 
 
 "That would not be just. She has 
 worked hard to establish it and build up 
 its reputation." 
 
 " You are right. For this you ought 
 to give some equivalent. I happen to 
 know that Miss Ethelridge thinks it an 
 admirable plan to teach children as much 
 as possible through the eye, and that she 
 wishes much to obtain a set of hand 
 some illustrations ; some representing 
 objects of natural history, including geol 
 ogy ; others, charts exhibiting what has 
 been called the stream of Time, bring 
 ing tangibly before children the leading 
 events and revolutions of ancient and 
 modern history. Then she would like 
 to have a large magic lantern, with slides 
 affording other useful illustrations ; also 
 to have photographs of the most inter 
 esting scenes in our own and in for 
 eign countries. It would be of great 
 advantage to the school. But all that 
 is expensive." 
 
 " Would the money I have purchase 
 it ?" 
 
 " A thousand dollars, she said, would 
 be enough. I offered to advance that 
 
140 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 sum, but she is sensitive about obliga 
 tions, and declined. I think she would 
 receive it from you as an equivalent 
 for the privilege of equal partnership ; 
 and then the illustrations, when they are 
 bought, should be considered the joint 
 property of both. There would still re 
 main to you six or seven hundred dol 
 lars, which you ought to keep, in case 
 of accidents." 
 
 The discussion of this and other mat 
 ters connected with the proposed part 
 nership brought them to the point where 
 the road to Rosebank diverged, and 
 there they parted. 
 
 How things were smoothing them 
 selves in Celia s path ! How "way," to 
 use the Quaker phrase, "was opening be 
 fore her !" Sydenham s proposal saved 
 her from even the appearance of doing a 
 hard thing that severest trial of strait 
 ened circumstances. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 BREAKING THE ICE. 
 
 A FRIEND once said to me : " Do you 
 know I think those old martyrs must 
 have been very uncomfortable people to 
 live with ?" At first the idea struck me 
 as very odd afterward as very true. I 
 should not have relished a life among 
 the Puritans in the days when Hester 
 Prynne walked about with that scarlet 
 letter on her breast. Yet they were a 
 grand old race, those Plymouth-rock 
 pilgrims the stuff that heroes and 
 founders of empires are made of. What 
 they thought right they did, and seldom 
 asked whether it was pleasant to do it. 
 They were hard on themselves : it is 
 not surprising that they were hard also 
 on others. If they were not amiable, 
 they were estimable. If they were not 
 pleasant people to deal with in daily life, 
 they were men and women to trust to in 
 the day of need or in the hour of trial. 
 
 Thomas Hartland, born in Connecti 
 cut, had a considerable touch of Puritan 
 severity about him. He was, indeed, 
 an improvement on his father, a stern 
 old Englishman *rho took credit to him 
 self for admitting that a man must not 
 
 I chastise the wife of his bosom with a 
 rod any thicker than his thumb. He 
 meant to be kind to the gentle Alice, 
 and he thought he was because he ab 
 stained from all physical coercion. But 
 he inherited so much of his father s 
 spirit as devoutly to believe that domes 
 tic discipline was wholesome just in pro 
 portion as it was strict and exacting. 
 If he acted the tyrant to his wife and 
 son, it was on principle, not from wick 
 edness : it was because his ideas of 
 marital and paternal authority were none 
 of the clearest, and because the heart 
 was not warm enough to correct the 
 errors of the head. 
 
 Sydenham and he frequently came into 
 conflict. One day, for example, on a 
 school committee of which they were 
 both members, the question of corporal 
 punishment coming up, Sydenham had 
 taken ground against it, and Mr. Harper 
 had added a few words on the same side. 
 This aroused Hartland. 
 
 "These new-fangled, sentimental no 
 tions," he said, " may suit squeamish 
 people, but the old-fashioned scriptural 
 morality is good enough for me. A rod 
 is for the back of him who is void of un 
 derstanding ! If that text is not plain 
 enough, there are others plainer yet 
 direct injunctions : Thou shalt beat the 
 child with the rod, and shalt deliver his 
 soul from hell. Gentlemen will not, I 
 think, deny the authority." 
 
 " The texts are correctly quoted," said 
 Sydenham, quietly : " we know that this 
 has been said by them of old time, but 
 we know also that the word rod does not 
 occur even once in all the rec^ r ^ed 
 teachings of Christ." 
 
 A bitter reply rose to Hartland s lips, 
 but he restrained himself. "What is 
 the use ?" he thought. " A man who 
 will encourage a son to rebel against his 
 father s will !" 
 
 In this spirit it was that Hartland had 
 hitherto treated his niece with judicious 
 firmness he called it ; acting a father s 
 part, he thought, when he thwarted her 
 inclinations and pressed Cranstoun s 
 suit. She was now* afraid to encounter 
 him. She found Mr. and Mrs. Hart- 
 land both out when she returned from 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 141 
 
 her ride, and it was with fear and trem 
 bling she resolved, that same evening, to 
 disclose all to her formidable uncle, not 
 having had an opportunity previously to 
 converse with her aunt alone. She ex 
 pected her Cousin Ethan to go out, as 
 he often did, after tea, but he remained. 
 " He is good and kind," she thought : 
 "they may as well all hear it at once: 
 then it will be over." Yet she shivered, 
 like some faint-hearted swimmer about 
 to take the first plunge. Even in her dis 
 tress she had a droll sense that she was 
 going to break the ice about as willingly 
 as a poor wretch might who had risen 
 before sunrise in a fireless bed-room, 
 some morning when the thermometer 
 was below zero, and found the water in 
 his pitcher frozen hard. 
 
 Hartland s first surprise almost equaled 
 Sydenham s, but the two men look the 
 disclosure differently. The uncle felt 
 keenly the social disgrace that had over 
 taken his niece, and thought bitterly and 
 resentfully of his dead brother-in-law s 
 offence. Yet toward the poor girl her 
 self the better part of his nature came 
 out now. 
 
 Celia began her relation with hesita 
 tion and in an unsteady voice, but she 
 gathered confidence as she proceeded. 
 We often lament that the first keen relish 
 of a new pleasure fades in proportion as 
 it is repeated : we forget that, by the 
 same law of our nature, the sting of a 
 fresh misfortune abates as, by recurrence, 
 the idea of it becomes familiar. Even 
 the lapse of a single day had dulled the 
 edge of Celia s sorrow ; and the fortitude 
 with which she met her fate, and the 
 composure with which she declared to 
 Mr. Hartland her resolve to earn her 
 own living in the future by teaching, won 
 his esteem. He had been far from giv 
 ing her credit for so much spirit and in 
 dependence, and he did not guess the 
 share Sydenham had had in sustaining 
 and encouraging her. 
 
 Celia s newly-acquired equanimity gave 
 way for a time, however, before the burst 
 of grief and the tender endearments of 
 her aunt. Alice, who had drilled herself 
 to repress all manifestations of deep 
 emotion or outbursts of affection in the 
 
 presence of her husband, sat at first with 
 fixed eyes and clasped hands and in 
 breathless silence, scarcely taking in the 
 full import of Celia s appalling com 
 munication, but when the latter came to 
 the expression of her resolution to be a 
 burden to no one, it seemed all to burst 
 upon her at once. Unable longer to re 
 strain herself, she fell on her niece s 
 neck, her tears and sobs attesting her 
 grief and sympathy ; called her her dear 
 child and her darling daughter ; and then, 
 forgetting the presence of the master of 
 the house, protested against the idea of 
 her working for a livelihood, asking her 
 if she did not know that she would al 
 ways have a home with them, whatever 
 might betide. 
 
 This unwonted encroachment on his 
 domestic authority, which nothing but 
 his wife s ungovernable excitement would 
 have tempted her to commit, almost up 
 set Hartland s favorable disposition to his 
 niece, but he tried to restrain himself. 
 
 "Alice," he said, "Celia shows more 
 sense than you do. You spoil the child 
 when you ought to encourage her." 
 Then to Celia, who had released her 
 self from her aunt s embraces, and was 
 drying her own eyes : " I never had 
 much sympathy with your father, but 
 he is gone to his account, and it is 
 wrong to speak ill of the dead. At all 
 events, your mother was not to blame, 
 and neither are you. I have thought 
 you obstinate sometimes, disposed to 
 take your own way more than a young 
 person should ; but you deserve credit 
 for the manner in which you have stood 
 this blow : it is more than I expected of 
 you. If you see fit to teach so as to 
 procure pocket-money for your little ex 
 penses, I see no objection ; I suppose it 
 would be pleasanter for you than to take 
 the money from me. But I hope you 
 knew, before your aunt thought it neces 
 sary to tell you, that the orphan of my 
 sister-in-law will always find a home and 
 a welcome in her uncle s house." 
 
 Celia s acknowledgments would have 
 been more cordial but for the tone Hart- 
 land had assumed toward her aunt. Yet 
 she was grateful, and did thank him, 
 adding : 
 
142 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 "If my health should fail, or if by 
 teaching I cannot earn enough to pay all 
 my expenses, then, dear uncle, I shall 
 accept your kindness without scruple. 
 But \vhile I am well and able to work, 
 it is my duty to pay my own way, if I 
 can. And you have always told me that 
 I ought to act up to my highest ideas 
 of duty." 
 
 " Well, Celia, you are a good girl, and 
 I shall stand by you through this matter. 
 The first thing to be done is to ascertain 
 its exact legal bearings. Did Cranstoun 
 give you Mr. Dunmore s address ?" 
 
 " I asked for it, and this is his an 
 swer," handing him the letter she had 
 received the day before. 
 
 Hartland read it twice, his face dark 
 ening the while. " The impertinent 
 scoundrel !" was all the comment he 
 made ; then to his son : " Ethan, step 
 down to Mr. Creighton s and tell him I 
 wish to see him, on important business, 
 as early after breakfast to-morrow as he 
 can spare me an hour or two. Lucky 
 that he settled here !" 
 
 There was a school-committee meet 
 ing that evening, which Hartland had to 
 attend. Thus, as Ethan had gone on 
 his father s errand to Creighton, the aunt 
 and niece were left alone. 
 
 Both had restrained themselves, by a 
 strong effort, in Hartland s presence ; 
 and the first thing after he went was to 
 have a hearty cry together, which did 
 them good. Then Alice said : " It was 
 very wrong in your father, no doubt, 
 Celia dear ; but then his first wife may 
 have been a high, haughty dame, who 
 made no true home for him ; and it s so 
 hard to live with a famished heart ! 
 Then your mother was a woman that 
 any man might risk his soul for ; and 
 they did love one another so dearly ! 
 Don t think I excuse him, my darling : 
 it was a great sin, and see what it has 
 brought upon his child! But you know 
 that I stayed at your house for five years 
 before I was married five years ! and 
 there was not a day in all that time but 
 he made me feel that it was a pleasure, 
 as well to him as to your mother, to 
 have me there. Me was a sinner, but 
 he was very, very kind to me !" Then 
 
 she looked at her niece, and with a pas 
 sionate burst of tears she added : And 
 oh, Celia, Celia, you mustn t be hard on 
 us now !" 
 
 " Hard upon you, mother ?" 
 
 Hard upon me. After others had 
 made me feel that I was a burden to 
 them, I sat for years an honored guest 
 at your father s .table, and half an hour 
 ago his daughter told us you never 
 thought how cruel that was, Celia ! you 
 told us that you must pay us if you sat 
 any longer at mine." 
 
 "But you know, auntie, what a com 
 fort, and what a help too, you always 
 were to mamma. You know what care 
 you took of me : you were always doing 
 something for me. And what have I 
 been ? A useless idler that has never 
 done anything for anybody. But that s 
 over, now." 
 
 " Never done anything for anybody ! 
 God forgive me the thought, but I ve 
 felt I m glad you don t know how 
 often, Celia that life would not be 
 worth having if it were not for you 
 and for Ethan, maybe. You ve been 
 the best joy in my life the greatest 
 comfort I ve had always, always, cruel 
 child, until now !" 
 
 When the fountains of the great Deep 
 of feeling are broken up and the windows 
 of the soul are opened, hidden things 
 come to light upon which the heart has 
 set jealous guard through half a lifetime. 
 Celia was so amazed at the glimpse 
 which her aunt unwittingly gave her be 
 neath the placid flow of a quiet, regulated 
 life that, for a moment, she had not a 
 word in reply : then her aunt added : 
 
 " But there s one comfort still : your 
 uncle will never take money from you 
 never ! He s hard, Celia I won t deny 
 it but he s just." 
 
 The girl, quite overcome, was about 
 to throw her arms around her aunt s 
 neck, and tell her she would do anything 
 in the world she wished if she would not 
 cry so, when Ethan entered. 
 
 He saw that both the women were 
 deeply moved, and stopped as if, uncer 
 tain whether he was an intruder or not, 
 he was about to leave the room. Celia 
 broke the pause that ensued. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 143 
 
 "Sit down, Cousin Ethan," she said. 
 " Let us refer the matter to him, mother: 
 he is kind and wise." 
 
 Ethan smiled : " Pray don t make a 
 Nestor of me, Celia. Tell me if I can 
 help you : that s better." 
 
 " Yes, you can help us to decide 
 can t he, mother ? what is right to be 
 clone." And, taking her aunt s silence 
 for consent, she stated the case. 
 
 Ethan reflected for a little ; then he 
 asked : 
 
 " You are anxious not to be a burden 
 on your uncle ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Celia, Celia !" said her aunt, im 
 ploringly. 
 
 It is best so, dear mother," said 
 Ethan "best for her." 
 
 " Best that my own sister s child 
 should go on paying us board and lodg 
 ing as if she were a stranger ?" 
 
 " No, that is not my opinion." 
 
 Both Celia and Mrs. Hartland looked 
 up surprised. 
 
 " Do you happen to know," Ethan 
 asked Celia, " how much your uncle has 
 been charging you for board and lodg 
 ing ? You need not blush if you have 
 been looking : it was right you should." 
 
 " I have been looking a hundred and 
 ninety-five dollars a year." 
 
 What Ethan said next must, in main 
 tenance of historical truth, be set clown 
 just as he said it, even though he lose 
 caste in consequence. Deal not too 
 hardly with a villager s ignorance, O 
 fair young aristocrat, reading these 
 pages, perhaps, in the boudoir of a 
 Fifth Avenue palace ! You know bet 
 ter than to mistake a poor forty thou 
 sand dollars for riches ; but plain people, 
 with country ways, who find that one can 
 obtain all one needs or desires in this 
 world for that paltry pittance, should be 
 forgiven if they rise not to the level of 
 your enlightened views, and forget to 
 add on the right hand of the sorry sum 
 that additional cipher which would make 
 it worth talking about. When Celia 
 stated the rate at which her uncle had 
 charged her for maintenance, Ethan, 
 simple fellow ! not at all in jest, said : 
 
 " By a guardian who has a rich heiress 
 
 for ward the charge is moderate enough. 
 Good board and lodging can scarcely be 
 had in Chiskauga under four dollars a 
 week." 
 
 "But the dear child," interrupted 
 Alice, "does not cost Mr. Hartland half 
 that sum. Her chamber would stand 
 empty if she did not occupy it. We 
 should not have one servant the less. 
 We have our own washing done in the 
 house : what matters it whether her s is 
 thrown in or not ? Does the butcher, 
 even, send us one pound of meat the 
 more on her account ?" 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Ethan. "Yet 
 an additional person in a family must, 
 necessarily, add to the expense, were it 
 but in the consumption of tea, coffee, 
 sugar, flour and the like ; lamplight also, 
 and many trifling incidentals." 
 
 " While you re about it, Ethan," said 
 Alice, half amused, half indignant, " I 
 think you d better take out your pencil 
 and make a nice calculation how much 
 ought to be charged against the poor 
 child for wear and tear of our carpets 
 and door-mat." 
 
 " I have the fear of Walter Scott be 
 fore my eyes," replied Ethan, laughing. 
 " Who has a right to say that Celia is 
 heavier-footed than Ellen Douglas? *But 
 you know 
 
 
 
 E en the slight hare-bell raised its head, 
 Elastic from her airy tread. 
 
 I m a poor hand at calculating infinites 
 imals." 
 
 " I m glad you ve so much conscience." 
 
 "But, seriously, I don t think father 
 pays out a hundred additional dollars be 
 cause of Celia being one of the family." 
 
 " Surely you don t want Mr. Hart- 
 land to make money out of the poor 
 child, now that all her fortune is gone." 
 
 " No, nor would he consent to that ; 
 but if Celia gets a good situation as 
 teacher, and finds that she can afford it, 
 I think a hundred dollars a year for her 
 maintenance would be a fair compromise 
 between uncle and niece. You are not 
 so savagely independent, I hope, Celia, 
 as to refuse from father and mother such 
 kindness as they can offer you without 
 actual cost to themselves." 
 
144 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Celia smiled: "Since I endorsed your 
 character for wisdom, Cousin Ethan, I 
 suppose I must accept your decision." 
 
 You are as bad as she is, Ethan,* 1 
 said Alice: "you encourage one another 
 in foolish notions." 
 
 But they coaxed her, at last, to use 
 her influence with her husband to allow 
 Celia, besides furnishing her own pocket- 
 money, to pay him a hundred dollars a 
 year as her contribution to the expenses 
 of the household. And so, at last, it 
 was settled, with some grumbling from 
 the uncle about the niece s stiff-necked 
 unwillingness to accept his hospitality, 
 and a condition attached that the hun 
 dred dollars was to be received only if 
 Celia found that, after clothing herself 
 and paying other incidentals, she could 
 spare the amount without any inconve 
 nience whatever. 
 
 This was a great satisfaction to Celia, 
 both because it relieved her, on the one 
 hand, from a painful consciousness of 
 dependence, and truth to say because, 
 on the other hand, it unexpectedly light 
 ened the burden which her new and un 
 tried task of self-maintenance imposed. 
 
 Next morning Mr. Hartland, Sr., 
 was closeted for two hours with Eliot 
 Creighton. 
 
 Lawyers learn to look with a quiet 
 eye on the calamities of life. Surprised, 
 deeply concerned at the unexpected tid 
 ings Creighton undoubtedly was, but he 
 did not take them to heart, as the uncle 
 and guardian expected. 
 
 My first impression is," he said, 
 that it will not be proper or even safe 
 to give up your ward s property until 
 compelled by law." 
 
 You doubt the previous marriage ? 
 Celia says her father s letters which 
 she inspected were conclusive on that 
 point." 
 
 " That may be : Cranstoun can read 
 ily prove it to us if it is so. But there 
 are questions back of that. There may 
 have been a will." 
 
 "Mrs. Pembroke* knew of none. 
 None, of course, was offered for probate, 
 either in this county or in Philadelphia, 
 where part of Celia s property lies." 
 
 " Still, there may have been a will : 
 possibly left in Cranstoun s hands, and 
 I beg his pardon if I suspect him unjustly 
 suppressed." 
 
 But why not shown by Pembroke to 
 his wife during his lifetime ?" 
 
 " He may have been living under an 
 assumed name. Those who risk the 
 punishment of bigamy generally take that 
 precaution against detection. He would, 
 of course, be unwilling to show Mrs. 
 Pembroke a will executed under his real 
 name ; and Cranstoun, for his own pur 
 poses, may have persuaded him that a 
 will signed by him as Frederick Pem 
 broke would be valueless." 
 
 " If your conjecture is right, such a 
 document would be worthless, would it 
 not ?" 
 
 No. One not versed in law, like 
 Mr. Pembroke, would be likely to sup 
 pose so. But a will is valid if the 
 identity of the signer with the person 
 entitled to dispose of the property be 
 established." 
 
 "Yet if such a will has been sup 
 pressed or destroyed, of what avail that 
 it was executed ?" 
 
 "It must have been witnessed, and 
 we may discover by whom ?" 
 
 By Cranstoun himself, perhaps ?" 
 " Likely enough ; but in this State 
 two witnesses are required." 
 
 "If there was a prior marriage, and 
 if no will can be found, then, I sup 
 pose, the English heir-at-law takes the 
 property." 
 
 The statute law of Ohio, unfortunate 
 ly for Miss Pembroke, permits an alien 
 to inherit real estate as well as personal 
 property ; but there are law-points in 
 volved in your question which I must 
 study before I can reply to it. The cruel 
 rule of the Common Law is that one born 
 out of wedlock is films nullius no 
 body s child and as such can inherit 
 neither the property of his father nor 
 strange to say ! of his mother. Our 
 statute law remedies the latter injus 
 tice. Under what circumstances in 
 deed whether at all it affords relief 
 under the former I cannot yet say. never 
 having had occasion to examine that 
 point. Indeed, I am not as familiar with 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 J45 
 
 the Ohio statutes as I ought to be. I 
 studied law chiefly i.i Pennsylvania 
 Did Cranstoun speak positively on the 
 subject ?" 
 
 " He told Celia that, being illegitimate, 
 she could not inherit a farthing of her 
 father s property." 
 
 Creighton looked grave. Cranstoun 
 is too shrewd," he said after a pause, 
 " to make such an assertion except on 
 plausible authority ; and he is doubtless 
 far better acquainted with the law of 
 this State, and the decisions under it, 
 than I am. With so much depending 
 on it under his rascally calculation of 
 profit to himself as informer, he has, in 
 all probability, sifted the matter to the 
 bottom. To be frank with you, I don t 
 like the look of it ; yet I am not entirely 
 convinced even of Miss Pembroke s 
 illegitimacy." 
 
 " It surely must be, if her father was 
 a bigamist." 
 
 " Not necessarily. Under the old 
 Spanish law, once prevalent in Florida 
 and Texas, as I happen to know, she 
 would have been legitimate." 
 
 But our laws are not so lax. With 
 a former wife alive, the marriage of Mrs. 
 Pembroke must have been null and 
 void." 
 
 " Yes ; at all events at the time it was 
 solemnized, and probably as long as it 
 lasted. The rest seems a natural de 
 duction. The case is probably against 
 us ; and I beg of you not to mention to 
 Miss Celia the doubts I have expressed, 
 which may be entirely without founda 
 tion. It would be cruel to raise hopes 
 only to be disappointed. How does she 
 stand this ?" 
 
 " The disgrace of her birth affects her 
 seriously. Otherwise, I must say, she 
 bears it well. She is gone this morning 
 to talk to Miss Ethelridge about a part 
 nership in her school. And the gypsy 
 is too proud to stay in her uncle s house 
 without paying for it." 
 
 Creighton s face brightened. "I was 
 not deceived in thinking there was cha 
 racter beneath that soft exterior." 
 
 " She is obstinate enough, certainly." 
 " She will come out all right, even if 
 we are beaten, Mr. Hartland : you will 
 10 
 
 sec. But if you think fit to entrust the 
 case to me " 
 
 " That ib what I have been thinking 
 about." 
 
 " You do me honor. It is a great re 
 sponsibility for one so young in the pro 
 fession as myself. Yet it will go hard 
 but I shall deserve your confidence. If 
 industry and painstaking may avail, we 
 shall not be defeated. And this at least 
 I may promise you that I will work up 
 the case as faithfully as if the young 
 .ady were my own sister, as faithfully as 
 if life and death were on the issue." 
 
 Sv Q lf-confidence breeds confidence in 
 others, as young and small and slender 
 General Bonaparte, taking command of 
 the army of Italy, shiningly proved. 
 Hartland agreed with Creighton on poli 
 tics, and found in him a patient and in 
 terested listener when speaking on nat 
 ural history and expatiating on his 
 (Hartland s) favorite pursuits. On the 
 other hand, the young man often startled 
 him, and sometimes shocked his con 
 servative proclivities, by coming out with 
 some daring i-MclIcalisrn ; so that he had 
 hesitated a little about putting his ward s 
 interests in his hands. But Creighton s 
 bold assurance awoke faith in his pow 
 ers as an advocate, and Hartland hes 
 itated no longer. 
 
 " You shall have the management of 
 the case, at all events," he said ; and 
 if you desire to have other counsel as 
 sociated with you, let me know." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 JEAN S SERVICES NOT NEEDED. 
 
 "And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
 Like serpent-eggs together, laughingly 
 Would hint at worse in either." 
 
 TENNYSON S Enoch Ardtn. 
 
 " No, Miss Celia not jist exactly at 
 lome. Miss Ellinor went out to Bettv 
 Carson s on some business for the mad"- 
 ame. A half hour she said she d be 
 gone, and it s mor n that already. Won t 
 ye step into the parlor ?" 
 
 *Yes, Nelly, I ll wait for her; but 
 don t tell Madame Meyrac I m here, I 
 mow she s always busy at this hour." 
 
146 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Beyond the parlor was a small exten 
 sion-room, used by the doctor as office 
 and library. The door that communi 
 cated with it standing open, so that Celia 
 saw it was vacant, she sauntered thither 
 in an absent mood and sat down by an 
 eastern window, looking out on the lake ; 
 for Dr. Meyrac s dwelling was on the 
 eastern edge of the village, not far from 
 the Elm Walk. At another time Celia 
 would have rejoiced in that sunny spring 
 morning and admired the graceful little 
 sail-boat that was just leaving the wharf. 
 But her mind was preoccupied, and the 
 bright scene was lost upon her. Busi 
 ness was in her thoughts. She was con 
 gratulating herself that this was Satur 
 day, and that she would probaby find her 
 friend at leisure for a long talk. Me 
 chanically she picked up and opened a 
 book from a small table that stood near. 
 It was that wonderful story of Jane 
 Eyre, instinct with pathos drawn from 
 the very depths of sorrow ; and she had 
 opened it at the incident of the wedding 
 in the dim village church, so nearly 
 solemnized, by such startling disclosure 
 interrupted. " And she married him, 
 after all," the girl thought. " And I re 
 member I was so much afraid she would 
 marry that handsome, pious St. John ; 
 and so glad when she found Rochester, 
 blind and lame, in that gloomy parlor. 
 Ought she to have kept away from him ? 
 Ought she to have married the mission 
 ary ?" Her thoughts were in a maze, 
 and she dipped into the absorbing vol 
 ume, reading page after page, till she 
 was interrupted by voices in the adjoin 
 ing room. It was Madame Meyrac and 
 some one who had entered with her, un 
 noticed by Celia in her abstraction. A 
 voice said : 
 
 It would be a great accommodation, 
 madame, if you could give me up Betty 
 for Monday. I have friends coming 
 from Mount Sharon on Wednesday, and 
 I must absolutely get through house- 
 cleaning before they come." 
 
 How that harsh, sharp voice grated 
 on Celia s ear ! Well she knew who 
 was the speaker ! She could not make 
 up her mind to encounter her just then ; 
 and so, unwilling to become privy to 
 
 a conversation not intended for her ear, 
 she stepped lightly across the library, 
 intending to go up to Ellinor s room. 
 But the door that opened on the passage 
 was locked outside ; so that she was 
 fain to remain a prisoner. "It can only 
 be for a few moments," she thought as 
 she reseated herself; "and it is a mere 
 matter of every-day business." 
 
 " I much grieve, Madame Volfgang," 
 was what she heard next. " Ah, if the 
 voman Carson might aid me Tuesday, 
 or, veil, Vendesday, very good. But 
 no, she has said me she is retained for 
 these days there by Madame Hartland." 
 
 " I don t think sister Hartland cares 
 about having her house cleaned this 
 week. I could speak to her about it. 
 She has something else to think of 
 something not very pleasant." 
 
 " Is monsieur ill ? He has not sent 
 to seek- my husband." 
 
 " My brother is not ill, but in great 
 trouble." 
 
 I am much afflicted to hear it." 
 
 " Mrs. Hartland s sister made a pretty 
 mess of it when she married Frederick 
 Pembroke." 
 
 " A praty mase ! Vat is happen ? 
 He is dead, there are ten, eleven years 
 is he not ?" 
 
 " When Eliza married him he had 
 another wife living in England." 
 
 My God ! vat you tell me ?" 
 
 "It was no marriage at all. She was 
 no more his wife than you or I." 
 
 "Ah, vat unhappy ting! And that 
 charmante Ce1ie ! Poor litel mignonne ! 
 She is not she is one " 
 
 "A bastard, of course, and not en 
 titled to a cent of her father s property. 
 
 " Is it that the first vife lives still ?" 
 
 " No : she died three years before 
 her husband ; but that s of no conse 
 quence." 
 
 " Your law says it so ? Ve have 
 much better in our Code Civile. If cle 
 second vife know noting and marry all 
 of good faith, then if de first vife come 
 to die, de children of de oder can have 
 de goods vat you call propertay." 
 
 " It s just as likely as not that Mrs. 
 Pembroke knew it all the time. Of 
 course she kept the secret. She was 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 dying to have him before he married her. 
 Everybody could see that." 
 
 " But if de poor soul did truly not 
 know anyting ?" 
 
 " Whose fault was that ? It was her 
 business to find out whether he was 
 married or not before she took him; but 
 she didn t care if she was his kept mis 
 tress. It served her just right." 
 
 Celia choked down her sobs, pride 
 coming to her aid. She was terribly 
 afraid now of being detected. The next 
 words she heard were : 
 
 " You are one very hard voman." 
 
 " Hard ! I see no hardship in it. 
 That mawkish fop of a Pembroke was a 
 felon, yet he wasn t sent to hard labor 
 in the penitentiary the more s the pity: 
 you won t deny tha 4 : the bigamist de 
 served it. Well, thf, daughter will suffer 
 for it, that s one comfort." 
 
 Madame Volfgang " 
 
 " Mr. Cranstoun told me that just such 
 a case as hers had lately been decided 
 I forget in what county of this State 
 and not a penny were the bastards al 
 lowed to inherit. The saucy minx is a 
 beggar." 
 
 " I vill not hear " 
 
 " There s no need for my brother to 
 trouble himself about John Mowbray 
 now. The Mowbrays stand on their 
 dignity, and don t marry beggars. Ellen 
 Tyler always was a prettier girl than that 
 whey-face, and now she s a far better 
 match. Her mother was an honest mar 
 ried woman, and the old miller can spare 
 a son-in-law three or four thousand hard 
 dollars if he likes him. The Pembroke 
 girl hasn t a ghost of a chance." 
 
 " Madame Volfgang !" 
 
 Such a menace was there in the tone 
 that Celia, beaten down as her very soul 
 had been by that malignant outburst of 
 abuse, started to her feet, expecting a 
 blow to follow the words. She need not 
 have feared. 
 
 " Madame Volfgang ! I have de honor 
 to remind you dat Mademoiselle Ce lie is 
 my vary excellent friend. I did tell you 
 I vould not hear, but you speak, speak, 
 ever more. Jean is digging in my gar 
 den at dis moment it is a moch strong 
 young man, is Jean and what I sav to 
 
 him, he do it. It vill make talk de 
 world to turn some lady out of my house. 
 But what to do ? If you say only one 
 litel vord more, I vill make seek Jean, 
 and he shall have you in his arms, and 
 I vill make him descend the front steps 
 and set you down outside de litel door 
 of de garden, in de street : den I shall 
 say you, * Good-morning, madame ! " 
 
 What a world is this ! tragedy one 
 moment, comedy the next. The hot 
 tears were already dry on Celia s cheeks : 
 she saw, in imagination, the stout young 
 Frenchman picking up, at his mistress 
 bidding, Mrs. Wolfgang s solid weight 
 of a hundred and sixty or seventy pounds. 
 But his prowess was not called into re 
 quisition. The lady shook with rage, 
 but she moved quickly to the door with 
 out a word. Celia saw Madame Meyrac 
 sweep out after her with an air that 
 would have graced the stage, and heard 
 her say, as Mrs. Wolfgang stepped out 
 on the gravel walk : Ah, madame 
 shows herself sage at de last. Dat is 
 much better, for vy should one make 
 talk the world ?" Then Celia heard her 
 muttering to herself, as she passed up 
 stairs to her domestic duties : Dieu 
 mercie, elle s est en alle a la fin, cette 
 diablesse-la!"* 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 A. GLIMPSE INTO A LIFE. 
 
 " Work work work, 
 Till the brain begins to swim ; 
 
 Work work work, 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim !" 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 CELIA ascended to her friend s cham 
 ber, and ten minutes afterward Ellinor 
 entered. She went up to Celia without 
 a word, kissed her tenderly, and then, 
 the tears rising to her eyes, passed her 
 hand caressingly over the auburn tresses. 
 
 " Ah ! you know all ?" said Celia. 
 
 " My darling, yes from Betty Carson 
 this morning." 
 
 " All the world knows my disgrace 
 already !" was the poor girl s bitter 
 thought. 
 
 * " Thank God, she s gone at last, that she-devil !" 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Ellinor added : 
 
 "That odious Mrs. Wolfgang had 
 been trying to poison the poor creature s 
 mind against you : but Betty brave 
 soul I is a champion of yours. She 
 washed for your family* it seems, when 
 you were a mere child, and your father 
 and mother seem to have been objects 
 of her veneration/ 
 
 " Dear, good Betty !" her eyes fill- 
 ins: with tears. 
 
 She told me what an angel of good 
 ness your father had been to her when 
 her children were sick and her husband 
 raving with delirium tremens." 
 
 "Ah, if others could feel so about 
 him !" 
 
 "Your father s misconduct is the 
 worst blow. Is it not, little pet?" 
 
 " I can t bear to think of it, Ellie !" 
 shuddering as she said it. 
 
 " Do you doubt that he repented of 
 his misdeed !" 
 
 "No, indeed, no," eagerly. "As I 
 remember dear papa, sad, depressed, like 
 one bearing a secret grief, his life with 
 mamma must have been one long 
 repentance." 
 
 "Yet you mourn as without hope. 
 Do you remember the words of One 
 who needed no forgiveness himself, 
 touching the joy in heaven over one sin 
 ner that repenteth ? Joy, Celia joy be 
 cause of the repentance, not sorrow be 
 cause of the sin. How often I have 
 thought of that !" 
 
 " Papa was a good man, Ellie : I 
 wish you had known him." 
 
 Ellinor took down a small volume 
 from a book-shelf. " I like > Vivien, " 
 she said, as she turned the leaves over, 
 " less than any other of the Jtfv/s t yet 
 it has some of the finest lines Tennyson 
 ever wrote. Here, for example : 
 
 The sin that practice burns into the blood. 
 And not the one dark hour which brings remorse 
 Wiil brand us, after, of whose fold we be. " 
 
 Dear Ellie ! No one like you to come 
 to, when one is miserable and needs to 
 be comforted ! You are merciful." 
 
 " Am I ?" a sudden, solemn look 
 shadowing her face am I ? Thanl> 
 God ! The merciful, we are told, shal 
 obtain mercy." 
 
 The two girls sat silent for a minute 
 jr two : then Celia took one of Ellinor s 
 hands in both hers, and the expressive 
 features, as she looked up to them, 
 brightened again. "I came to talk to 
 you about business, Ellie dear, but I 
 lave almost lost heart. That Mrs. 
 Wolfgang was here this morning, and I 
 leard I could not help hearing oh 
 such terrible things ! The full sense of 
 my position never came home to me be 
 fore. Name, fortune, good repute, all 
 lost ! Everything, everything gone !" 
 
 " Everything ? There are these little 
 dimpled hands left" kissing one of 
 them "and they have not forgotten 
 their cunning. The eyes are somewhat 
 dimmed, I admit, but they can still read 
 Liszt s music at a glance, and win hearts 
 besides, provided they are werth the 
 winning. I hear the very voice that 
 charmed us all and Mr. Creighton es 
 peciallyin Schubert s < Ave Maria, 
 the other night. These golden curls are 
 the same I used to admire, and this little 
 brain beneath them has just as much 
 French and German and history and 
 logic and literature, and just as many 
 kind thoughts and generous sentiments, 
 stowed away in its delicate cells, as there 
 were there a week ago." The look from 
 those brilliant eyes spoke deep affection 
 more strongly even than the words as 
 Ellinor proce eded: "Everything gone! 
 Why every bit of my own precious Celia, 
 who* stole my heart in spite of all I could 
 do to keep it, is here still. That money, 
 if // be gone, was no part of her. As 
 little any name the law may assign her. 
 Like Juliet s rose, she is just as sweet 
 under one as another. Young girls will 
 change their names, you know, and do 
 their dearest friends think the less of 
 them for that ?" 
 
 " I am so glad you don t despise me." 
 " Naughty child ! What sort of love is 
 it you give me credit for ? A weed, that 
 has root among dollars and titles, and 
 withers when these are plucked up ? Do 
 you take me for one of those who mis 
 take money or a name for the chief part 
 of that noblest work of God that Pope 
 talks about ? 3 on are unmerciful. Come, 
 Celia, I m not so bad as that : tell me 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 149 
 
 what business it was you had almost lost 
 heart to talk to me about." 
 
 Celia disclosed her plans. At first 
 Ellinor listened eagerly, well pleased 
 it seemed. Then, as if some painful 
 thought had swept over her, her face 
 saddened and her manner betrayed ner 
 vous excitement. 
 
 "It does not suit you, dear: never 
 mind," said Celia, struggling bravely to 
 conceal sad disappointment. 
 
 Ellinor s quick apprehension detected 
 the feeling instantly. Dear, good 
 Celia!" she said after a moment s pause, 
 "it is cruel to say a word to you of my 
 misfortunes when you are overtasked by 
 your own. But between the closest 
 friends there should be the most scrupu 
 lous good faith in matters of business." 
 Then she hesitated, adding, at last : 
 " Did you ever notice anything peculiar 
 about my eyes ?" 
 
 " Never " bewildered by the sudden 
 question "never, except that I think 
 they are love-eyes, that I should have 
 lost my heart to if I had been a man." 
 
 "They told you the truth, at all 
 events," faintly smiling, "yet they are 
 not trustworthy eyes, for all that." 
 
 "Good Heavens! It can t be, Elli 
 nor " and Celia turned deadly pale. 
 
 "You have guessed it. If I were to 
 accept your offer, you might have a blind 
 partner on your hands one of these 
 days." 
 
 When Cranstoun came out with that 
 terrible announcement : " Your father 
 had a wife living in England." it was 
 scarcely a greater blow to Celia than 
 this. She gazed at her friend, unable 
 at first to utter a single word. Then 
 she fell on her neck, sobbing, "Ellie, 
 Ellie!" 
 
 Miss Ethelridge had spoken quite 
 calmly, but under this uncontrollable 
 burst of sympathy her equanimity also 
 gave way. 
 
 Celia was the first who broke silence : 
 "Don t cry, darling. I ll try to be as 
 brave as you. But your eyes you see 
 .me, Ellie ?" 
 
 " Yes, little pet, quite well." 
 
 "Your eyes are weak, that is all ?" 
 
 " Come "on this sofa, beside me ;" and 
 
 she put one arm round her and took a 
 hand in hers. " I said you may have 
 a blind partner. Till darkness comes 
 there is hope. God may spare me this, 
 but I do not think it is His will." 
 " Is it only a presentiment, Ellie ?" 
 " No. I must tell you a little bit out 
 of a sad, sad story. I hope I was not 
 bad though I sometimes think I was 
 but I never intended to be, or I would 
 not have let you love me, Celia. I was 
 in cruel hands cruel and powerful 
 hands" Celia felt her shudder con 
 vulsively "and at times I scarcely 
 knew what I did or what I ought to do. 
 I promised to tell you all about it some 
 day, and I will, but not now. I left my 
 friends what the world called so, I 
 mean. I dare say they considered me 
 dishonored ; and they would probably 
 disown me if I showed my face among 
 them again, which I never will God be 
 my witness ! never will. I m afraid I 
 thought of doing a very wrong thing, for 
 when one is forsaken -by all tht world, 
 there s such a temptation to slip out of 
 it. But when all the world forsook me, 
 God sent " she hesitated. " I think 
 there are those on this earth who will be 
 angels in the next world ; and some of 
 them act an angel s part here. Such an 
 one God bless him ! as He surely 
 will saved me from myself, and found 
 for me such home as was within his 
 power. I accepted life from him : I 
 could not accept money. To preserve 
 the life he rescued, I had to win my 
 daily bread. I am usually considered a 
 skillful needlewoman, but others had to 
 make profit of my labor. The miserable 
 pittance they left me well, it is the fate 
 of thousands : I was not worse off than 
 they. You know that fearful Song of 
 the Shirt, Celia : I hardly dare read it 
 now: it terrifies me. I don t think the 
 English language was ever wrought into 
 another such picture : it conjures phan 
 toms that haunt me still, yet it scarcely 
 exaggerates what was my lot. The sum 
 mers earliest light often found me bend 
 ing over my work. Perhaps even such 
 labor as that would not have seriously 
 injured my eyes, for they were strong, 
 had it not been you mustn t cry, Celia 
 
53 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 dear : nothing so weakens the eyes as 
 tears." 
 
 " But at last ?" was all Celia could 
 say. 
 
 " At last, when sight had almost 
 failed, an old gentleman he was a Qua 
 ker and from your country found me 
 out. He spoke to me of America, of 
 green fields and summer skies in a land 
 where labor was honored and brought 
 fair reward. Even then, though his 
 words were like tidings from Paradise, 
 my pride revolted against pecuniary ob 
 ligation. Then he spoke to me as one 
 of Christ s apostles might have spoken : 
 Pride is sinful and goes before destruc 
 tion : suicide is a crime. In another 
 month thee will probably be quite blind : 
 then thee will die a miserable death. 
 Thee has no right thus to cast life away, 
 for thee may employ it still to benefit, 
 maybe to bless, our fellow-creatures. 
 Thee may be able to repay them a hun 
 dredfold the trifle I offer thee. " 
 Ah, Ellie, how true that was !" 
 I dared not reply to it. I accepted 
 money enough to pay for a second-class 
 passage across the Atlantic. In Phila 
 delphia I remained six months in the 
 house of a charming old lady, sister of 
 rny benefactor, as governess to her niece. 
 An eminent oculist restored comparative 
 strength to my eyes, but warned me 
 against ever again taxing them severely, 
 especially by artificial light, and strongly 
 recommended country air and exercise. 
 Mr. Williams that was the good man s 
 name gave me a letter of introduction 
 to Mr. Sydenham ; and here too, I 
 think, as in that London garret, I have 
 been ministered to by angels unawares." 
 " But your eyes, Ellie they are beau- 
 tiful as they can be. Surely the clanger 
 is past. Do they pain you ?" 
 
 " Don t grieve, dear, but I have no 
 right to conceal the truth from you. 
 They have been gradually failing more, 
 I think, this year than ever before. I 
 must use them a good deal, sometimes 
 by lamplight. But they do not pain me 
 much." 
 
 What does Dr. Meyrac say ?" 
 " He is a faithful friend and speaks 
 the truth. What a sigh was that ! Don t 
 
 trouble yourself about me, pooi child. 
 You have burden enough. Yon have 
 your own affairs your own way to make. 
 You may find some one else as a part 
 ner ; or perhaps who knows, Celia, 
 whether it may not be all for the best 
 that I should become blind and give 
 up school ? Somebody must take my 
 place." 
 
 Hush, Ellie ! I want to talk to you 
 about something else." 
 
 Well, dear ?" 
 
 Had you ever a sister ?" 
 
 Never." 
 
 " Nor a brother ?" 
 
 " Nor a brother. I was an only child." 
 
 So was I. Would you like to have 
 a sister, Ellie ?" 
 
 Such a look of love ! but not a word 
 in reply ; and Celia went on : "I need 
 a sister ; and then you and Dr. Meyrac 
 may both be wrong ; God may not in 
 tend that you should suffer this. But if 
 He does, Ellie if He does you will 
 need a sister, too." And with that she 
 threw her arms round her friend s neck, 
 and after a time all that she felt and all 
 that she meant came home to Ellinor 
 warm kisses say so much more than 
 words. 
 
 After they had become a little more 
 calm, Celia spoke again : " I have com 
 plained for such small cause : I have so 
 little fortitude in suffering. I am a poor, 
 weak creature compared with you, Ellie 
 little worth your love except because 
 I love you so ; but then you have no 
 other sister ; and besides there is a 
 secret I must tell you, Ellie." 
 Well, darling child ?" 
 Do you believe in magnetism hu 
 man magnetism, I mean ?" 
 
 Ellinor started with an expression al 
 most of terror, but she controlled her 
 self, answering calmly, "Yes, I do be 
 lieve in it." 
 
 "Because you will scarcely credit 
 me, Ellie but when you first came this 
 morning I had been trembling all over : 
 that woman s venomous words had got 
 hold of me, so that I was scarcely my 
 self. I think my nerves were shattered : 
 I could not keep my hands still, and 
 when you opened the door I could hard- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS, 
 
 ly restrain a scream. But when you 
 came up to me and kissed me, and passed 
 a hand over my hair, I felt quieter and 
 able to sit still. Then, afterward, when 
 you bid me come and sit beside you on 
 the sofa, and put your arm round me 
 and took my hand in yours, it all grad 
 ually passed away the fear, the ner 
 vousness, the restlessness : even that 
 odious vituperation seemed to drop off 
 from me like some soiled garment, and 
 I began to feel stronger, braver, more 
 hopeful, and then, after a time, almost 
 like a soothed child that could go to 
 sleep in your arms. I have often felt 
 something of the kind before when I was 
 near y-ju, but never anything like that 
 dreamy luxury of to-day. I know this 
 must all seem fanciful to you, ridiculous 
 perhaps " 
 
 Far from it, dear child. It is real." 
 " Then see, Ellie ! For my sake we 
 ought to be sisters and partners, so that 
 I can be often with you. I am weak, 
 and through you I gain strength ; I am 
 nervous and irritable, and near you I 
 find solace and peace. Then after a 
 time, maybe, I may get to be better 
 worth living with, more like you brave, 
 energetic, self-possessed. You ll never 
 find a sister you can do so much good 
 to, Ellie, nor one that will honor and 
 love you more. Will you have me, dar 
 ling, just as I am ?" 
 
 Just as you are ? God forgive me, 
 if I am selfish in this yes, Celia, just as 
 you are." 
 
 There are many more estimable and 
 more meritorious people in this world 
 than Celia Pembroke ; but toward those 
 she loved there was a witchery about 
 her that few hearts, save very cold ones, 
 .could resist. It almost silenced Elli- 
 nor s misgivings, and before evening 
 partnership articles between the two 
 orphans were agreed upon. 
 
 Before leaving Madame Meyrac s, 
 Celia took an opportunity of apologi/ing 
 to that lady for having been an unwilling 
 listener to Mrs. Wolfgang s tirade, speak 
 ing in French, as she always did to her. 
 
 " Ah, poor little one !" replied mad- 
 ame, sympathetically, "you heard it, 
 then ? It afflicts me that you should 
 have been so cruelly wounded. But 
 what would you have ? That sort of 
 creature has neither sense nor common 
 decency. Without these, one becomes 
 brutal. Dogs will bite and cats scratch. 
 One can guarantee one s self only by se 
 lecting for associates bipeds and quad 
 rupeds that are too well bred to do 
 either. For the rest, I owe to you much, 
 my dear : through you I shall obtain re 
 lief from ennui and disgust, for I do not 
 think that madame will trouble me again 
 very soon." 
 
PART VIII. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 JOHN EVELYN MOWBRAY. 
 
 * : Then she took up her burden of life again, 
 Saying only, It might have been. " 
 
 WHITTIER. 
 
 EARLY in the afternoon of the next 
 day, Ethan and Celia were stand 
 ing at Mr. Hartland s front gate. 
 
 "Are you going toward Mr. Syden- 
 ham s, cousin ?" Celia asked. 
 
 " No. I I thought of calling on Dr. 
 Meyrac." 
 
 Give him my kindest regards, and 
 shall you see Ellinor Ethelridge ?" 
 
 Probably." 
 
 " Tell her I hope to be with her this 
 evening." 
 
 The cousins separated, Celia taking 
 the road to Rosebank. She passed the 
 house, however, and a little way beyond 
 turned into a path to the right, which ran 
 outside the west fence of the vineyard, 
 and was bordered by a light fringe of 
 shrubbery. It led her to that rustic 
 bridge over Kinshon Creek already 
 mentioned, and she crossed it, entering 
 the village cemetery beyond. 
 
 Nature had done much for this little 
 secluded spot. Its surface, some eight 
 or ten acres in extent, was gently undu 
 lating, with a slope to the east. It was 
 bounded on the north and west by the 
 forest, on the south by Kinshon Creek, 
 and was open eastward toward the vil 
 lage. A few of the handsomest forest 
 trees had been left : there had been 
 planted cedars, willows and graceful 
 weeping birches, and around the whole 
 was a hedge of laurel, thick set, the 
 lower line of this hedge reaching Kin 
 shon Creek just above the fall. Over a 
 simple arched entrance on the east, built 
 of the same warm gray freestone that 
 Sydenham had selected for his residence, 
 was the inscription: 
 
 " Why should not He whose touch dissolves our chain, 
 Put on His robes of beauty when He comes 
 As a Deliverer?" 
 
 The memorials to the dead were, with 
 
 few exceptions, quite simple and unpre 
 tending : some were of the same gray 
 stone as the entrance, others of white 
 marble : here and there a touching in 
 scription, usually from some well-known 
 author. Celia paused before one of 
 these, over the grave of her aunt Alice s 
 only child, which had died when but 
 five years old. Selected by Alice her 
 self, but only faintly depicting the deso 
 lation that fell on the mother as she laid 
 her little one to rest on that hillside, it 
 read : 
 
 " Above thee wails thy parents voice of grief; 
 Thou art gone hence. Alas, that aught so brief 
 
 So loved should be 1 
 
 Thou tak st our summer hence : the light, the tone. 
 The music of our being, all in one, 
 
 Depart with thee." 
 
 A little farther on she passed a mar 
 ble slab which she had not seen before, 
 for it had been but recently placed. It 
 recalled to her a melancholy incident. 
 A few weeks before a German professor 
 and his wife, friends of the Meyracs, had 
 spent a few days at the doctor s house, 
 on their way to Iowa. Their infant died 
 there suddenly, of croup, and this was 
 the grave. The inscription was in Ger 
 man ; and Celia, struck with its grace, 
 translated it : 
 
 Ephemera all die at sunset, and no 
 insect of this class ever sported in the 
 rays of the rising sun. Happier are ye, 
 little human ephemera ! Ye play in the 
 ascending beam and in the early dawn 
 and in the eastern light ; drink only the 
 first sweet draughts of life ; hover, for a 
 little while, over a world of freshness 
 and blossoms, and then fall asleep in 
 innocence, ere ever the morning dews 
 are exhaled." 
 
 Celia glanced around the cemetery : 
 she was its only visitor. Slowly she 
 passed on to where, under the shade of 
 an old oak of the forest, lay the remains 
 of her father and mother. The sight of 
 the spot awoke a new train of thought : 
 " She knows it all now, and she has for 
 given him." Celia was as sure of that 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 S3 
 
 as if her mother had suddenly appeared 
 before her, there by her grave, in robes 
 of white, and told her so. " On earth 
 as it is in heaven," were the next words 
 that occurred to her. But was it on 
 earth as in heaven ? What is forgiven 
 there must be punished here. Her 
 father had saved himself from the pen 
 alty of penitentiary labor only by years 
 of deception. And if his crime had 
 come to light during his life, what a 
 frightful blow for her mother ! How 
 coiild he risk the happiness of one he 
 loved so much ! Herself, too, his child: 
 she had escaped being a convict s 
 daughter by mere accident through the 
 lie that her father had lived. 
 
 And not a man or woman, or child 
 even, in Chiskauga but knew it now, or 
 would know it all before another week 
 had passed. Was she justified in pro 
 posing that partnership to Ellinor ? 
 What if the mothers of Ellinor s pupils 
 should object to send their daughters to 
 the child of a malefactor a girl, too, 
 who was oh the vile epithet from that 
 horrid Mrs. Wolfgang s lips ! It had 
 seared like burning steel. Could moth 
 ers be blamed if they sought to preserve 
 their daughters from contamination ? 
 
 Evelyn Mowbray ! his name swept 
 over her next. A man must protect his 
 children from reproach as much as 
 from any other injury. Children living 
 in fear that others should know who 
 their mother was ! Had she a right to 
 marry at all ? One thing was clear as 
 noonday. It was her duty to absolve 
 Evelyn from his promise to make her 
 his wife. If he did not come to see 
 her, she must seek him, to tell him 
 that. 
 
 The murmur of the waterfall, wafted 
 up by a soft southern breeze, had sooth 
 ed her when she first reached the spot, 
 but her ear was deaf to it now : bitter 
 thoughts overpowered Nature s sooth- 
 ings. Impatient of inaction, she re 
 traced her steps. 
 
 As she passed along the vineyard, she 
 had one of those dim premonitions which 
 sometimes intimate the approach of a 
 person to whom the thoughts have been 
 directed. Looking down the road by 
 
 which Sydenham s house was approach 
 ed, she saw some one ascending it. 
 The villagers often passed that way, it 
 being the most direct route for foot- 
 passengers from the village to Tyler s 
 mill. Celia /# who this was, but it did 
 not occur to her that he might be on his 
 way to visit a rival. Stern feelings en 
 grossed her, excluding all inklings of 
 jealousy : she forgot Ellen s existence. 
 Her thought was : " Shall I accost him 
 or avoid a meeting?" She saw him now 
 distinctly, but the high paling and the 
 shrubbery which fringed the path on the 
 side next the forest afforded protection 
 sufficient if she resolved to escape ob 
 servation. She was too restless, how 
 ever, to delay the issue. With a sort of 
 desperate feeling she quickened her 
 steps, confronting Mowbray as she turn 
 ed the corner of the vineyard fence. 
 
 When a man occupied by secret 
 thoughts of a friend or a foe thoughts 
 which he would fain hide from all the 
 world comes suddenly and unexpect 
 edly on the object of his cogitations, he 
 must be an adept in dissimulation if he 
 can wholly conceal what he has been 
 thinking. Celia read in her lover s face 
 a conflict of feelings embarrassment, 
 hesitation. He. rallied quickly, however, 
 greeted her cordially and asked after her 
 health. 
 
 " W T hich way were you going ?" Celia 
 asked, after replying to his inquiries. 
 
 " I sauntered out for exercise, and my 
 good angel must have guided me here. 
 Where have you been ?" 
 
 " In the cemetery." 
 
 A pause ; then Mowbray said : "Shall 
 we walk a little way into the woods, they 
 are so fresh and beautiful ?" 
 
 Celia turned in assent. Mowbray 
 walked by her side a few steps ; then 
 added : " I see you so seldom now, 
 Celia. I feel as if it would be an intru 
 sion to enter Mr. Hartland s house, he 
 is such a crabbed old fellow. What a 
 pity you have such a guardian ! We 
 might have been married before this if 
 he had behaved like a decent man." 
 
 Probably." 
 
 < Do you think, dear, he will ever get 
 over that grudge he has against me ?" 
 
154 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " I cannot tell : it is not likely. But 
 he will not press Cranstoun upon me any 
 more : he considers him a scoundrel." 
 "That is one point gained." 
 " My uncle is a strict, austere man, 
 subject to prejudices, but he is a man to 
 trust in time of trial ; and that is a good 
 deal in this world. He is upright, and 
 means to be kind." 
 
 " Let us hope, then, that he will change 
 his opinion of me, as much as he has of 
 Amos Cranstoun." 
 
 " Would that be important ?" 
 Something in the steady tone, more 
 than the words, startled Mowbray. The 
 look of embarrassment came over his 
 face again. Celia turned very pale, but 
 she asked him quietly : " Have you ever 
 thought about choosing a profession, 
 Evelyn ?" 
 
 "Yes, often, but I ve never been able 
 to make up my mind what it is best for 
 me to do. I m not as clever as you, 
 Celia dear." 
 
 " I don t see that. You re as far ad 
 vanced in German as I am ; and if you 
 would only cultivate Dr. Meyrac s ac 
 quaintance, you would soon speak French 
 fluently." 
 
 " But how would French and German 
 help me to a profession ?" 
 
 Another pause. Celia broke it, say 
 ing : " I hear your mother is not as well 
 as usual." 
 
 " No ; mother s health is certainly 
 failing. I tell her she works too hard, 
 and that she ought to give up some of 
 her pupils, but she thinks she can t 
 afford it. She has been in the habit of 
 doing our ironing, so as not to make it 
 too hard on Susan you know we have 
 only one girl but I persuaded her to 
 get Betty Carson for half a day each 
 week. Betty s so busy she had only 
 Saturday afternoons to spare, but we 
 made that suit." 
 
 " You had Betty yesterday afternoon, 
 then ?" 
 " Yes." 
 
 They had reached the forest by this 
 time. Here a footpath, diverging to the 
 left from the direct road to the mill, 
 led, in a circuit through the woods, back 
 to the village. " Let us return home by 
 
 this path," said Celia : I am a little 
 tired." 
 
 As they walked on, she looked up in 
 the face of the man she had loved so 
 dearly and trusted so utterly, and had 
 always thought so generous and kind. 
 It was as much as she could do to re 
 strain her tears, but she did restrain 
 them, and commanded her voice so as 
 to say, in a steady tone: "You know 
 what has happened to me, Evelyn. I m 
 sure Betty Carson must have told it to 
 your mother yesterday." 
 
 Mowbray blushed scarlet, like a girl. 
 " I believe " he stammered " I think 
 I heard mother say Betty told her " 
 " What did Betty tell her ?" 
 " It was some difficulty about your 
 father s marriage, as I understood." 
 
 " That he had a wife living in Eng 
 land was that it ?" 
 
 " I think that was the story, as far as 
 I made it out." 
 
 " Did you believe it ?" 
 " I hope it is not true, dear Celia. I 
 should be so glad to hear from you that it 
 is all a fabrication." 
 
 " You didn t say a word to me about 
 it when we met ?" 
 
 " Why should I repeat to you such a 
 scandalous report ?" 
 
 " You expected, then, that we should 
 meet day after day, and pass it all over, 
 without any explanation, without any 
 consultation ?" 
 
 " Your denial is sufficient." 
 " My denial ? Every word of it is 
 true, Evelyn every word. My father 
 was a bigamist. A bigamist is a felon. 
 If he had been found out, he would have 
 worked in the penitentiary, a convict. I 
 am a felon s daughter. I am " She 
 caught her breath, but hesitated only for 
 a moment : " I am a bastard a bas 
 tard ! I heard myself called so yester 
 day. I heard my mother called my 
 father s kept mistress. Do you hear 
 that ? Do you think we can live on and 
 say nothing about such things to one 
 another you and I, lovers, two people 
 who are engaged to be married engaged 
 to stand up and take each other for bet 
 ter, for worse, till death part us ?" 
 
 Mowbray was weak, of facile nature, 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 155 
 
 inconstant, but he had a certain gener 
 osity withal, and Celia had roused it. 
 He turned to address her, but stopped, 
 fearing she was about to faint. By the 
 side of the path, close by, there lay a 
 large poplar that had been blown over 
 a few days before. He begged her to 
 sit down, supporting her toward it, but 
 she recovered herself, saying, " Never 
 mind, Evelyn I m better: let us walk 
 on slowly." 
 
 "Surely, my darling Celia," Evelyn 
 said, offering her his arm " Surely you 
 know how much I love you. What 
 difference can it make to me whether 
 your father behaved ill or not ?" 
 
 " What difference ? You don t care 
 whether your children might live to be 
 ashamed of one of their parents or not? 
 You wouldn t care if, some day, it should 
 be thrown up to a girl of yours that her 
 grandfather was a felon, who cruelly 
 wronged the one he loved dearest on 
 earth, and that her mother was an ille 
 gitimate child ? You would care, Eve 
 lyn : you could not help it. You once 
 told me the Moubrays were in Domes 
 day Book. You stand on the honor of 
 the name." 
 
 He was about to protest, but she 
 stopped him : " One word more. I 
 must think for you, dear friend, as well 
 as for myself. You have no profession. 
 You have never seriously thought you 
 don t think now of studying one. Your 
 mother is barely able, faithfully as she 
 works, to support herself. If her health 
 gives way, she cannot continue to do 
 that ; and then to whom can she look 
 but to her son ? I saw all this before, 
 when we were first engaged ; but I 
 knew then that I had enough for both, 
 and that your mother could always have 
 a home with us " 
 
 " Dear Celia, how unjust is fortune to 
 disinherit one so generous as you !" 
 
 " I thought then that, in any event, 
 neither you nor your mother would 
 suffer; but now I m not a beggar, Eve 
 lyn, though a woman (my uncle s sister) 
 said I was : it was in Dr. Meyrac s 
 parlor ; I heard her ; her words haunt 
 me but I m not a beggar: those who 
 have health and friends and good-will to 
 
 work need never beg ; but I am a poor 
 orphan, without power to help any one, 
 only too happy if I can earn my own 
 support." 
 
 "And you think I am dishonorable 
 enough to desert you in your adversity?" 
 
 "Your father left your mother and 
 you little but an honorable name and 
 an unblemished reputation. You must 
 guard these you must take care of your 
 mother, and " the color left her cheeks 
 as she added firmly, but in a low voice 
 "you must find some other wife than 
 me." 
 
 " Celia, Celia !" said Mowbray earn 
 estly, " I would marry you, in spite of 
 everything that has passed I d marry 
 you to-morrow and brave it all, if your 
 uncle would only consent." 
 
 Now, for the first time, the tears filled 
 Celia s eyes, and she could scarcely re 
 ply. They had come to a turn in the 
 path whence a vista opened down on the 
 village and distant lake. Sydenham had 
 caused a rustic seat to be placed there, 
 whence to enjoy the view. This time 
 she was persuaded to rest : the agita 
 tion she had passed through had un 
 nerved her. 
 
 "It s very kind of you, Evelyn," she 
 answered, after they were seated, "to 
 say that you would marry me still, but it 
 cannot be. Your mother would not wish 
 it. We have not the means of support 
 ing a household : that will confirm my 
 uncle in his opposition. He is certain, 
 now, to adhere to his refusal so long as 
 my promise to mamma gives him the 
 right to do so ; and I m glad of it." 
 
 " You, Celia ! glad of it ?" 
 
 " Yes, glad." 
 
 " Then the hints Cranstoun threw out 
 to me about Creighton s frequent visits 
 to your uncle s house were true, after all ? 
 He has a profession he can support a 
 wife. He is an orator, and the ladies 
 always admire orators. Mr. Sydenham 
 speaks highly of him, too. You and 
 Leoline Sydenham called on his mother 
 last week. I see it all. I have nothing 
 to say to it: it s all right. Only you 
 might have told me honestly, Celia, how 
 the land lay, instead of fooling me with 
 these long stories about your father and 
 
i S 6 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 mother. You had only to give me a 
 hint that another was preferred, and I 
 would have released you at any time. I 
 might have known " 
 
 Mowbray stopped, amazed at the effect 
 of his words. Celia had dried her eyes 
 and had spoken to him quietly, kindly, 
 in reply to that offer of marriage. But 
 now hot tears burst forth without re 
 straint convulsive sobs shook her frame 
 from head to foot. Long and bitterly 
 she wept, covering her face with her 
 hands. Mowbray, repentant, began in 
 humble tone to apologize for his sus 
 picions. She did not intimate, by reply 
 or gesture, that she heard him. Then 
 he spoke to her tenderly, using terms of 
 endearment : still, not a word, not a 
 sign, but the passion of grief seemed 
 gradually to wear itself out. As she 
 became quieter he gently took one of 
 her hands : she left .it passively in his 
 grasp. Then he put an arm around her 
 waist. The touch seemed to awake her 
 at once. She rose to her feet, confront 
 ing him. He rose too. They stood 
 there for a minute or two, neither speak 
 ing Mowbray actually afraid; poor 
 Celia struggling desperately for com 
 posure. At last she spoke, faintly at 
 first, but gathering courage as she went 
 on : 
 
 I used to think we had so much in 
 common. It seemed to me we suited 
 each other. I thought you understood 
 me, Evelyn. Eight months ago you 
 asked me to marry you. Did you take 
 me for a girl who would say yes, as I 
 did. and then leave you bound by the 
 promise you made to me in return, after 
 I had changed my mind and preferred 
 another ? I loved you, Evelyn : I 
 thought so much of you." 
 
 "Forgive me oh forgive me!" he 
 broke in. 
 
 " Slanderers tried to poison my mind 
 against you. They sent me an anony 
 mous letter telling me that you met 
 Ellen Tyler and made love to her, 
 secretly, at a lonely spot in the woods 
 near her father s mill, and that her father 
 had surprised one of your interviews." 
 
 " Did you believe all that of me, 
 Celia?" 
 
 Not a word of it. If I had, I should 
 have spoken to you about it that very 
 day. I burned the letter, and have 
 scarcely thought of it since till now. 
 I trusted you." 
 
 " How nobly you have acted !" 
 " Have you trusted me f Do you 
 know what you have just been telling 
 me ? that, after I had solemnly prom 
 ised to be your wife, and without ever 
 asking to be released from that promise, 
 I played you false, secretly encouraging 
 another because he was better able to 
 support a wife than you. You accuse 
 me of this on whose authority ? On 
 the authority of a villain who traduced 
 yourself (I m certain that anonymous 
 letter was from him) on the say-so of 
 a scoundrel who took ten thousand dol 
 lars from poor papa hush-money to 
 conceal the English marriage and who 
 has just written to the heir-at-law in 
 England, offering to bring suit against 
 me and recover the property for him, on 
 half shares. You set his lies against 
 your faith in me, and they outweigh it?" 
 " Spare me, Celia, spare me." 
 " I am sorry very sorry, Evelyn " 
 in a softened tone " but you force me 
 to defend myself. And the truth must 
 be told : the happiness of both our lives 
 depends upon it." 
 
 " I absolve you from all blame, Celia." 
 " As to Mr. Creighton, he is a brave, 
 generous man : any woman might be 
 proud of him as a husband. I do honor 
 him you touched the truth there be 
 cause he selected a profession and works 
 hard at it, as every young man should. 
 He has a right to ask any woman in 
 marriage, and I hope he will find one 
 worthy to be his wife. But he is nothing 
 to me. I do not love him, and I never 
 shall. He does not love me. I don t 
 even think he likes me. He thinks me 
 purse-proud, I believe : at least his man 
 ner has seemed to say so. When I told 
 you that I was glad my uncle persisted 
 in refusing assent to our marriage, I had 
 forgotten there was such a man as Mr. 
 Creighton in the world. I was thinking 
 of you not of him. I was thinking 
 that if I had been free to marry, and 
 you had proposed to make me yoijr wife 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 157 
 
 to-morrow, it would have been wrong in 
 me to accept the offer. I was glad that, 
 if you did persist in seeking me, two 
 years and a half would intervene, so that 
 you could make no sacrifice on the im 
 pulse of the moment. If you had under 
 stood anything about me, you would 
 have felt that at once." 
 
 Celia, Celia, leave me hope yet." 
 "It is too late. We have not the 
 power of trusting whom we will. If I 
 had my property back, I would give it 
 all freely, joyfully to regain the faith 
 in you that I have lost. Oh, Evelyn, 
 you have uttered suspicions you have 
 spoken words to-day that will stand up 
 for ever a barrier between us. You 
 said " she trembled, reseating herself 
 and pausing, as if to gain courage "you 
 said that I had dealt falsely by you, and 
 that, to conceal my encouragement of 
 Mr. Creighton s addresses, I was fooling 
 you with tales about my father and 
 mother. It was an insult an insult to 
 their memory and to me. I know it was 
 caused by a petulant burst of anger. 
 But the words were said, and can never, 
 in this world, be recalled." 
 " Is this your final decision ?" 
 " Yes, final and irrevocable. I shall 
 never marry. I don t want any man to 
 brave reproach for me. I can bear my 
 own burden. I release you from all 
 promise, and you shall have a witness 
 in proof. I shall see your mother to 
 night, and tell her that her son is free." 
 " And you throw me over, without 
 more ado, like that, as if I were a worth 
 less scapegrace. What am I to think 
 of your love, Celia ?" 
 
 " Do not let us part in anger, Evelyn. 
 I don t think you worthless. I think 
 we are unsuited to each other, and that 
 we should be unhappy together if we 
 married. And it is not you who have 
 to fear insinuations about being thrown 
 over, as you call it. It is not a rich 
 girl jilting a poor man. I accepted you 
 when I was able to offer a competency. 
 A penniless girl, I reject you a penni 
 less and nameless girl, whom nobody 
 would care to own. You ask what you 
 are to think of my love" again that 
 tremble in the tones : " it may be a 
 
 [ comfort to you some day, Evelyn, to re 
 member that a young girl once loved 
 you dearly, trusted you implicitly, would 
 have given her life for yours. I am not 
 ashamed to own it, even now that you 
 and I " If she could have arrested her 
 tears, how gladly she would have done 
 it ! but tears are tyrants and will have 
 their way. " We must part friends, 
 dear Evelyn : that may be, and ought 
 to be, and shall be, unless you reject my 
 friendship. You will not do that ?" 
 
 Mowbray gave her both his hands ; 
 and long afterward, when he was far 
 away and at the head of a household in 
 which Celia was a stranger, the girl re 
 membered, with feelings of tender re 
 gard, that when they rose to walk home 
 nevermore to enter these woods as lovers 
 again hers were not the only eyes that 
 were wet. The man had been touched 
 to the soul at last ; and all he could say 
 was, " Can you ever forgive me, noble 
 girl ?" 
 
 " I have forgiven everything, dear 
 friend. Do not let us say a word more 
 about it." 
 
 And they walked home these two 
 talking quietly and amicably of common 
 place things, attracting the inquiring 
 looks of many villagers whom they met, 
 until, near to Hartland s dwelling, they 
 reached the cross street that led to Mrs. 
 Mowbray s cottage on the lake. There 
 Mowbray wrung Celia s hand in silence, 
 parted from her and it was all over ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 ON THE LAKE SHORE. 
 
 " I do believe it, 
 Against an oracle." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE The Tempest. 
 
 WHEN Celia parted from her cousin 
 at her uncle s front gate that afternoon, 
 some tone or look of his suggested to 
 her that his projected visit was to Ellinor 
 only, not to Dr. Meyrac. Yet it seems 
 she was mistaken. When Ethan called 
 at the house he asked for the doctor, 
 and was closeted with him for some time. 
 Afterward, it is true, he inquired for Miss 
 Ethelridge, and she came to the parlor. 
 
i 5 8 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " It is a charming afternoon," he said, 
 " soft and balmy, like a day of early 
 summer. I thought, perhaps, you would 
 not object to a stroll on the banks of the 
 lake." 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, and 
 Ethan added : You are so much con 
 fined during the week, Miss Ellinor " 
 
 I ll put on my hat and shawl and go 
 with pleasure," rising to prepare for the 
 walk. 
 
 April is proverbially inconstant, yet 
 in temperate latitudes, when the sun 
 shines out and a southern breeze stirs 
 the air, what more delightful days, fresh 
 and inspiring ! all the fresher and 
 brighter that they shine upon us, like 
 joy succeeding sorrow, after a season 
 of murky clouds and drifting rains. No 
 days in all the year when hearts, if they 
 be true and warm, so gratefully yield to 
 tender and trustful influences. The an 
 niversaries are they of Faith and Hope 
 and Love. 
 
 These two, Ellinor and Ethan, were 
 faithful and cordial ; and as they passed 
 down the shady avenue, and thence to 
 the left along the pleasant lake shore, 
 there came over them, with genial 
 glamour, the spirit of the hour and the 
 place. 
 
 Ethan had been a frequent visitor of 
 the Meyracs, whom he liked : he had 
 often joined their walking-parties when 
 Ellinor was of the number ; occasionally 
 he had accompanied his cousin and her 
 friend when they rode out together ; but 
 this was the first time he had ever in 
 vited Miss Ethelridge to walk with him 
 alone. Ellinor felt that it was, and the 
 consciousness of it embarrassed Ethan. 
 After a little commonplace talk, they 
 walked on for some time in silence. 
 Then Ellinor was the first to speak. 
 
 "What a beautiful spot for building!" 
 she said, as they passed a certain six- 
 acre lot that our readers wot of. Has 
 it been bought ?" 
 
 "No. Mr. Sydenham had instructed 
 me not to sell it." 
 
 " How prettily it is laid out ! Is it 
 for sale now ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Somebody has shown much taste 
 
 there. Mr. Sydenham entrusted the 
 laying of it out tq you, did he not, Mr. 
 Hartland ?" 
 
 "Yes. I m glad it pleases you. I 
 like to lay out pretty spots, and this 
 always took my fancy. It s embellish 
 ment was a labor of love." 
 
 " I have not seen a more charming 
 site for a picturesque cottage for many a 
 day." 
 
 Then they relapsed into silence again. 
 After a time Ethan said : " Cousin Celia 
 tells me you and she are to be partners 
 in carrying on the Chiskauga Institute. 
 I am very glad of it glad for her sake, 
 for, though she is a dear, good, willing 
 girl, she is inexperienced, while your 
 management and method are excellent ; 
 and glad for yours, Miss Ethelridge, be 
 cause the labor and the responsibility 
 are too much for you alone : your brain 
 and your eyes have been overtasked." 
 
 Ellinor looked up quickly : " Did 
 Celia speak to you about my being 
 overtasked ?" 
 
 " No : she only spoke to me of her 
 great love for you, and of her joy that 
 you were willing to receive her." 
 
 " Dear child ! It was your own idea, 
 then ?" 
 
 " Forgive me, dear Miss Ethelridge. 
 I have no right to interfere " he paused 
 in search of an expression " to inter 
 fere in what regards your welfare. But 
 I have remarked it has seemed to me 
 sometimes that when you have used 
 your eyes long in school, you felt pain 
 or uneasiness." 
 
 " I do occasionally. But is that your 
 only reason for supposing my eyes 
 weak ?" 
 
 " No. I fear that I shall appear pre 
 sumptuous, but I wanted so much to 
 know the truth, and I spoke to Dr. 
 Meyrac about it." 
 
 " And he said?" 
 
 " That it was important you should 
 not overwork your eyes, especially at 
 night." 
 
 Nothing more ?" 
 
 " No. You are not offended by my 
 intermeddling ?" 
 
 " Offended ! I have met with much 
 kindness more than I expected far 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 159 
 
 more than I had any right to expect 
 since I came here ; but no one has 
 treated me more thoughtfully and gen 
 erously than you. I am too dependent 
 on my friends to quarrel with kindness ; 
 and if I have said little about yours, Mr. 
 Hartland, don t think I am ungrateful." 
 
 " I am ashamed to hear you speak of 
 it. What little I have been able to do 
 for you by taking that German class was 
 done during time that belonged to Mr. 
 Sydenham and at his desire." 
 
 " You suggested it to him ?" 
 
 Ethan did not reply to this. 
 
 Ellinor saw through it all now. She 
 understood why he had sought to relieve 
 her from the senior class, two hours a 
 week, by the German lessons ; why he 
 had offered to read to her of evenings ; 
 why he so often proposed, to Madame 
 Meyrac and herself, to translate to them 
 passages he had selected from his Ger 
 man favorites. She understood why he 
 had volunteered a thousand little ser 
 vices that saved her eyes from strain. 
 "You are a good man, Mr. Hartland," 
 she said, warmly. " God requite you ! 
 for I never can." 
 
 Ethan s face not a handsome one, if 
 one looked to regularity of feature, but 
 a face in which one read firmness, be 
 nevolence, honesty Ethan s face lit up 
 with joy. But he changed the subject, 
 speaking of details connected with the 
 projected partnership. Thus convers 
 ing, they passed the fair-ground, where, 
 the day before, there had been a base 
 ball match between rival clubs, and 
 reached a spot where a footpath ascend 
 ing in zigzag the face of the hillside, 
 through thick underbrush of. laurel 
 bushes, led up to the summit of the cliff, 
 which, as our readers know, rose pre 
 cipitously from the shore of the lake a 
 little way beyond its north-western 
 extremity. 
 
 Here, in a grove of cedars near the 
 verge of the cliff, the villagers had erect 
 ed a summer-house, sheltered from the 
 north, but open on the side next the 
 lake. The view thence was quite equal 
 to that which had struck even Cassiday 
 with admiration on his arrival. 
 
 The sweep of low hills, from one of 
 
 which that worthy had first caught sight 
 of the village, could be traced, trending 
 off to the south for several miles, till the 
 outline was lost in the forest. The lake, 
 seen from this spot throughout its full 
 extent, lay, like some huge creature in 
 lazy beauty, at their feet ; its banks, on 
 the village side beyond the Elm Walk, 
 dotted with pretty cottages, spacious 
 gardens behind them. The valley-land 
 beyond, chequered throughout with a 
 carpeting of fresh green, spoke of teem 
 ing harvests and a bounteous summer 
 to come. Over all valley and village 
 and placid lake shone the slanting rays 
 of the sun, now declining to the west. 
 One might light on a thousand more 
 striking aspects of nature, but on few 
 more suggestive of peace and cheerful 
 ness and rural comfort. 
 
 They found the summer-house vacant, 
 and seated themselves in full view of the 
 quiet scene. Ellinor s glance wandered 
 over it, a tender melancholy gradually 
 shading her face. She was seeking to 
 stamp each feature of the landscape on 
 waning sense ; laying up, in store for 
 possible years of darkness to come, 
 bright memories of a glorious world. 
 
 "You regret, sometimes," said Ethan 
 in a low voice, " that you have settled, 
 here out of the world, among us ? You 
 look back, with sadness, do you not, on 
 far different life in Europe ?" 
 
 " With sadness, yes, but never with 
 regret. Do you regret, after spending 
 some years in the Old W 7 orld, that you 
 have returned to Chiskauga ?" 
 
 I ? Oh no ! But that is quite dif 
 ferent. I was born in New England, 
 but I came here so young that Chis 
 kauga seems to me almost my native 
 place. I like it more and more day by 
 day. If if the good fortune that has 
 followed me so far endures, I should be 
 willing to live and die here." 
 
 "Your engagement with Mr. Syden 
 ham is a permanent one, is it not ?" 
 
 Ethan hesitated coloring and show 
 ing unwonted agitation. When he spoke 
 something in the tone of his voice caused 
 Ellinor to breathe more quickly in ths 
 low, pleading tone it was, not in the sim 
 ple words : " Will you let me tell you 
 
i6o 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 something of my life and my prospects, 
 Miss Ethelridge, and not think me 
 egotistical ?" 
 
 Ellinor smiled : " We were speaking, 
 a little while ago, of my plans and pros 
 pects. Did that strike you as egotism 
 in me ?" 
 
 "How kind you are ! It shall not be 
 a long story. I wish you had known 
 my mother my own mother. She was 
 as gentle and warm-hearted as my step 
 mother is ; and I think there never was 
 any one who so forgot herself in her child 
 as she in all she did for me. It is very 
 sad to think of it, but I know now that 
 she must have accepted my father from 
 motives of respect and esteem her love 
 was all lavished on me." 
 
 " I have heard those who knew her 
 well speak of her in terms of high 
 praise." 
 
 " I never realized till I lost her what 
 she had been to me. I was very lonely 
 then, but after a few years I went to 
 Germany ; and then new scenes and 
 hard work filled my thoughts. On my 
 return I couldn t find employment as 
 civil engineer ; so I accepted from Mr. 
 Sydenham the post of land-agent. Of 
 his own accord he has gradually in 
 creased my salary from seven hundred 
 and twenty dollars to fifteen hundred dol 
 lars a year. Last year but you know 
 how generous he is he gave me what 
 you were admiring to-day that building 
 site with the Elm Walk on one side 
 and the lake in front. You were right, 
 Miss Ellinor : there is not a more choice 
 spot for a modest residence on the whole 
 property. Last week he told me that 
 just as long as I could find no more 
 eligible situation he wished me to retain 
 the position I hold as manager of his 
 Chiskauga estate, were it for life : he 
 even offered me a further increase of 
 salary, in case" he hesitated " in cer 
 tain contingencies. I have saved, while 
 in his service, enough to build perhaps 
 not to furnish as handsome a house as 
 I desire." Ethan paused. 
 
 " I am not surprised," said Ellinor, 
 that you like Chiskauga and are satis 
 fied with your lot." 
 
 " I am not satisfied with my lot, 
 
 though I may lose your good opinion by 
 saying so. I am ambitious." 
 
 " I should never have thought it : you 
 seemed content to live and die here. 
 Are you sorry to have lost the chance 
 of distinction as engineer ? or have you 
 political aspirations, as my friend Mr. 
 Creighton has had ?" 
 
 At the name a shade as of disappoint 
 ment crossed Ethan s face. He replied 
 gravely : " My ambition rises higher 
 than a seat in Congress or an engineer s 
 post with a ten-thousand dollar salary." 
 
 " I didn t guess that," said Ellinor, 
 smiling. 
 
 "No wonder. I doubt if there be a 
 man or woman or child in Chiskauga 
 that would guess it, or that would not 
 laugh at me if they did," a little bitterly. 
 
 Had Ellinor an inkling of what was 
 coming? It seemed probable that some 
 shadow of the truth was stealing over 
 her, for that color in her cheeks came 
 somewhat too suddenly and brightly to 
 be due merely to air and exercise. Yet 
 it could have been a very vague intuition 
 only, or she would not have said : "You 
 are reticent, Mr. Hartland : you don t 
 share your plans with your friends." 
 
 Some undefined suasion in the tone or 
 in the words, or perhaps it was the 
 heightened color, gave him courage. 
 "You think me reticent," he said. " If 
 I had ever believed that I could confess 
 to you how far my ambition reaches, 
 without incurring no, not your con 
 tempt, you are too noble for that but 
 your displeasure, the confession should 
 have been made long ago." 
 
 Then he told her what had lain hidden 
 for years in that shy heart of his how 
 he had taken himself to task for aspiring 
 to one so far above him one who had 
 always seemed to him to have come 
 down from some upper sphere : how the 
 feeling of that disparity between them 
 had grown and strengthened the more 
 he had seen of her, the better he had 
 learned to know her. " God is my wit 
 ness," he said, " it s not of rank nor of 
 social position I m talking : these have 
 no oppression for me. If I were to be 
 presented to a queen to-morrow, it would 
 be without anything akin to abasement : 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 161 
 
 we learn independence of feeling here in 
 the West. But there is a subtile some 
 thing that enshrines you ; an atmosphere 
 of delicate culture and refinement, that 
 is parti}- due no doubt to lifelong seclu 
 sion from all rude agencies." 
 
 " Seclusion from all rude agencies ? 
 If you only knew, Mr. Hartland, what 
 has befallen me !" 
 
 " I do not know. I do not ask. The 
 past is nothing to me. It s of the future 
 I wanted to speak. I think I should 
 not have had courage for it to-day, if you 
 hadn t said those kind words far, far 
 beyond my desert. I feel that I am 
 country-bred, rudely nurtured, and with 
 a mere humble competence to offer. I 
 have no claims but none of us have 
 any claims on God for mercy and love." 
 
 "You say this to a poor, penniless 
 country teacher ?" 
 
 " I say it to Ellinor Ethelridge. I 
 knew I should have to say it some day 
 or other. It s too strong for me. I 
 thought perhaps I might escape it by 
 throwing every energy into my work : I 
 used to like that for its own sake ; but 
 I ve come to feel that work without care 
 for something beyond oneself has no life 
 in it is nothing but a task. It was a 
 little thing, that bit of land to build on : 
 how the magnates of this world would 
 laugh if they knew what joy I felt when 
 Sydenham s generosity threw it into my 
 hands ! But for me its charm was in 
 hope, not in possession. The solitary 
 feeling I had when I lost my mother 
 had come again ; and one night I dream 
 ed that the pretty cottage I had been 
 thinking of stood there in the early sun 
 shine, and that I was no longer solitary. 
 Dreaming still, I went out to work, not 
 for myself alone and impatient till even 
 ing came : then, when I returned, in the 
 moonlight there on the lake shore, all 
 in white I knew it was not a spirit, yet 
 I approached it with misgiving. But I 
 iL as welcomed, as some poor wanderer, 
 when earth-life has passed, may be re 
 ceived in heaven. Now you know all 
 the extravagance of my ambition. You 
 know on what conditions I m willing to 
 live and to die in this little village of ours. 
 My life is dark, my work is irksome, 
 ii 
 
 that pretty home-spot is a mockery, 
 without you, Ellinor. You may not care 
 for my love perhaps you love another : 
 then you shall never be pained by one 
 troublesome word from me. I cannot 
 live in sight of Paradise and feel that its 
 gates are closed against me for ever. 
 But the world is wide, and every man 
 must do what God allots to him till the 
 clay of release comes." 
 
 These undemonstrative creatures who 
 walk through life with heart in check and 
 feelings "like greyhounds in the slips," 
 have sometimes, under the frigid sur 
 face, a humble well-spring of enthusiasm 
 that will overflow on occasion. To-day 
 Ethan s time had come ; the hidden 
 fount was stirred. It was a new revela 
 tion to Ellinor. 
 
 Though her cheeks were flushed and 
 the tears had stolen to her eyes, she sat 
 quiet and silent, gazing dreamily on the 
 placid landscape before her. Ethan said 
 not a word more half-hoping when he 
 saw her hesitate content, for the mo 
 ment, that his temerity had not called 
 forth sudden rejection. At last the an 
 swer came in a subdued tone : " Mr. 
 Hartland, I think the highest honor one 
 human being can confer on another is 
 the homage of a faithful heart. But I 
 owe you more than this. You trust me 
 implicitly, knowing nothing, asking no 
 thing, of my past life. Yet my position 
 might well create doubts, even in those 
 least inclined to suspicion, whether mis 
 conduct might not have had something 
 to do with this exile from my native 
 land." 
 
 The lover thought he felt his way 
 clear now. His tongue was loosed : 
 his heart spoke from his eyes. Ellinor 
 did not recognize the Ethan she had 
 known for years as he replied : What 
 ever concerns you must interest me. 
 But you know little how I love you if 
 you think it necessary to say one word 
 in exculpation in explanation, I mean 
 of your coming here among us to do us 
 good. Can love be faithful and have no 
 faith ? a pitiful imposture without it ! 
 It is not in the power of human being 
 not even in yours to convince me that 
 you have ever knowingly, willfully, done 
 
162 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 anything that God or good men will re 
 member against you for judgment ; but 
 I don t care I mean, that except for the 
 pain which sad memories may give you, 
 I don t care what you have been. I 
 know, as I know my existence, what you 
 are. I think God forgive me ! that I 
 couldn t believe in Divine Goodness 
 itself if I lost belief in you. My faith 
 in you is like my faith in the beauty of 
 God s world in His stainless sunshine 
 in the pure stream He sends for 
 blessing in His very promises of im 
 mortality. See !" he added in a low, 
 reverent tone : "if every particle of his 
 torical truth set up in support of the 
 Christian scheme of morals and eternal 
 life were swept away to-morrow, it would 
 still be to me the revealment of love and 
 light it is itself its own witness. And 
 you are my revelation of human excel 
 lence and gracious refinement : if I have 
 you, Ellinor, I have holier evidence than 
 all human testimony can give about you. 
 But it s no use," he broke out after a 
 moment s pause " it s not a bit of use 
 to go on. I can feel it all how it 
 comes over me ! but to tell it " 
 
 She was touched to the heart-core. 
 " I did not know," she said, "that there 
 was such nobility of faith in the world." 
 Then she relapsed into what seemed sad 
 thoughts, sighing. At last: "There is 
 an obstacle. Do not fear," she said, 
 earnestly. " I am not going to conceal 
 anything from you : trust like yours 
 must not be all on one side. Do you 
 think I would let you speak to me as 
 you have spoken to-day, and then keep 
 back one sin I may have committed ? 
 Do you think I would hide from you 
 now what reduced me to poverty and 
 dependence ? I meant to pass my life 
 here in this quiet place, God and my 
 own heart the only judges of the past. 
 But you shall know all." 
 
 Then, after a pause, she told him of 
 her early life while her mother, a widow, 
 yet lived ; of what befell her, in a cold 
 home, at cruel hands, after her mother s 
 death ; of a terrible crisis in her life that 
 led her to the brink of despair ; then 
 what she had already told Celia of her 
 bitter sufferings and her final rescue. 
 
 Ethan listened as one might listen to 
 tidings from the next world, his very 
 soul in the fascinating story, now moved 
 to pity, now stirred to hot indignation. 
 And when Ellinor closed her narrative 
 by saying, with a deep sigh of relief, " I 
 have kept nothing from you, and now 
 thank God ! I am here, never, never to 
 return," Ethan broke forth : 
 
 "And is that the obstacle ? The world 
 is faithless and heartless : Love s name 
 is profaned by the base, the treacherous, 
 the inhuman ; and that s to be a reason 
 why you can t marry me ! I knew it 
 beforehand what it must all amount to 
 though that infamous plot passes im 
 agination. What of it ? Can you never 
 be my wife because worthless creatures 
 close their doors against you ?" 
 
 " No, that s not it. God, who sees 
 secret causes and influences, may justify 
 where men condemn. At all events, 
 now that I ve told you the whole truth, 
 I am willing to abide by your judgment." 
 
 " Thank God !" 
 
 " But if you don t think it cause 
 enough to desist from seeking me, that 
 my relatives regard me as outcast " 
 
 " I entreat you 
 
 " Well, I shall not say another word 
 about it ; but that is not the obstacle I 
 spoke of." 
 
 " It s some one else ?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 Such a sigh of relief! Then, eagerly: 
 "What is it, Ellinor?" 
 
 " If ever man deserved a good wife, you 
 do one who would make you a bright, 
 cheerful home one who would see to 
 all your wants and comforts one who 
 should be care-taker, it may be, of your 
 children, looking to their habits, watching 
 their shortcomings ; in short, oversee 
 ing and providing for your household." 
 
 "And you, with your business tact 
 and admirable judgment you can t do 
 this ?" 
 
 " Had God so willed, it might have 
 been. Possibly, possibly but I mustn t 
 shrink from looking in the face what may 
 be the inevitable." 
 
 "The inevitable ?" 
 
 " Dr. Meyrac was less honest to you 
 than he has been to me." 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS 
 
 163 
 
 Ethan hung on her words, scarcely 
 breathing. Could it be ? Ellinor went 
 on : " The good man knew that the 
 truth is always best, and he told me 
 that any day there might be paralysis of 
 the optic nerve. A blind wife " 
 
 " Hush, Ellinor. It is in God s hands. 
 Shall we rebel against Him ?" 
 
 " I do not. Once, in the extremity of 
 misery, I might have done so : then 
 there came to me, as if some angel had 
 stooped down and spoken, the words : 
 Adversity never crushes except those 
 who rebel against it. I do not rebel. 
 But God intends this affliction for me 
 alone. It must never fall upon you." 
 
 " It s hazardous to say what God s 
 intentions are. We see His doings 
 that s all. He brought you here. It 
 was His will that I should be near you 
 year after year. It was His will that 
 out of all this glorious world of His I 
 should crave one blessing, weighed 
 against which all else is dust in the bal 
 ance. I know that hearts have hunger 
 ed until Death stilled the yearning, but 
 if He paused, adding at last: "You 
 are the soul of truth, Ellinor. If what 
 seems to you an obstacle did not exist " 
 
 " You shall have more than an answer 
 to your question. If in one year from 
 this time Dr. Meyrac thinks the danger 
 has passed " she gave him her hand. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The sunset was one of those gorgeous 
 manifestations of coloring that seem, as 
 we gaze into their magic depths, revela 
 tions from another world an effulgence 
 of which no human skill has ever trans 
 ferred to canvas even . the shadow. A 
 consciousness of its unearthly beauty 
 gushed over Ethan s heart as never in 
 all his life before as if some new sense 
 had that moment been born within him. 
 He turned to Ellinor : Have you 
 charity for extravagance ?" 
 
 She looked up inquiringly, and he 
 added : I have had, of late : there is 
 often wisdom underneath it." He took 
 from an inner pocket and handed to her 
 a scrap of paper. It contained but a 
 single stanza :* 
 
 * From a fugitive poem by Mrs. SARAH T. BOL- 
 TON, of Indiana. 
 
 " There was no music in the rippling stream, 
 
 No fragrance in the rose or violet, 
 No warmth, no glory in the noontide beam, 
 No star in heaven, dear love, until we met." 
 
 " Is it absurd ?" pursued Ethan, when 
 he saw she had read it. Is it ridicu 
 lous ? Yet I never knew what the glory 
 of sunset was till now." 
 
 As they walked slowly home they 
 gradually came back to earth. They 
 had passed the age of thoughtlessness. 
 Ellinor was twenty-five and Ethan six 
 years older, and they were business peo 
 ple, if they were lovers. 
 
 They agreed that, except to Celia, 
 nothing should be said of their engage 
 ment and its proviso. Ethan could not 
 help touching on that proviso : " Whom 
 would you cherish the more dearly, Elli 
 nor one of your pupils who enjoyed all 
 her senses, or one who, by loss of sight, 
 doubly needed your protection ?" 
 
 " A year, a year !" she persisted : 
 " let us await the decree of God." 
 Then, as they passed on, nearing the 
 Elm Walk, her eyes following his wist 
 ful gaze to a small clump of shrubbery, 
 the soft voice added in a lighter tone : 
 " Dream-cottages are pretty things in the 
 moonlight, but there are rainy days, you 
 know, Ethan." 
 
 Ethan I" He started. 
 
 " Besides," she went on, " even if all 
 else result result as we hope there s 
 the furniture : I ve a small purse at 
 home that perhaps in another year might 
 be heavy enough " 
 
 " In another year, then. Since you ve 
 found out my scriptural name, darling 
 Ellinor, I am content to work and to 
 wait, for I know now if we both live 
 what the will of God is." 
 
 It was a cheerful party that evening 
 at Dr. Meyrac s tea-table. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 AN ARRIVAL. 
 
 " Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord." 
 ROMANS. 
 
 " AN is it you, Terence dear, at last ? 
 W T hat s the matter ? Ye look as if ye d 
 seen a spook." 
 
164 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " Worse nor that, Norah. Did ye 
 ever hear of a spook stealin a man s 
 money and sendin r him to jail ?" 
 
 Norah turned pale : " Sure and it 
 isn t?" 
 
 "Yes it is that very black-souled, 
 infernal Ye needn t grip the babe, 
 mavourneen : don t scare the childher. 
 It s me that has the whip-hand o the 
 scoundrel now." 
 
 The time of this dialogue was three 
 days after that on which the two cousins 
 parted at Mr. Hartland s gate one to 
 return with crushed heart and saddened 
 life ; the other with exultation, in a tu 
 mult of wildering joy. The place was a 
 room in the Chiskauga " Hotel." 
 
 No Inns now. No unpretending, 
 homely nooks of shelter where, when 
 one has been exposed without to cold 
 and hunger and a long day s fatigues, 
 man and horse may be taken in to 
 warmth and quiet, and the rider may 
 stretch his limbs and say, Shall I not 
 take mine ease ?" We don t care about 
 ease in these days of rush and railroad 
 ing, except such as is to be had in a 
 sleeping-car, and we hate simple names. 
 Glasgow, the most populous town in 
 Scotland, has her Green, and Boston, 
 the modern Athens, her Common ; but 
 these are examples of extinct rusticity. 
 Modern cities rejoice only in Hotels, 
 noisy and glittering, where " distinguish 
 ed guests" are entertained ; and in 
 Parks, gotten up at a cost of millions. 
 And why should not Chiskauga village 
 if it was be allowed, in this land of 
 liberty, to pick a French term (once 
 designating the stately mansions of the 
 great) from the fashionable vocabulary, 
 and appropriate the same to her humble 
 house of entertainment ? 
 
 It was at the Chiskauga Hotel, then, 
 that our old friends, Terence and Norah, 
 with their two children, Dermot and 
 Kathleen, now found themselves. Kul- 
 len had kept his promise as to the letter 
 of recommendation. It was to Mr. 
 Sydenham, whose acquaintance he had 
 made while traveling, three years before, 
 as temperance lecturer in Ohio. Ter 
 ence had given up his tavern, spent a 
 week with his father-in-law in Cumber 
 
 land county, and as soon as he reached 
 Chiskauga had presented his credentials. 
 It was on his return from Rosebank, 
 and just before reaching the hotel, that 
 he met a plain but nicely-kept carriage 
 drawn by two sorrels. 
 
 " But are ye sure it was him ?" Norah 
 asked, under her breath. 
 
 "Am I sure that s you, acushla? Am 
 I sure this is little Kathy ?" taking her 
 on his knee. " D ye think them poor 
 craturs that s burnin in hell don t know 
 the Divil when they catch a sight of 
 him ?" 
 
 Ye scare the babe, Teddy, with sich 
 talk." 
 
 Well, thin, I won t." To the child : 
 "There isn t no ugly black man comin 
 to take daddy or my Kathy : they don t 
 have ugly black men here. We re gom 
 to a garden a most as nice as grand 
 pap s, where ye kin play to yer heart s 
 contint, my little darlint. And, Derry, 
 there s a stream o water right conva- 
 nient Kinshon Creek s the name it 
 goes by where ye kin sail that boat o 
 yours." 
 
 Dermot clapped his hands. 
 
 So ye ve settled it all, Terence. Ye 
 saw Mr. Sydenham ?" 
 
 Didn t I ? A gintleman, every inch 
 of him. He minds me o the Ould 
 Country, barrin he s as civil-spoken as 
 though he was nobody at all " 
 
 " Did ye tell him about the trial and 
 the jail and all ?" 
 
 An what for shouldn t I tell him the 
 whole, out o the face ? It s no more 
 nor right for him to know where I ve 
 been ; and then maybe Mr. Kullen wrote 
 to him a ready. So I tould everything, 
 both about me and you. Says I : < Mr. 
 Sydenham, if she don t make the beau- 
 tifulest butter that s ever been set on 
 your table, we don t want a cint, nayther 
 she nor me. That settled it." 
 
 " So ye r to manage the farm and me 
 the dairy, and we re to have the place ?" 
 
 " The house and the garden and a 
 potato patch and a cow s milk, wood to 
 keep the pot boilin and the childher 
 warm, and sixty dollars a month. It 
 don t pay like the bar, Norah, but then, 
 ye know, I promised Mr. Kullen " 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 165 
 
 Oh, Teddy, to talk of the bar ! an 
 me and the childher goin to live wi the 
 flowers and the green fields round us, 
 and the blessed cows to milk and the 
 lovely butter to make, and everything 
 just like it used to be when you came 
 over from ould Mr. Richards in the 
 gloamin ! But ye ve forgot that." 
 
 Not quite, it seemed. And it was 
 very well there was nobody there just 
 then but the children nobody to laugh 
 at the foolish fellow when he dropped 
 Kathleen in a hurry and stopped short 
 his wife s panegyric on farm-life by a 
 kiss very much of the old Cumberland 
 county savor. 
 
 Thin it s all jist right, mavourneen," 
 he said. " I was sort o tired o them 
 stone pavements and brick walls and 
 white shutters, any way. It s a snug 
 shealin enough, Norah four good 
 rooms, forby the kitchen. The ould 
 coachman had it, but his wife died last 
 month, and he s sort o lonely, and we ll 
 have to give him a room. Mr. Syden- 
 ham s to pay us four dollars a week for 
 his board ; that ll help some, and maybe 
 the poor man won t eat no great dale. 
 I think he takes it hard, the ould wo 
 man s death. I m not misdoubtin but 
 what we ve done the right thing, if that 
 divil is here." 
 
 The farm faded from Norah s imagi 
 nation, the bright look from her face, 
 and anxious misgivings about Cassiday, 
 the perjured witness, clouded counte 
 nance and thought. 
 
 Ye came here to please me, Teddy 
 asthore, and ye haven t forgot them 
 times when ye used to set by the kitchen 
 fire and tell father stories about ould 
 Ireland to please him for my sake. 
 Maybe ye ll do somethin more for 
 me." 
 
 " Ye re a darlint, Norah, and so was 
 yer ould father to let me have ye. Sorra 
 thing can ye ask me in rason, that is 
 but what I ll do." 
 
 "It s for your sake, Teddy, and the 
 childher s. I dreamed last night about 
 them days when ye was in jail, and me 
 like a bird wi a broken wing that want 
 ed to go off somewhere and die : it s 
 awful to think of; but then ye can 
 
 niver tell it might be God that sint ye 
 there : Mr. Kullen thought He did, to 
 keep ye from helpin on drinkin , and 
 from keepin company wi bad men like 
 that Cassidy, and to bring ye out here 
 where ye can hear the birds sing, and 
 where ye can let them childher run out 
 and not find them, the next minit wi 
 the riff-raff of the street, playin in the 
 gutter. Who knows but what it was 
 the Lord put it in that bad man s heart 
 to harm ye all for yer good ?" 
 
 " Sure, an it wouldn t be God that 
 would put sich a thought in a man . 
 that s the Divil s work." 
 
 I do know," said Norah, thought 
 fully : "He tould Moses he was goin to 
 harden King Pharaoh s heart and them 
 Egyptians, afore they got drownded ; 
 and he did harden it awful ; and that 
 was the way the childher o Israel got 
 to the promised land. I was readin it 
 last week, and there s nothin about the 
 Divil there." 
 
 Norah was getting out of her depth 
 in the Red Sea of theology, and Ter 
 ence was afraid to follow her. He tried 
 to bring her back to the dry land of 
 practical business : " An what was it ye 
 wanted me to do for ye ?" 
 
 But Norah was not quite ready to 
 answer that question yet. " Cassiday 
 was a desperate wicked man," she said, 
 "but I don t think he was wickeder nor 
 Pharaoh : he niver wanted to kill Derry 
 nor nobody else, that I hearn of; but 
 Pharaoh, he tried to murder all the boys 
 them Israel women had jist as soon as 
 the poor babes was born, and niver to 
 leave them nothin but the girls. Ef it 
 had been Derry, what would ye have 
 done, Terence ?" 
 
 " Sure an wouldn t I have shot the 
 bloody blackguard, ef I could ?" 
 
 " I expect ye would. But ye see God 
 niver tould the childher o Israel to shoot 
 Pharaoh. He took it in hand himself, 
 and drownded him. So you jist let that 
 vagabone alone, Terence. Ef God wants 
 him drownded, it s easy done. There s 
 plenty o them steamboats blows up 
 every day ; or maybe he ll go sailin on 
 that bit water we saw as we came in, 
 and the boat 11 tip over. Any way, it s 
 
1 66 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 good the rascal s done ye, though he 
 was minded to do ye harm : ef he hadn t 
 sworn agin ye, ye d niver have got to 
 no promised land like this. I m sure 
 it s far better here nor it was in the wil 
 derness, with nothin but manna, or may 
 be some birds, to eat all day. We re to 
 have a cow s milk, and they say there s 
 bee trees in them woods out here in the 
 West, that a man can cut down ef he 
 wants a bucket o nice honeycomb ; and 
 thin, ye know, there s the garden besides, 
 and the potato-patch. And sure the Is 
 raelites niver had no potatoes, and niver 
 came to nothin better, after they got 
 done with the wilderness, nor milk and 
 honey. Now, Teddy there s a darlint ! 
 let bygones be bygones : let the ugly 
 spalpeen go, and let God have his own 
 way, and don t ye be getting yerself into 
 another scrape for nothin at all, at all: 
 that s what I wanted to ax ye." 
 
 Terence reflected: "It s nothin bet 
 ter nor to be kilt over the head with a 
 good shillalah the rascal deserves ; but 
 thin ef we all got our desarts, maybe 
 there s some of us might come out sort 
 o badly. I don t niver like to think 
 much about keepin them men drinkin 
 half the night, instead o comin decently 
 to bed to you, Norah, an you lying there 
 wakin and waitin for me. I don t jist 
 think God liked that. So maybe, as ye 
 say, I d best leave Him to manage Cassi- 
 day, or Delorny, or whatever name the 
 Divil s cub has picked up by this time. 
 
 But it s mighty aggravatin -like to see 
 the mansworn rowdy set up there wi a 
 bran-new coat and hat, drivin the pret 
 tiest pair o sorrels ye ever set eyes on, 
 Norah ; and me that knows all the time 
 where the money came from that made 
 him a dacent man to look at." 
 
 " But ye niver can get back that money 
 without you go into them law-courts 
 again ; and I think that would kill me," 
 said Norab, with a shudder. 
 
 " Sure an didn t I tell ye, acushla, I d 
 let the scoundrel run, for your sake and 
 the babes ? Thin I ve got no time to 
 go after him wi the shillalah ; for that 
 house of ourn s is all ready, and I made 
 a fire in the kitchen, and the ould coach 
 man said he d see to it till we came on. 
 I ll go seek a dray to take the trunks 
 and the plenishin ." 
 
 " There ain t no drays here, daddy," 
 said that observant young urchin, Der- 
 mot, who had been exploring Chiskauga 
 while his father was gone. 
 
 " Well, thin, a cart or a wagon, or 
 whatever they carry things with in these 
 parts." 
 
 Before evening they were installed in 
 their new habitation. And Derry was 
 sailing his boat on the creek, and Kath 
 leen, with gaze of infant delight, was 
 watching Norah milk "them blessed 
 cows," warm recollections of a home 
 stead in Pennsylvania flushing the moth 
 er s cheek and tears of pleasure dimming 
 her eyes the while. 
 
PART IX. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 GRANGULA S MOUNT. 
 
 " Charity for his fellow-creatures arrested half his 
 words." MADAME DE SEVIGN, speaking of the .good 
 Monsieur de Gourville. 
 
 ON the lower portion of the lawn in 
 front of Sydenham s house stood a 
 stately elm, which, when the axe leveled 
 the surrounding forest, the woodcutter 
 had spared. Under its broad shelter, in 
 full view of the village, sat two ladies 
 Mrs. Clymer on a rustic chair, calmly 
 knitting, and our friend Leoline on a 
 camp-stool, a small table with drawing 
 materials before her. 
 
 The latter seemed greatly discom 
 posed. " It s no use, Aunt Hannah," 
 throwing down her pencil : " I can t 
 draw a steady line this morning. I wish 
 some old man would marry that horrid 
 creature and carry her off to California." 
 
 " Thee shouldn t talk so, Lela dear. 
 We should make much allowance for 
 Catherine Wolfgang. Thee is too young 
 to remember much of her husband, but 
 she must have been sorely tried with 
 that man." 
 
 " If his tongue was half as abusive as 
 hers, I think she must, auntie. Seems 
 to me if we have suffering ourselves, that 
 ought to make us feel compassion for 
 the sufferings of others." 
 
 "Yes. But she didn t know Celia 
 was within hearing, and had no intention 
 of hurting her feelings." 
 
 She s too cowardly to say it to her 
 face : these creatures always are. They 
 haven t a bit of real courage. She only 
 abused the darling child, and insulted 
 the memory of her parents, behind her 
 back." 
 
 " Maybe it wasn t so bad as thee 
 thinks. People sometimes exaggerate 
 without intending it." 
 
 " I wonder if there ever was anybody 
 you could not find some excuse for, 
 aunt." 
 
 " We all need forgiveness, Lela." 
 
 More or less. But I think if I had 
 
 ten thousand Aunt Hannahs, just like 
 you, they wouldn t need as much for 
 giveness for the sins they committed all 
 their lives through, as Mrs. Wolfgang 
 needs for the backbiting she does with 
 that bitter tongue of hers in a single 
 year. I m wicked myself, I know : if 
 that woman had waited for Jean to carry 
 her out to the garden gate, I d have 
 liked, of all things in the world, to be 
 passing, just then, on the other side of 
 the way : it would have been a sight to 
 see. But I m not vicious : I don t wish 
 anybody any harm : if Mrs. Wolfgang 
 were on her deathbed, and had nobody 
 else, I d be willing to sit up with her all 
 night, provided they didn t insist on my 
 crying if she died next morning. Then, 
 you know, auntie, I ve heard you repeat 
 the texts about breaking the bruised 
 reed and crushing the soul already nigh 
 to perishing. I think anybody who 
 would do that is too mean and cruel to 
 live in this world." 
 
 " God does not think so." 
 
 Hannah Clymer was almost startled 
 out of her equanimity when the warm 
 hearted girl sprang from her seat, threw 
 her arms round her neck and kissed her : 
 "You re an angel, auntie, that s the 
 truth an angel with a good-for-nothing 
 niece. I wonder I don t contrive to be 
 better, with you in the house all the time." 
 
 " Do I ever complain of thee, dear 
 child ?" 
 
 " Never, nor of Mrs. Wolfgang either. 
 Ah, here comes papa. Who is that he 
 has just parted from ?" 
 
 Some one who brought him a letter 
 of introduction this morning." 
 
 " Who is it, papa ?" as he came across 
 to them. 
 
 "An Irishman. He and his wife are 
 coming to live in the coachman s house 
 and manage the farm and dairy. You re 
 member Mr. Kullen, Hannah ?" 
 
 " The temperance lecturer ? I remem 
 ber him well." 
 
 " He recommends this man highly. 
 167 
 
1 63 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 The poor fellow, it seems, suffered three 
 months imprisonment on a false charge. 
 Kullen proved his innocence, and he 
 was released on the spot. A hard case." 
 
 " This foolish child," said Mrs. Cly- 
 mer, with her kind smile, " has been 
 grieving so sorely over another hard 
 case, this morning, that she has scarcely 
 touched her drawing." 
 
 "Celia Pembroke s? Mrs. Wolf 
 gang" 
 
 " Ah, you ve heard of it, papa ? And 
 you said nothing to me about it ?" 
 
 " Why should I vex you, my child, by 
 repeating the coarse slanders of a cruel 
 woman ?" 
 
 " Poor, dear Celia ! And no father, 
 no mother, nobody to stand up for her !" 
 
 "Except you, my child, and sister 
 Hannah ; and myself, if you think me 
 worth counting ; and the Meyracs, and 
 the Hartlands the uncle has come out 
 most creditably and Mr. Harper, and 
 the Creightons, and ever so many more 
 of those whose good opinion is worth 
 having. Mrs. Wolfgang has a party who 
 hold with her I m very sorry it num 
 bers as many as it does people who 
 like gossip seasoned with scandal, and 
 take comfort in the misfortunes of others. 
 They will run Celia down, of course ; 
 talk of pride having a fall, and justify 
 Movvbray in casting her off that will be 
 their version of it because her father 
 deserved the penitentiary and left a stain 
 on her birth." 
 
 " Mowbray !" said Leoline, her eyes 
 flashing "is that broken off?" 
 
 "So Ethan tells me by Celia her 
 self." 
 
 Brave girl ! I want to kiss her." 
 
 " Mowbray behaved badly some 
 jealous quarrel, I believe " 
 
 "Just like him; all a pretence to 
 shirk out. I m so glad ! I m scarcely 
 sorry Celia lost her money, since that 
 selfish Adonis is gone along with it." 
 
 "You are harsh in your judgments, 
 my child." 
 
 " So Aunt Hannah says ; and as both 
 of you agree about it, no doubt it s true. 
 But consider, papa. How would you 
 like me to marry a young man who had 
 made up his mind it was better to do 
 
 nothing in this world except to live on 
 the money you might be able to give 
 me ? How would you like a son-in-law 
 without either trade or business or pro 
 fession the laziest young fellow about 
 town, who spent half his time riding a 
 horse he couldn t afford to keep, while 
 his mother was slaving at home, teach 
 ing school and keeping house too ? I 
 won t say a word of the scandal about 
 Ellen Tyler : I despise such things, and 
 wouldn t hear them if I could possibly 
 help it. But what is he good for, papa ? 
 What has he ever done in this world ? 
 What is he ever likely to do, except to 
 wear kid gloves and a stylish necktie ? 
 Compare him to Ethan or to Mr. Creigh- 
 ton By the way, I wonder if it wasn t 
 Creighton he was jealous of?" 
 
 " Possibly. But, Lela, let me advise 
 you not to meddle with your friend s 
 love-affairs. I believe that Celia will 
 not marry Mowbray now, and I am not 
 sorry for it : there is too much truth in 
 what you say about him ; but she loves 
 him still, depend upon it, and could not 
 bear a disparaging word said to his dis 
 credit. And pray don t go recommend 
 ing anybody else that you might think " 
 
 " Papa, what do you take me for ?" 
 
 " For a dear, kind, impulsive child, 
 that is so indignant against wrong, and 
 so eager to help her friends and make 
 them happy, that I never do know what 
 strange thing she will do next." 
 
 "Well, I ll try to behave well this 
 time, papa," said Leoline, recommencing 
 her drawing. " Please tell me how you 
 like Mr. Harper s church." 
 
 " I think you ve done the church cor 
 rectly enough, but I can t say so much for 
 the steeple. You must have been think 
 ing of Celia when you drew these lines?" 
 
 " No, papa ; it was not that." 
 
 "Your steeple leans all to the left. 
 Look at it." 
 
 "It s not my steeple. If I had built 
 it, I d have made a better job of it. 
 Here, papa," handing him a large opera- 
 glass, "judge for yourself." 
 
 " Upon my word, you have a quick 
 eye, Lela." 
 
 " You see it does lean on one side 
 to the north. The builder ought to have 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 169 
 
 been ashamed of himself. It s a crooked 
 steeple, and nothing else." Then, with 
 mock gravity: " The truth of history 
 must be vindicated, as somebody said 
 in the newspaper the other day. As a 
 crooked steeple it shall go down to pos 
 terity in my drawing." 
 
 Now, Lela dear," said Mrs. Clymer, 
 in her gentle, coaxing tone of remon 
 strance, " why cannot thee let the poor 
 steeple alone ?" 
 
 This was too much for the young 
 girl, and even Sydenham joined in her 
 merriment. But the old lady took it so 
 good-naturedly that Lela, repentant, ex 
 claimed, "Well, I ll forgive the steeple 
 for your sake, Aunt Hannah : I ll rub 
 out the builder s transgression and set 
 his work upright, as all men and all 
 steeples should be." 
 
 "After that good deed is done, my 
 child," said Sydenham, " I want you to 
 walk down to the village and invite Celia 
 to join our riding party this afternoon, as 
 soon as school is dismissed." 
 
 "Yes, papa: I m so glad." 
 
 " What with the communication from 
 Cranstoun, then that scene at the Mey- 
 racs, and finally this rupture with Mow- 
 bray, no wonder if the poor child feels 
 miserable and forlorn. The ride, at all 
 events, will do her good." 
 
 When Celia rode over, she found that 
 Lucille Meyrac had come to practice 
 duets with Leoline ; so the latter was 
 unable to join the riding party. 
 
 "You prefer the forest road?" said 
 Sydenham to Celia. 
 
 " " Very much." She was quiet, but 
 with a look of much suffering and de 
 pression. 
 
 Sydenham tried to win her from sad 
 thoughts, relating to her Aunt Hannah s 
 compassionate plea for the steeple, then 
 branching off to talk of the school and 
 of Ellinor Ethelridge. "She is like a 
 sister to me," said Celia. 
 
 "It is good for both that you are as 
 sociated," said Sydenham. " I am not 
 acquainted with the details of her early 
 history, but I know it is a melancholy 
 one. Adversity has given her strength 
 of mind and courage." 
 
 " I m so weak and worthless ! I have 
 no fortitude." 
 
 " The best of us have days when the 
 heart asks if there be any sorrow like 
 unto ours." 
 
 " Ellinor has suffered for more than I, 
 yet she" 
 
 "Did not win the battle in a day. 
 Darkness and tempest must be. The 
 soul must cry out sometimes in the 
 gloom as poor Burns did when the 
 burden was more than he could bear 
 
 O life ! thou art a galling load, 
 
 Along a rough, a weary road, 
 
 To wretches such as I 1 " 
 
 Celia started. The very words that 
 had been haunting her ever since that 
 terrible scene with Mowbray ! And the 
 tears rose, do what she would. 
 
 " To all of us the road is barred some 
 times," Sydenham added, after a pause ; 
 " but how can we tell whether it may not 
 be in mercy ?" 
 
 Celia thought of Sydenham s widowed 
 life, and of all the good he had done. 
 Gradually she became calmer : but little 
 more was said till they reached Gran- 
 gula s Mount, the scene of Creighton 
 and Emberly s political discussion. A 
 little way down its eastern slope, as our 
 readers may remember, was a sparse 
 clump of umbrageous forest trees. Pa 
 triarchs were they, that had survived 
 the fate of their companions isolated 
 patriarchs ; not, as their fellows still in 
 the crowd of the dense forest, shooting 
 up tall and slender and restricted in their 
 spread, like the constant indwellers of a 
 populous city, cramped, by the crush 
 and press around them, in scope of ac 
 tion and circle of habit ; but spreading 
 erratically out, like the lone-dwelling 
 pioneer, who has taken root apart from 
 his fellows, and whose uncribbed notions 
 and doings dilate to the ample propor 
 tions of the wild and exuberant nature 
 in which they grow. 
 
 It was one of those afternoons, typi 
 cal of human life, when detached clouds 
 flit across the sky and the landscape lies 
 in chequered patches of light and shade. 
 The riders drew rein and turned to the 
 charming scene. " Shall we rest a 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 while ?" said Sydenliam. " I seldom 
 pass this spot, especially on so beautiful 
 an evening as this, without stopping to 
 enjoy a prospect that never tires." 
 
 Celia assenting, they dismounted : 
 Sydenham made fast each horse s bridle- 
 rein to a depending branch, then led the 
 way to the shelter of the grove. 
 
 Sydenham had too much wisdom and 
 delicacy to advert to Mowbray. Though 
 he well knew that the girl s disappoint 
 ment in her lover weighed far heavier 
 than loss of property or even of name, 
 yet he knew also that time is the only 
 styptic for a bleeding heart. He sought 
 to divert her thoughts from what, for the 
 nonce, admitted of no cure. When they 
 were seated, "Celia," he added, "have 
 you ever felt what a good thing it is to 
 get away from one s fellow-creatures now 
 and then, and renew acquaintance with 
 inanimate Nature ?" 
 
 " Of late more then formerly. I used 
 to prefer who is it that so expresses it ? 
 having some one to whom to say how 
 sweet solitude is." 
 
 " Yes ; it is with years the conviction 
 comes that to be alone, sometimes, with 
 Nature in her beauty not only refreshes 
 the feelings, but also invigorates thought. 
 I don t know what world it is that Young 
 bids us shut out before we can wake to 
 reason and let her reign alone. If he 
 spoke of the noisy world as it swarms 
 in the thoroughfares of men, good and 
 well ; but if he meant such a glorious 
 world as spreads out before us here, he 
 is quite wrong. It is precisely before so 
 grand a tribunal as this that the mind 
 can grapple with the sublimest questions. 
 If I had to argue against a man s pre 
 judices, I d like to undertake the task, 
 not within the four walls of a room, but 
 where we are now sitting. I m glad we 
 came here this evening, Celia." 
 
 " Have you some prejudice of mine 
 to combat ?" 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 The color rose in her cheeks. 
 
 "You have guessed aright," Syden 
 ham continued. "It is of your mother 
 and your own birth and position that I 
 wish to speak to you." 
 
 Celia struggled for composure. " Speak 
 
 to me freely," she said at last. " I know 
 it is right that it should be talked over." 
 
 "Tell me how you feel about thi? 
 matter. It grieves you more than your 
 loss of property ?" 
 
 " Much more. I confess I have felt 
 dreadfully about it. I can scarcely tell 
 you how : as if I had been debased, de 
 graded as if every one had obtained 
 the right to look down upon me, to de 
 spise me. The Pariahs of India came 
 into my mind." 
 
 " Now I can answer your question. 
 I have a prejudice of } ours to combat." 
 
 " Is it a prejudice ? Yet we must 
 often suffer for the evil-doing of a parent. 
 Are we not told that God visits the sins 
 of the fathers on the children ?" 
 
 " The sentiment is Jewish, not Chris 
 tian : you would look for such an one in 
 vain among Christ s teachings. But I 
 will answer you more directly. In one 
 sense often in a terrible one it is most 
 true that the sins of the fathers are 
 visited on the children." 
 
 "Just so." 
 
 "It is patent to all of us that a child 
 neglected by ignorant or vicious parents 
 often suffers through life the penalty of a 
 crime or a neglect not his own. And 
 the curse may descend more surely still. 
 A parent persisting in a career of reck 
 less dissipation may transmit to his off 
 spring terrible disease. Nay, phrenolo 
 gists assert, and I partly believe it, that 
 violent passions or vicious inclinations, 
 which years of indulgence have stamped 
 on the nature, may go down a frightful 
 inheritance ! from parent to innocent 
 child. If there be one motive, outweigh 
 ing all personal considerations, that ought 
 to warn off from excess of body or in 
 temperance of mind, it is to be found in 
 the reflection that we are becoming the 
 deadly enemies of our posterity that 
 we are consigning to misery or vice the 
 beings to whom we have imparted ex 
 istence. In this sense well may we be 
 reminded that God visits on the chil 
 dren the fathers sins." 
 
 " I see that. Then, since so many 
 thousands must suffer for the miscon 
 duct of their parents, why not I for the 
 sin of mine ?" 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 171 
 
 " How are you to suffer ? By God s 
 fiat ? Has He doomed you to misery ? 
 Did your parents neglect or mislead you ? 
 No : from the wise training of one or 
 both" 
 
 " Oh, of both, Mr. Sydenham of 
 both. Let my father s misconduct in 
 other respects have been what it may, 
 to me he was always the kindest, the 
 best " She stopped. Warm recollec 
 tions of past days melted her heart and 
 filled her eyes, but she mastered her 
 emotion and resumed : " Mr. Sydenham, 
 I cannot tell you what consolation I feel 
 in the favorable opinion of me you ex 
 pressed the other day ; but I should be 
 most unworthy of it if I could forget 
 that I owe whatever good may be in me 
 not to my mother only, but also to the 
 care and instructions of my dear, dear 
 father." 
 
 " Your parents, then, both trained you. 
 in the way you should go. You have 
 inherited, chiefly perhaps from a mother s 
 gifted organization, health, beauty, talent, 
 good dispositions. If you are to suffer 
 for a father s sin, it will be man s doing, 
 not God s." 
 
 " But if God does visit on children 
 parents sins, can it be wicked in man to 
 do so ?" 
 
 " Yes, Celia, wicked. You shall judge. 
 Suppose that in the school you are now 
 teaching you find some scholar ill-nur 
 tured, untrained, sickly too perhaps, suf 
 fering sorely for a parent s faults. Have 
 you a right to add, by your act, to the 
 heavy burden ? Have you a right, be 
 cause the sins pf others may have been 
 visited on that poor creature, to neglect 
 or vilify him ?" 
 
 " Oh, none, none ! I see it would be 
 wickedness. I feel that such a cast 
 away should have more kindness than 
 those who have been favored by Nature 
 and Fortune." 
 
 "Your sense of justice informs you 
 what is your duty to others. Be not 
 less just to yourself. Because of your 
 father s misconduct you will probably 
 lose a comfortable fortune ; but whatever 
 you suffer, on the same score, beyond 
 that, you will suffer through the base 
 prejudice, or the baser malevolence, of 
 
 worthless people, just as any other in 
 nocent person might." 
 
 " But there is so much prejudice in 
 the world, especially on this very point." 
 
 " It is daily diminishing. But you are 
 right, Celia : there is much of it still. 
 Try to listen to it as you do to the 
 growling of a thunderstorm or the pat 
 tering of sleet against your windows. 
 Try to encounter it as you would any 
 other evil thing envy, malice, hatred 
 and all uncharitableness. That which 
 is unmerited may, by a brave heart, al 
 ways be borne. Lift up your brow with 
 a noble confidence, and if offence come, 
 bear in mind that the woe and the 
 shame attach not to you, but to the of 
 fender. Be independent how well you 
 can afford it ! of the self-installed arbiter. 
 Even in the slanderer s evil pride there 
 may be real benefit to you. If any one, 
 puffed up with self-righteousness or 
 blinded by false conceptions of right and 
 wrong, seek to disparage you because 
 of your birth, and assume that you ought 
 to stand aside he or she, spotless-born, 
 being holier than you remember that 
 any such Pharisee is utterly unfit to be 
 an associate of yours. If by any such 
 you are avoided, how great the gain to 
 you ! The good-for-nothing are often 
 winnowed from our acquaintance by what 
 the world calls adversity." 
 
 The conversation continued for some 
 time longer in this strain. Then they 
 began to talk over the business points 
 in the case, and Celia related all that 
 had passed between her and Cranstoun, 
 showing his letter, which she had been 
 looking over just before she started from 
 home. 
 
 Sydenham read it in silence. " It is 
 his writing," he said at last: "one must 
 believe one s eyes. Well, the frankness 
 of that man s villainy is refreshing. Do 
 you know what he expected, Celia ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Either that you would marry him, 
 or buy him off: I don t think it matter 
 ed much to him which. And I verily 
 believe the scoundrel thinks you will do 
 the one or the other yet before the week 
 is out. What a sealed book to such a 
 rascal is an honorable heart !" 
 
172 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 "But it is true is it not? that 
 whether I write or he writes, the result 
 will be the same to me." 
 
 " No : the fellow knows well enough 
 that by turning informer he places you 
 in a false position." 
 
 " How is that ?" 
 
 "Had he suffered, you to write, this 
 Mr. Dunmore could not, for very shame, 
 have demanded more than the original 
 sum that Mr. Hartland received from 
 your father s estate. But, getting the 
 information from another, and having to 
 pay heavily for it, he may possibly bring 
 suit, in addition, for the mesne profits." 
 
 " I don t understand that term." 
 
 " It means the intermediate rents or 
 profits that may have accrued from a 
 property during the time it had been in 
 the hands of a person to whom it did 
 not belong : in this case the rents and 
 profits of your father s properly from the 
 time it came into Mr. Hartland s hands 
 up to the present day." 
 
 " That is terrible : then I or my guar 
 dian would have to repay all that he has 
 paid out for my education and support. 
 I shall be heavily in debt, besides losing 
 all I have. How shall I ever be able to 
 pay it ?" 
 
 " I do not think any court in the 
 United States would, under the circum 
 stances, award more than the ten thou 
 sand dollars which the good manage 
 ment of your guardian has added, as 
 your aunt informed me, to the thirty 
 thousand originally put into his hands. 
 At all events, dear child, do not vex 
 yourself, in advance, about so uncertain 
 a thing. Your affairs are in good hands. 
 Don t let your thoughts dwell on them 
 if you can possibly help it : better think 
 of your school. Shall we ride ?" 
 
 As Sydenham assisted her to mount, 
 " By the way," he said, " what did you 
 mean, that last day we rode together, by 
 talking about parting with a favorite ?" 
 
 I cannot afford to keep Bess now." 
 
 " I don t know about that," said 
 Sydenham, as they rode on. " I m not 
 sure that you can afford to part with 
 her. You are right in wishing to hus- 
 oand your resources, but there is such a 
 thing as false economy. Health, spirit, 
 
 energy these are now part of your 
 stock in trade. It s a very wearing 
 thing, Celia, to teach school day after 
 day : the world underrates the import 
 ance and the labor of such work. We 
 mustn t have you worn out." 
 
 " Ellinor s school hours are but five a 
 day limited to that on your recom 
 mendation, I think she told me." 
 
 " Yes : it is enough for pupil and 
 teacher. Children, properly taught, can 
 learn more in that time than in six or 
 seven hours of daily lessons. But as to 
 Bess, I ve a proposal to make to you." 
 
 " I must support myself and pay all 
 my own expenses, or I shall not be 
 happy." 
 
 Be sure that I respect that feeling. 
 But which do you think will be prefer 
 able to teach five hours a day and walk 
 on foot, or to teach five hours and a 
 half and have the advantage of a ride 
 whenever you desire it ?" 
 
 " The latter, certainly." 
 
 " I agree with you. Now, Celia, you 
 must have given Lela, in the last two or 
 three years, at least a hundred music- 
 lessons." 
 
 It has been a great pleasure to 
 me." 
 
 " I don t doubt it ; and I accepted the 
 kindness," he added, smiling, "from 
 Celia, the capitalist, thankfully and with 
 out scruple. Will the teacher let me 
 talk to her very frankly ?" 
 
 " Surely, Mr. Sydenham. You wish 
 to speak to me on business : that is 
 what I must learn now." 
 
 " Right. I have been thinking seri 
 ously of sending Lela to Philadelphia to 
 prosecute her musical studies. But I 
 dislike, more than I can tell you, to part 
 with the dear child. I should so much 
 prefer to have her taught here. She 
 ought to have three lessons a week, 
 partly in singing." 
 
 "If you think me capable, I shall be 
 delighted to teach her." 
 
 " You may remember that, two or 
 three years since, in Philadelphia, I was 
 present, more than once, when Madame 
 Schonbach was giving you a lesson : a 
 friend wished to know my opinion of 
 her system of teaching. I thought it ad- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 173 
 
 mirable ; and I have observed that you 
 adopted it, faithfully and skillfully, in 
 giving Lela lessons. I shall commit her 
 musical education to you with entire 
 confidence." 
 
 How much I thank you !" 
 
 I shall be the gainer. Probably you 
 have not yet thought cf your scale of 
 prices." 
 
 No. Mrs. Mowbray charges sixty 
 cents fifty cents only, I believe, to her 
 youngest pupils ; but I am quite inex 
 perienced " 
 
 Celia, I have usually been thought a 
 good judge in musical matters. You are 
 a better musician, and have a much bet 
 ter system in teaching, than Mrs. Mow- 
 bray. Besides, you understand thorough 
 bass : she does not. And then her les 
 sons, at sixty cents, are but three-quarters 
 of an hour long. If you charge less than 
 a dollar an hour, there can be but one 
 good reason for it." 
 
 What reason ?" 
 
 Because those who apply are too 
 poor to be able to pay what your lessons 
 are worth. Do as you please in their 
 cases. I am not too poor to pay a just 
 price. Indeed, there is a reason why I 
 should pay more than they. I propose 
 that you should give Lela her lessons at 
 my house, and you will have to travel 
 each time more than two miles." 
 
 I shall greatly prefer it. Your 
 Chickering is so much superior to Mr. 
 Hartland s piano." 
 
 So it was arranged that Celia should 
 give Lela three music-lessons a week, 
 of an hour each, for a hundred and 
 fifty dollars a year. It will pay for 
 Bess keep," Sydenham remarked, "and 
 leave something over for farriers and 
 saddlers items. Depend upon it, the 
 mare is a good investment. She may 
 save you several doctors bills. And on 
 her back you can come to Rosebank and 
 return in twenty minutes, instead of 
 three-quarters of an hour, which you 
 would have to spend on foot. You save 
 time, and time is money." 
 
 Sydenham s delicate thoughtfulness 
 for her welfare and comfort touched 
 Celia to the heart. As they parted, her 
 thought was : " Should I ever, but for 
 
 the loss of fortune, have thoroughly 
 known how good a man he is ?" 
 
 Then the thought would obtrude 
 itself: "How different the revelation 
 in Evelyn s case !" But alas ! alas ! 
 Though the eyes were opened, the heart 
 was sick. Celia thrust back the thought 
 as a disloyalty. Like the king of Israel 
 when he learned the fate of his insurgent 
 son, she still suffered love to cover a 
 multitude of sins. By and by she might 
 come to feel, as Sydenham had hinted, 
 that the beautiful path of flowers she had 
 been treading was barred in mercy. Not 
 now. All she could do was to turn her 
 thoughts resolutely to other things. 
 There was comfort there. 
 
 As she rode home on the graceful 
 little mare that was still to be hers, how 
 marvelous the change a few short hours 
 had wrought ! Not in the external. 
 She was still the daughter of an unmar 
 ried mother, and of a father who had led 
 a life of deceit. She felt, as before, that 
 her fortune large for her, with simple 
 tastes and living in a quiet village was 
 to go to another, leaving her almost 
 penniless. Without, all was still the 
 same. But within, a battle had been 
 fought and won. The kingdom in the 
 mind, that had been distracted by rebel 
 lious malcontent, was comparatively at 
 peace. It had overcome its enemies 
 and achieved independence. 
 
 It would have been a curious psycho 
 logical inquiry how much of the victory 
 which the young girl had that day ob 
 tained was due, as the greatest victories 
 often are, to a petty incident. 
 
 " Small sands the mountain, moments make the year, 
 And trifles, life." 
 
 Let Wisdom smile and Age forget 
 youthful weakness. It is none the less 
 true that full half the grief with which 
 Celia Pembroke encountered loss of 
 name and fortune was lifted from her 
 heart when she felt that, in giving up 
 forty thousand dollars, she was not call 
 ed upon to surrender, along with it, her 
 petted favorite her daily companion 
 her spirited little beauty, Bess. 
 
 Sydenham was a sagacious man. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 WHAT THE LAW SAID. 
 
 SOME one has said that law is but 
 the crystallization of natural justice, and 
 Aristotle claimed for Jurisprudence that 
 it is the most perfect branch of Ethics. 
 To a certain extent, especially as regards 
 the great legal maxims underlying all 
 statutory provisions the leges legum, to 
 adopt Bacon s phrase this is true. But 
 many of the Common Law usages are 
 essentially barbarous ; and while the 
 guards set up under that system to pre 
 serve the public rights of the subject 
 have done much for human liberty, 
 some of its rules touching private rights 
 in social life and the regulating of pro 
 perty are much less liberal and equitable 
 than the corresponding provisions under 
 the Institutes of the Roman Law. 
 
 Both systems are, in our own country, 
 gradually undergoing grave and wise 
 modifications, dictated by that merciful 
 and Christian spirit which is stealing 
 over the world as it grows older and 
 calmer, and which finds expression, from 
 time to time, in amendments to the 
 Statute Law 9f our several States. 
 
 This occurred strongly to Creighton 
 as he looked up the various law-points 
 in Celia s case. Ohio, he found, had 
 enacted remedies for an injustice which 
 older commonwealths have left unre- 
 clressed. It was with a feeling of en 
 couragement that, on the same afternoon 
 on which Sydenham and Celia had been 
 moralizing on Grangula s Mount, he 
 sought an interview with Mr. Hartland 
 the elder to report progress. The facts 
 he had to state were these : 
 
 That an Ohio statute, passed in 1831 
 and re-enacted (with a mere verbal 
 alteration) in the Code of 1854, pro 
 vides, " The issue of marriages deemed 
 null in law shall nevertheless be legiti 
 mated * 
 
 That an almost identical provision is 
 found in the Missouri Code.f And that, 
 although a Missouri circuit court decided, 
 under that law, that the children of the 
 second marriage could not inherit, the 
 
 * Act of February 24, 1831, xiii. 
 T " The issue of all marriages deemed null in law, 
 Or dissolved by divorce, shall be legitimate " 
 
 Supreme Court of the State reversed the 
 decision.:}: 
 
 That there had been no decision by 
 the Supreme Court of Ohio on this 
 point. 
 
 " My sister, Mrs. Wolfgang," sug 
 gested Hartland, " says Cranstoun told 
 her that just such a case as Celia s had 
 been decided adversely, not long since, 
 in one of the counties of this State. 
 Do you believe that ?" 
 
 " It may be a mere blind or it may be 
 true ; probably the latter, for that would 
 explain the grounds of Cranstoun s con 
 fidence. But it would be an endless 
 task to look through the records of 
 eighty counties in search of a decision 
 made in one of them ; nor is it import 
 ant. Since a circuit court in Missouri 
 decided against the rights of the children 
 by the second marriage, one in Ohio 
 may have fallen into the same error." 
 
 " But on what plea could a circuit 
 court decide adversely ?" 
 
 " Probably by construing the expres 
 sion, deemed null in law, as applic 
 able only to marriages that are what the 
 law calls voidable that is, marriages 
 which require a judicial sentence to 
 establish their nullity." 
 
 " You think that a false construction ?" 
 
 " Decidedly. I do not see how the 
 language of the statute can, with any 
 propriety, be so limited. I think the 
 innocent child or children of the mar 
 riage de facto, though f that marriage be 
 deemed in law a nullity, come clearly 
 within the letter and the spirit of the 
 enactment." 
 
 Hartland sat for some time absorbed 
 in thought. "Your opinion seems a 
 logical deduction from the wording of 
 the law," he said at last; "and I cannot 
 help hoping, for Celia s sake, that you 
 are right ; yet I very much doubt whether 
 
 t Lincecitnt v. Lincecum, 3 Mo. Ref. 441. A case 
 of bigamy, both wives being alive at the time o/ the 
 husband s death. The children of the second marriage 
 had sued, in a circuit court, for their share of the 
 father s property, and had lost the suit. The case 
 being carried to the Supreme Court of Missouri, the 
 decision of the court below was reversed, and the right 
 of the children to inherit affirmed. In giving judg 
 ment the court said : " Where a person is once clearly 
 and positively legitimated, he ought not to be bastard- 
 zed by implication or construction." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 175 
 
 such a law is conducive to public morality. 
 We are getting altogether too lax and 
 lenient in our modern notions, Mr. 
 Creighton. At this rate there will soon 
 be no distinction between virtue and 
 vice." 
 
 " We cannot punish crime until it is 
 detected," replied Creighton. " Had < 
 Mr. Pembroke been detected and con 
 victed, he would have been sentenced to 
 hard labor in the penitentiary for one 
 year at all events, and for six more at 
 the option of the court." 
 
 " But if a man knew that after his 
 death his wife and children might still 
 suffer for his fault, it would be an addi 
 tional motive to deter him from so 
 heinous a crime as bigamy." 
 
 Mrs. Pembroke and Miss Celia 
 were as innocent in this matter as you 
 and I, Mr. Hartland. Ought we to mete 
 out punishment to the innocent by way 
 of reforming the guilty ? On the same 
 principle we might enact that the widow 
 and children of a bigamist like Pembroke 
 should be condemned to years of im 
 prisonment and hard labor. It is possi 
 ble that such an enactment might oc 
 casionally exert a deterrent influence, 
 but I think you would not recommend 
 it." 
 
 " We shall not agree on such matters," 
 said Mr. Hartland, coldly. 
 
 " Very true ; and we are straying from 
 the practical points at issue. On one of 
 these points I think you may set your 
 mind at rest. You are not at all likely 
 to be held responsible for any reasonable 
 sums which, having good cause to be 
 lieve the property hers, you expended on 
 your ward s behalf, nor can she be held 
 to reimburse them." 
 
 " That is satisfactory." 
 
 Then they parted ; Mr. Hartland 
 somewhat nettled, as he always was 
 when he came into contact with modern 
 innovators who gave plausible reasons 
 in support of their heresies, and with 
 some misgivings also. "These san 
 guine world-reformers," he thought, 
 " are not much to be trusted : their 
 vagaries mislead them." 
 
 The next morning he called at Creigh- 
 ton s office. " You know," he said, " by 
 
 reputation at all events, Mr. Marshall of 
 Buffalo ?" 
 
 "Joseph Marshall, who practiced law 
 for some twenty years in this State ? 
 one of the clearest-headed lawyers in it." 
 
 " The same, and a very intimate friend 
 of mine. I should like, if you do not 
 object, to obtain his opinion in this mat 
 ter. The amount at issue is large, and 
 my duty to my niece requires that I 
 should neglect no reasonable precaution." 
 
 "You are quite right, Mr. Hartland. 
 I do not know Mr. Marshall personally, 
 but I shall be much pleased to have him 
 associated with me in the case." 
 
 " Then, if you will be so good as to 
 make out such notes of your own opinion 
 as you may desire to have submitted 
 to him, I shall start for Buffalo next 
 Monday." 
 
 " With great pleasure." Then, after 
 a pause : "Mr. Hartland, I begged you 
 not to say anything to Miss Celia about 
 the hopes I entertained to bring matters 
 out all right ; but if you see no objection, 
 I think, now that I have substantial 
 grounds to go upon, I ought to lay these 
 before her." 
 
 " I have no objection," said the other, 
 apparently with some hesitation. 
 
 Creighton noticed it : nevertheless the 
 same afternoon he called to see the 
 young lady. Mr. and Mrs. Hartland 
 had driven out, and he found her just 
 returned from school and alone. 
 
 They had met twice already since the 
 day when Celia heard of her father s 
 misconduct, and his manner had puzzled 
 her. It had certainly changed. For 
 merly, in the days of her prosperity 
 for so in her thoughts she now regarded 
 her past life he had frequently spent 
 his evenings with them ; and his some 
 what off-hand style of addressing her 
 (strictly within the bounds of good- 
 breeding though it was) had left an un 
 pleasant feeling a vague impression, as 
 she had told Mowbray, that he thought 
 her vain of her position as a village 
 heiress. 
 
 All this seemed to have passed away, 
 and within the last week he had treated 
 her with marked respect with a delicate 
 reverence, she almost thought, for her 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 misfortunes, but expressed in tone and 
 manner, not in words. 
 
 Etymologists derive the term "lady" 
 from two Gothic words, meaning bread- 
 giver : "gentleman" has a less assured 
 derivation, usually referred to birth rather 
 than to disposition ; yet I prefer to take 
 it in the modern sense of our beautiful 
 word gentle; so that the terms employed 
 to designate those above the vulgar, and 
 which ought to be restricted to Nature s 
 aristoi, may both imply inherent nobility 
 of character in one sex that Charity, 
 vicegerent of Deity, which dispenses 
 earthly blessings ; in the other, the same 
 godlike attribute in a broader sense 
 that spirit, gentle and easy to be en 
 treated, which Christianity has substi 
 tuted for the stern, vengeance-dealing 
 systems of an older world. 
 
 There are various qualities which 
 mark the cultivated, well-bred man ; yet 
 not one perhaps is more characteristic 
 than a gentle, deferential tone in address 
 ing woman, especially in her season 
 of sorrow. Celia felt this as Creighton 
 spoke : 
 
 I come, after consulting with your 
 guardian, to talk a little law with you, 
 Miss Celia. In a general way, I don t 
 talk law with my younger clients, espe 
 cially when I have hopes of success 
 which may or may not be realized. But 
 you have fortitude and a mind equal to 
 adverse fortune, and with you I run no 
 risk : you will not mistake probabilities 
 for certainties." 
 
 Celia s color deepened : a wild hope 
 sprung up in her breast, but she dis 
 missed it, saying, "It is surely not prob 
 able possible even that there was no 
 English wife living when mamma was 
 married." 
 
 Unfortunately, no ; but that reminds 
 me" he took from a green bag a bun 
 dle of papers, selected one of these and 
 handed it to Celia. " Will you have the 
 kindness to look over these extracts, and 
 to tell me if they correspond to what 
 you read in your father s letters to Mr. 
 Cranstoun ?" 
 
 Celia read them carefully and said, 
 So far as I remember they correspond 
 exactly." 
 
 I did not doubt it. Cranstoun is 
 not a man to commence, or even to 
 threaten, a suit without some foundation. 
 I grieve to think your father sinned, 
 Miss Pembroke. I cannot remove from 
 you the burden of that remembrance. 
 Would to God I could !" 
 
 " But you spoke of hopes, Mr. Creigh 
 ton of probabilities ?" 
 
 "Very important ones they are, but 
 they regard yourself only ; and I fear 
 they will cause you less pleasure than 
 your father s misconduct has caused you 
 pain. You will forgive my speaking 
 plainly to you ?" 
 
 " I shall think you deal kindly with 
 me," but the cheeks flushed. 
 
 Creighton colored slightly himself, say 
 ing in a low tone, " Miss Celia, you 
 think yourself an illegitimate child ?" 
 
 " I know it only too well," her eyes 
 cast down. " I heard it," she added, 
 shuddering, "from coarse and cruel 
 tongues." 
 
 " What they said was false : you are 
 mistaken. You are as legitimate as your 
 aunt or uncle, or any inhabitant of 
 Chiskauga." 
 
 Celia had not a word in reply, so 
 astounded was she : and Creighton, add 
 ing, "You shall see the law," handed 
 her another paper from the bundle, con 
 taining two lines only lines almost ot 
 life and death to the poor girl. W 7 hen 
 she had read them, he said, That was 
 the law of Ohio at the time of your 
 mother s marriage, and it is the law 
 still. The marriage, at the time it took 
 place, was null in law, but you see by 
 that paper that you are nevertheless 
 legitimate." 
 
 Creighton may have been right when 
 he said that the joy would not be equal 
 to the past sorrow. Yet it was a great 
 joy, gushing over her heart, as if the 
 breath of summer had penetrated, with 
 sensible warmth, to its core. The badge 
 of shame a fancied letter B, which 
 stung almost like the terrible A of old 
 Puritan law,* the badge of shame which 
 
 * General Laws and Liberties of Massachusetts 
 Bay, chap, xxviii., sec. i : " A capital A of two inches 
 long, cut out in cloth of a contrary colour to their 
 cloaths," etc. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 177 
 
 she had thought to wear through life 
 had suddenly dropped from her as by 
 magic, yet the magician was a young 
 lawyer, and his wand, two lines from a 
 musty statute-book. A great mistake 
 he made who applied to laws what Pope 
 said of forms of government : 
 
 " Whatever is best administered is best." 
 
 Laws, in their despotism, may save or 
 destroy both soul and body. If the 
 thirteenth section of that Act of 1831 
 had declared that " the issue of marriages 
 deemed null in law shall be bastards," 
 by what mode of administration would 
 it have helped this poor guiltless orphan 
 out of the pit of her grief? 
 
 Creighton sat watching Celia s coun 
 tenance. It was a very interesting one, 
 and if love be dangerous a somewhat 
 dangerous one to watch. She had had, 
 from early youth, a habit very painful 
 it had often been to her of blushing at 
 the touch of any emotion whether of joy 
 or sorrow at trifles, even, as at the 
 unexpected sight of some girl-friend ; 
 and when deeply and suddenly moved 
 the flush would overspread face and 
 bosom. 
 
 Just then the changeful heaven of that 
 countenance seemed suddenly overcast 
 again, as if some cloud were crossing the 
 sun of her new-found hope. It puzzled 
 Creighton. 
 
 At last she looked up and said in low, 
 eager tones : " Mr. Creighton, was mam 
 ma a legal wife ?" 
 
 " I have looked carefully into that 
 matter, knowing it would interest you, 
 and I believe that during the three last 
 years of her marriage she was. I will 
 tell you why I think so. Kent, one of 
 our best legal authorities, says that, by 
 the Common Law, no peculiar ceremonies 
 are requisite to the celebration of the 
 marriage : the consent of the parties is 
 all that is required.* And it is the 
 opinion of a learned writer on the Do 
 mestic Relations that the marriage, if 
 made at Common Law, without observ 
 ing any statute regulations, would still 
 be valid.f We have no statute, though 
 
 * Kent s Commentaries, vol. ii., p. 86. 
 
 t Reeve s Domestic Relations, pp. 196, 200, 290. 
 
 I think we ought to have, providing that 
 a woman who contracts a marriage in 
 good faith, ignorant of a previous im 
 pediment, shall, as soon as the impedi 
 ment is removed, become a legal wife ; 
 but this is the rule under the Spanish 
 law, as it existed formerly in Florida 
 and Texas ;% and our State legislation 
 tends in that direction. When the Eng 
 lish wife died your father was free. Out 
 of regard for your mother s feelings 
 mistaken regard, but doubtless most sin 
 cere he did not renew, and cause your 
 mother to renew, by the usual ceremony, 
 the formal expression of. that consent 
 of the parties" which undoubtedly suffices 
 to legalize marriage. But that consent 
 had been publicly given and recorded 
 nine or ten years before, had never been 
 withdrawn, and was substantially re 
 newed by the continuance of your father 
 and mother to live together as husband 
 and wife until Mr. Pembroke s death. 
 Thus the case seems made out. I must 
 remind you, however, Miss Pembroke, 
 that this is my opinion only, and that I 
 may be mistaken, since I find no de 
 cision on the subject. But whether I 
 am mistaken or not, the moral right of 
 the case remains the same. And then, 
 even if it should appear that the law fails 
 to afford relief where justice cries aloud 
 that it should, we must bear in mind " 
 He hesitated, as men who have been talk 
 ing of worldly business often do when 
 their thoughts stray off to a higher 
 sphere. 
 
 " You promised to speak plainly to 
 me," Celia said. What must we bear 
 in mind ?" 
 
 " That your mother is now in a world 
 which calumny cannot reach, and where 
 legal injustice is unknown." He said it 
 reverently and with emotion. Then, 
 after a time, he added : " No law could 
 have made her life more pure, nor her 
 relations to your father more holy than 
 they were. Do not, I entreat you, Vex 
 yourself without cause by imagining 
 how, if the point had come up, legal 
 technicalities might have caused it to be 
 decided. It has no practical bearings 
 on yourself or your future." 
 
 \ i Texas Rep., 621. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 He paused to see whether the ques 
 tion of property would suggest itself. 
 No. She was thinking of her mother, 
 and of that untried phase of being far 
 better than the earthly phase of that 
 world whose denizens serve God, not 
 Mammon. 
 
 " I thank you from my heart," she 
 said. "What you told me about my 
 mother did me so much good." 
 
 "I have done nothing for you, as yet, 
 Miss Pembroke, out I do hope to render 
 you substantial service." 
 
 Still no sign that the question of 
 heirship had crossed Celia s mind. It 
 seemed left for Creighton to moot it. 
 " Have you no curiosity," he said at last, 
 " as to whether the fact of your legiti 
 macy affects your property ?" 
 
 " I thought that question was settled 
 against me. Mr. Cranstoun said so." 
 
 "He told you also that you were an 
 illegitimate child, but you see what that 
 assertion was worth." 
 
 Is it possible that I am still my 
 father s rightful heir ?" 
 
 " I think so, because the fact of legiti 
 macy carries with it the right to inherit. 
 But I am not sure that the courts will 
 ultimately decide in your favor. Let me 
 tell you exactly what the facts are." 
 
 " Did not Mr. Cranstoun say to Mrs. 
 Wolfgang that it had already been de 
 cided somewhere against the children of 
 the second marriage in just such a case 
 as mine ?" 
 
 " She says so ; and such a decision 
 may have been made." 
 
 " How, then, can there be any hope ?" 
 
 " Because the decision spoken of is 
 said to have been made in a county 
 court only. But when county or, as 
 we call them, circuit courts make blun 
 ders, we appeal to the Supreme Court 
 of the State to correct these." 
 
 " But the Supreme Court may think 
 it is not a blunder ?" 
 
 " I see I was right in trusting you, 
 Miss Pembroke. The Supreme Court 
 may think so ; and in that case your 
 property will be lost." 
 
 The telltale blush showed that this 
 did affect her. The new-found hope was 
 about to die. Creighton came to its re 
 
 lief, adding : " But I feel convinced that 
 our Supreme Court would declare such a 
 decision to be contrary to law." 
 
 "Yet it is uncertain." 
 
 "Is any future event certain, except 
 death ? Then, too, law is proverbially 
 uncertain. You do well to be prepared 
 for the worst, yet I firmly believe we 
 shall beat them." 
 
 As he took his leave he said : "You 
 can afford to look with comparative in 
 difference on the legal battle that is 
 about to be fought in your behalf; for 
 you will succeed in the world, Miss 
 Pembroke, and will win the respect of 
 the good, let it terminate as it will." 
 
 In pursuance of the purpose he had 
 expressed to Creighton, Mr. Hartland 
 set out for Buffalo, taking a Lake steamer 
 at Cleveland. On board the boat, to his 
 surprise, he met Nelson Tyler. The 
 miller was on his way to Buffalo, to 
 purchase a pair of burr-stones and some 
 additional machinery for his mill. In 
 conversing of Chiskauga matters, Mow- 
 bray s name came up, and the two did 
 not differ materially in their estimate of 
 the man. 
 
 When Mr. Hartland, soon after his 
 arrival at Buffalo, called on Mr. Marshall, 
 he found that that gentleman had almost 
 withdrawn from the practice of law, and 
 was residing at a pleasant country-seat 
 a few miles out of town, where his time 
 and thoughts were occupied in the col 
 lection and arrangement of a valuable 
 cabinet of autographs not of signatures, 
 but of letters, more or less important, 
 from most of the distinguished authors 
 and statesmen of our own country since 
 the days of the Pilgrims, and of Eu 
 ropean countries from a still older date. 
 Hartland spent several days with his 
 old friend, and had occasion to remark 
 that never, in earlier years, when he had 
 known him making ten or twelve thou 
 sand dollars annually from his practice, 
 had the lawyer seemed so busily engaged 
 as now, from morning often till late in 
 the night, he was ; sometimes in the 
 delicate manipulation of old, creased, 
 scarcely-legible letters of some great 
 poet or philosopher; sometimes in 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 179 
 
 mounting rare and valuable portraits 
 and landscapes with which to illustrate 
 some favorite work. It was a labor he 
 l ovec ] i n the performance of which he 
 seemed never to tire. Hartland marveled 
 to see a man whom learned courts and 
 dignified assemblies had once listened to 
 with admiration, engrossed by such ob 
 jects as these ; and could not under 
 stand how, one day when a long, cha 
 racteristic letter of Dr. Samuel Johnson, 
 written near the close of the great lexi 
 cographers life, unexpectedly reached 
 his friend s hands, he should evince as 
 much delight as a child just possessed 
 of a new toy. He forgot that human 
 character is far more interesting than 
 insect life, and that it was ever a white 
 day in his own calendar when some un- 
 described beetle or butterfly first blessed 
 his sight. Men seldom comprehend the 
 attractions of any hobby except their 
 own. 
 
 It was a sacrifice to friendship which 
 Hartland did not sufficiently appreciate 
 when Mr. Marshall, with a sigh, locked 
 the small fire-proof chamber that con 
 tained his precious manuscripts, and 
 spent the greater part of two days 
 among his law-books, studying Celia s 
 case. In the end he came to nearly the 
 same conclusions as Mr. Creighton, and 
 wrote out an opinion endorsing the lat- 
 ter s views. This Mr. Hartland imme 
 diately despatched to Chiskauga, promis 
 ing to follow it in a steamer which was 
 advertised to leave Buffalo four days 
 later ; and in which the miller, having 
 completed his purchases, had also en 
 gaged a berth. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 THE LAKE STEAMER. 
 
 " Roth, wie Blut, 
 
 1st der Himmel ; 
 Das ist nicht des Tages Glut ! 
 Welch Getummel !" 
 
 SCHILLER, Lied von der Glocke. 
 
 WE are living through a period of 
 transition, and our young country ex 
 hibits the exuberance incident to such a 
 state. In legislative hall or traveler s 
 
 caravansary, in "silver palace car" or 
 gorgeous steamer, we are wont to over 
 look the fitness of things, mistaking tin 
 sel and glitter for appropriate enrich 
 ment, and often neglecting substantial 
 comfort for worthless gauds. 
 
 Yet if there was extra gilding and 
 carving and superfluity of mirrors and 
 silk hangings in the stately " Queen of 
 the Lakes," on which Hartland and the 
 miller embarked, she was nevertheless 
 a magnificent vessel, gracefully modeled 
 and well appointed a craft of which her 
 genial captain might well be proud. 
 
 P ull three hundred and fifty feet long, 
 she had two decks stretching throughout 
 her entire length. The lower of these 
 was partially occupied, on either side, by 
 the officers berths, close to which rose 
 the smoke-stacks, while the spacious 
 forward deck and the open central space 
 were crowded by a large number of steer 
 age passengers, chiefly decent-looking 
 German and Irish emigrants ; a few of 
 whom, however, had engaged bunks in 
 the small, plain after cabin. Of the 
 upper deck three-fourths was occupied 
 by the main cabin for first-class passen 
 gers, handsome state-rooms being par 
 titioned off on either side, and the after 
 portion, which was appropriated to the 
 ladies and their friends, was separated 
 from the gentlemen s cabin by rich bro 
 caded satin drapery. From the opposite 
 end of this spacious room double doors 
 opened on the upper forward deck, the 
 favorite resort of the cabin passengers 
 in fine weather. * 
 
 Upon these two decks, on the present 
 occasion, upward of four hundred pas 
 sengers had found accommodation. 
 
 Captain Drake for so the autocrat 
 of this floating colony was named had 
 his wife and family on board, and had 
 invited a number of friends on a pleasure- 
 trip to Cleveland. A gay and thought 
 less party they were ; among them 
 several young people of each sex, whom 
 the captain, bent on the happiness of 
 his guests, had apparently selected with 
 special reference to their individual pref 
 erences, for they dropped naturally into 
 couples, some secluding themselves in 
 the ladies cabin and looking over books 
 
183 
 
 BETOXD THE BREAKERS. 
 
 or prints together ; others, deep in con 
 versation, promenading the forward deck. 
 
 The captain entertained them gener 
 ously : champagne circulated freely at 
 the upper end of the long dining-table. 
 In the evening there was music. One 
 young lady, of distinguished appearance, 
 but somewhat inappropriately attired in 
 an elaborate ball-dress, was a charming 
 ballad-singer ; and her rendering of the 
 old song, "I m sitting on the stile, 
 Mary," called forth, from a good many 
 eyes, the tribute of tears. Then there 
 was an impromptu ball, two negro vio 
 linists composing the band. Captain 
 Drake, his fifty-odd years forgotten, 
 joined jovially in the dance, which was 
 kept up till past midnight in honor of 
 May-day, the captain said, for they had 
 left Buffalo on a warm, bright first of 
 May. 
 
 Among the sober spectators of this 
 gay scene were Thomas Hartland and 
 Nelson Tyler ; the latter cordially en 
 joying it, the former sitting unmoved, 
 with a silent protest in his heart against 
 the levities of fashionable life. Without 
 waiting the termination of the dance, 
 Hartland retired to his state-room. 
 Having delayed to secure his passage 
 until the day before the steamer started, 
 he had been fain to put up with a some 
 what undesirable berth, the upper one in 
 a state-room alongside the wheel-house. 
 As this room could have no door or 
 window opening outside, it was lighted 
 by a frame projecting from its roof and 
 glazed, so that an$- one occupying the 
 upper berth could, by raising himself, 
 see, through the side-panes, what passed 
 on the hurricane deck. 
 
 Hartland lay awake. At first, the 
 sounds of merriment and music outside 
 chased sleep away ; and when these 
 gradually ceased and the cabin was de 
 serted, he still lay, he did not know how 
 long, listening to the plash of the great 
 wheel hard by, sinking at last into trou 
 bled and broken slumber. 
 
 In the dead of night he suddenly be 
 came conscious of the sound of footsteps 
 overhead. Looking through the sky 
 light, he discerned the figures of two 
 men moving silently about, one of them 
 
 having a lantern in his hand. Then he 
 thought he heard their voices, speaking 
 in eager, suppressed tones. Thoroughly 
 roused, he donned a portion of his clothes 
 and proceeded to the upper deck. A 
 third man had joined the first two, and 
 Hartland asked him what was the matter. 
 In reply the latter pointed to one of 
 the smoke-stacks, saying in a whisper, 
 "Looks as if it might be fire." Hart- 
 land then perceived, dimly by the lan 
 tern-light, a slender line of light smoke 
 or steam rising close to the starboard 
 smoke-pipe, and he became aware that 
 one of the two men whom he had first 
 seen held a hose, of which he was di 
 recting the contents on this object of 
 their suspicions. At first the stream of 
 water seemed to quench the fire, if fire it 
 was, but after a time, the smoke began 
 to reappear and to drift aft, though still 
 ascending only in feeble puffs. Hart- 
 land hesitated no longer, but returned at 
 once to the cabin, where he roused the 
 miller, and they awoke several other 
 passengers, the doors of whose state 
 rooms happened to be unlocked ; mak 
 ing no noise, however, for they were both 
 men of nerve and courage, and they 
 knew the effect of a sudden alarm at 
 night among so great a crowd. 
 
 Those who had been aroused hastened 
 from the cabin and met the captain 
 speeding up to the hurricane deck. 
 
 Still that ominous line of smoke ! 
 gradually increasing in volume, Hartland 
 thought. A deathlike stillness over the 
 boat, broken only by the dull, rushing 
 sound of its huge wheels. 
 
 " These emigrants below ought to be 
 warned," whispered Nelson Tyler to 
 Hartland ; and they both descended, 
 moving slowly and quietly among the 
 sleeping multitude that lay on the deck. 
 They awoke the men gently, speaking 
 in an undertone, and telling them it was 
 better to be ready, though there was no 
 immediate danger. As the officers, fear 
 ing disturbance, and confident, no doubt, 
 that they could soon master the fire, had 
 given no alarm, the news spread but 
 gradually and without arousing any vio 
 lent demonstration. With a low mur 
 mur the crowd arose. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 181 
 
 Then the two mounted to the floor 
 above. Men and women, their faces 
 deadly pale, were creeping silently from 
 the cabin, and soon the upper forward 
 deck was nearly filled. They could 
 dimly see, on the cabin roof, a line of 
 men who had been organized to pass 
 what few buckets they had from the side 
 of the vessel. The crowd watched the 
 result with feverish anxiety. No one 
 spoke above his breath. All eyes were 
 turned to that long, dark cylinder of 
 smoke. It had doubled in volume, Hart- 
 land saw at a glance, since he first had 
 sight of it ; and the conviction flashed 
 over him that the supply of water was 
 quite insufficient to check the hidden 
 flame. The horrors he had read of, 
 about fires at sea, rose vividly to his 
 mind, but he thrust them aside by a de 
 termined effort. He looked at Tyler. 
 It was evident that the miller too real 
 ized the situation, yet he said but a word 
 or two, and in a tone so low that Hart- 
 land overheard only Ellen s name : then 
 a look of stern resolution passed over 
 Tyler s face. Conscious of his own 
 strength and skill in swimming, he was 
 nerving himself for the struggle before 
 him. 
 
 What a magnificent night it was ! 
 clear, cloudless ; starlight serene in its 
 splendor, but no moon ; the wind a mod 
 erate breeze, fresh and balmy, just stir 
 ring the lake surface into gentle ripples. 
 Nature in her quietest, holiest aspect, 
 shining with calm benignance from 
 heaven, as if to give earnest of peace 
 and protection to the creatures of earth. 
 
 Solemn the hush over that awestruck 
 crowd ! They felt what might happen, 
 though most of them, not having noticed 
 the gradual increase in that fatal smoke- 
 column, were still buoyed up by hope. 
 How character, unmasked, showed itself 
 there ! Some seemed self-absorbed ; 
 others had gathered into groups, the 
 selfish instinct overcome by affection. 
 Here a mother had brought her children 
 together and was whispering to them 
 that they mustn t be afraid. There a 
 brother, his arm around a favorite sister, 
 was speaking some low word of comfort 
 and encouragement. Hartland distin 
 
 guished among the rest the fair songstress 
 of the preceding evening, half clad now, 
 careless of appearance, mute with terror, 
 a young man, lately her partner in that 
 gay dance, by her side ; bewildered he 
 seemed, panic-stricken like herself: poor 
 protector in a strait like that ! She was 
 not the only one who found out, in that 
 terrible night, the difference between a 
 companion fit to enliven hours of idle 
 ness, and a friend who will stand stoutly 
 by and succor, through gloom of danger, 
 when life is at stake. 
 
 Even a touch of the ludicrous min 
 gled, as it will in the most tragic scenes. 
 One gentleman had a silver-bound dress 
 ing-case strapped under his arm ; an 
 other carried a hat-box, which he seemed 
 to guard with scrupulous care. Tyler 
 saw a young girl, who was standing near 
 him, deliberately unclasp a pair of hand 
 some earrings, then roll them carefully 
 in her handkerchief, which she deposited 
 in her pocket. And one old lady, walk 
 ing distractedly up and down near the 
 cabin door, kept eagerly asking the pass 
 ers-out if they were sure they hadn t 
 seen anything of her bundle. But all 
 such frivolities were soon to cease. 
 
 How often, to the storm-tossed and 
 bewildered mariner, has there shone, 
 from watch-tower or pharos, a feeble 
 ray, welcome as Hope herself, life-guide 
 through night and tempest ! But the 
 hope, the safety of this waiting crowd 
 was in merciful darkness. 
 
 A faint flicker of light ! God in heav 
 en ! It had shot up along the edge of 
 that large, dark smoke-pipe ! For a 
 moment it dimly showed the wan faces 
 a signal-fire, omen of coming fate. 
 
 Another ! A shudder crept through 
 the watchers a long, low moan: they 
 saw it all now. The fiery element, 
 gathering power below, was slowly creep 
 ing upward upon them. The crowd 
 glared around with the instinct of flight. 
 Nothing but the waste of waters, with 
 here and there a star reflected from their 
 dark depths ! And still, as dreary mon 
 otone, the rushing plash of those gigan 
 tic wheels ! 
 
 Then there were eager inquiries for 
 life-preservers. Not one, they were told, 
 
182 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 on the boat !* And the gilt glitter in 
 that luxurious cabin what a mockery 
 now ! The thousands squandered there 
 might, wisely spent, have saved that 
 night hundreds of human lives. 
 
 As it was, a portion of the passengers 
 went in search of something to keep 
 them afloat in casfe of the worst, return 
 ing with chairs, stools, pieces of board, 
 and the like. Others, utterly unmanned 
 and abandoning all exertion, gave way 
 to wild bewailings. 
 
 A mother with several children, en 
 treated Mr. Hartland to take charge of 
 the youngest, a little girl. 
 
 " I am going below, madam," he re 
 plied, where the crowd is dangerous, 
 and where she would run great risk of 
 being lost or crushed." 
 
 The mother submitted, kissing the 
 child and taking it in her arms, and 
 Hartland whispered to Tyler, " Let us 
 go down. We may approach the shore 
 before the flames gain head ; and if we 
 have to swim for it, the chance is bet 
 ter from the lower deck." So they 
 descended. 
 
 Below, the forward deck was a mass 
 of human beings. To them the danger 
 was even more apparent than to those 
 above. Flakes of flame already rose, 
 here and there, from the. deck near the 
 smoke-stacks. Even the heat was be 
 ginning to be felt. But there was one 
 favorable circumstance. The wind was 
 westerly a head wind, though veering 
 a little on the starboard quarter and 
 flame and smoke were blown aft, leaving 
 the forward half of the vessel clear. 
 
 Soon a larger fork of flame shot up, 
 and there were screams faintly heard 
 from the small after cabin. Some of 
 the inmates, attempting to lower the 
 yawl that hung astern, had been caught 
 there by the drifting fire : their fate was 
 sealed. 
 
 That last burst of flame must have 
 shown itself on the upper deck, for there 
 was a smothered cry from above, and 
 then a voice the captain s it seemed 
 shouting in loud tones to the pilot. 
 
 * The law which now requires that all passenger 
 steamer? shall be fully supplied with these had not 
 then passed. 
 
 The alarm gained the crowd below, 
 which swayed to and fro. Women and 
 children shrieked in terror as the press 
 came upon them. Men s Voices rose 
 a hoarse murmur, like the gathering of a 
 great wind. Tyler endeavored to make 
 his way to the bow, but found that im 
 possible : several stout Irish laborers 
 turned threateningly upon him. "I ll 
 risk my chance above," he said to Hart- 
 land, but the latter stayed below. 
 
 When the miller reached the upper 
 deck a sheet of fire already rose nearly 
 as high as the smoke-stacks, and the 
 roof of the main cabin had caught. But 
 he saw also in a moment a change that 
 kept hope alive. The smoke and flames, 
 instead of drifting aft, now blew dead to 
 larboard. The captain s command to 
 the pilot had been to port the helm and 
 run the boat on shore. 
 
 But this change, bringing the mass of 
 flame closer to the passengers, so that 
 those nearest the cabin felt the hot 
 breath on their cheeks, at first increased 
 their alarm. They crowded fearfully to 
 ward the bow, and many must have been 
 thrown into the water then and there, 
 had not a voice called out, " Don t 
 crowd : they re heading her for land." 
 This assurance in a measure quieted the 
 terror-stricken throng. There was the 
 suppressed voice of lamentation, an 
 appeal to Heaven for mercy here and 
 there, but still no clamorous shout, no 
 wild outcry. There could be seen, by 
 that red glare, on some faces the calm 
 of resignation, on others the stillness of 
 despair. 
 
 Though the flames spread steadily, 
 the engine continued to work, the 
 wheels did their duty, and* 1 the pilot 
 noble fellow ! still kept his post, though 
 smoke, mingled with thick sparks, swept 
 in circling eddies around him. 
 
 Each minute was bearing these four 
 hundred souls nearer and nearer to 
 safety, and all eyes were now strained 
 in the direction of the vessel s course. 
 The blaze from that terrific bale-fire 
 lighted up the lake waters far and wide, 
 and yes ! was at last reflected on a low 
 shore and trees. Some one near the 
 bow cried out, " Land ! land !" Others 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 133 
 
 caught and repeated the soul-stirring 
 cry. And though the passengers in the 
 rear of the crowd were already in peril 
 ous vicinity to the spreading flames, a 
 faint shout of exultation went up. 
 
 But terrible and speedy came the re 
 action ! The boat had been headed 
 more and more to the left, and ere five 
 minutes had elapsed with a thud so 
 heavy that she shuddered through all her 
 limbers the vessel struck a hidden 
 sindbar, remaining fast, but before she 
 settled swinging by the stern till her 
 after cabin lay directly to windward. 
 Thus the breeze, which had freshened, 
 blew right from stern to bow. 
 
 Fearful was the result ! In an in 
 stant the whole body of flame swept 
 straight over the masses that had hud 
 dled together on the forward decks. At 
 the same moment the huge smoke-stacks, 
 loosened by the violent shock, fell, with 
 a loud crash, down through the cabin, 
 their fall being succeeded by a sudden 
 and tremendous burst of surging fire. 
 
 No restraint now ! No thought among 
 that doomed multitude save one escape 
 from the most horrible of all deaths, to 
 be burned alive ! In the very extremity 
 of despair they crowded recklessly on 
 each other, sweeping irresistibly forward 
 till the front ranks were borne sheer off 
 the bow : then the next, then the next ! 
 Ere three minutes had elapsed the water 
 swarmed with a struggling throng men, 
 women, children battling for their lives. 
 
 A few of the passengers in the rear 
 rushed to the stairs, but they were in 
 flames: No escape from that scene of 
 horror, except by a leap of some twenty 
 feet from the upper guards down to 
 the waves below, already covered with 
 a floundering mass. But most of those 
 who were left accepted the desperate 
 alternative, flinging themselves over the 
 srde of the boat. Many fell flat and be 
 came senseless at once, sinking hope 
 lessly to the bottom : others, dropping 
 straight down, soon rose again to the 
 surface. Now and then an expert swim 
 mer, watching an opening in the liv 
 ing screen, dived down head foremost. 
 Scarcely a score remained, the miller 
 among them, on the extreme bow. Even 
 
 at that appalling moment his attention 
 was arrested by a brief episode in the 
 scene of horror before him. A young 
 mother tall, graceful, with a look of re 
 finement and a pale Madonna face, her 
 arms around a baby asleep, it seemed, in 
 their shelter stood on the very edge of 
 the deck where the rush of the headlong 
 crowd had broken clown the guards 
 alone ! her natural defender who 
 knows ? swept away by the human 
 torrent, or perhaps, under the tyrant in 
 stinct of self-preservation, a deserter 
 from her whom he had sworn to cherish 
 and protect. All alone, to earthly seem 
 ing at least, though she might be com 
 muning even then with the Unseen, for 
 her colorless face was calm as an angel s, 
 and her large, dark eyes were raised 
 with a gaze so eager it might well be 
 penetrating the slight veil, and already 
 distinguishing, beyond, guardian intel 
 ligences bending near, waiting to wel 
 come into their radiant world one who 
 had been the joy and the ornament of 
 this. 
 
 As Tyler watched her, a tongue of 
 flame swept so close he thought it must 
 have caught her light drapery. A single 
 look below, a plunge, and she committed 
 herself and her babe to the waves and 
 to Him who rules them. 
 
 Tyler rushed to the spot where she 
 had stood, but mother and child had 
 already sunk. For a brief space mo 
 ments only, though he thought of it after 
 ward as a long, frightful dream he 
 gazed on the seething swarm of mortal 
 ity beneath him poor, frail mortality, 
 stripped of all flaunting guise, and ex 
 hibiting, under overwhelming temptation, 
 its most selfish instincts bared to their 
 darkest phase. 
 
 The struggle to reach the various 
 floating objects, and the ruthlessness 
 with which a strong swimmer occasion 
 ally wrenched these from the grasp of 
 some feeble old man or delicate woman 
 it was all horrible to behold. Then 
 again, many swimmers, striking without 
 support for shore, were caught in the 
 despairing clutch of some drowning 
 wretch, unconscious perhaps of what he 
 did, and dragged down to a fate from 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 which their strength and courage might 
 have saved them. From the midst, 
 however, shone forth examples of per 
 sistent self-devotion : husbands with but 
 one thought, the safety of their wives ; 
 a son sustaining to the last an aged pa 
 rent ; but above all the maternal instinct 
 asserted its victory over death. Tyler, 
 even in those fleeting moments, caught 
 sight, here and there among the crowd, 
 of a woman with one hand clutching a 
 friendly shoulder or a floating support, 
 holding aloft in the other an infant all 
 unconscious of impending fate. In one 
 instance, even, a chubby little fellow, 
 thus borne above the waters, clapped 
 his tiny hands and laughed at the gay 
 spectacle" of the bright flames. 
 
 Meanwhile, the wind, veering a little 
 to the south, and thus blowing fire and 
 smoke somewhat to larboard, had left, on 
 the starboard edge of the forward deck 
 a narrow strip, on which, though the 
 heat was intense, some ten or twelve 
 persons still lingered beyond actual con 
 tact with the flames. But each moment 
 the fire swept nearer and nearer, and 
 Tyler felt that the last chance must now 
 be risked. He dropped into the water, 
 feet foremost, and disappeared. 
 
 While these things passed, Hartland, 
 below with the steerage passengers, had 
 witnessed similar scenes. Human na 
 ture, cultivated or uncultivated, is, as a 
 general rule, in an extremity so dire, 
 mastered by the same impulses. The 
 difference inherent in race, however, was 
 apparent. The sedate German, schooled 
 to meet hardship and suffering with silent 
 equanimity, and now standing mute and 
 stolid eyes fixed in despair contrasted 
 with the excitable Celt, voluble in his 
 bewailings. Hartland, like Tyler, had 
 kept himself aloof from the dense crowd, 
 and so escaped being carried along by 
 the frenzied fugitives when the flames 
 first swept the forward deck. He was 
 one of those men whose perceptions are 
 quickened by imminence of danger. He 
 noticed that the starboard wheel-house, 
 which had not yet caught, afforded a 
 temporary shelter from the drifting fire ; 
 and acting on a sudden conviction, he 
 climbed over the guards on that side of 
 
 the vessel, a little forward of the wheel, 
 and let himself down till his feet rested 
 on the projecting wale of the boat. Thus, 
 holding on by the rail, he was able to 
 maintain himself outside of the blazing 
 current until only a few stragglers were 
 left on deck. 
 
 There he remained some time, de 
 liberately thinking over the situation. 
 As a boy he had learned to swim, but 
 for the last fifteen years he had been 
 almost wholly out of practice. He called 
 to mind the rules with which he had 
 once been familiar, and the necessity of 
 keeping the eyes open so as to elude the 
 grasp of drowning men. As he held on 
 there the risk from such a contingency 
 was painfully brought to his notice. 
 From time to time several of the passen 
 gers from the upper deck had slid down 
 near him. At last one heavy body, from 
 immediately above, dropped so close that 
 it brushed his clothes and almost carried 
 him down with it. He turned to see 
 the fate of this man. After ten or fifteen 
 seconds he saw him rise to the surface 
 again, and with a start recognized Nelson 
 Tyler. He was struggling violently, and 
 Hartland observed that some one, as the 
 stout miller rose, had clutched him by 
 the left arm with the tenacity of despair. 
 Both sank together, and Hartland saw 
 them no more. 
 
 Several times he was about letting 
 himself down, but held back because of 
 the crowds that he saw rising to the sur 
 face and wrestling with death and with 
 each other beneath him. At last he was 
 warned that his time had come. Look 
 ing toward the bow, where several men, 
 imitating his example, were holding on 
 outside the bulwarks, but unprotected by 
 the wheel-house, he saw the flames catch 
 and terribly scorch their hands, the tor 
 ture causing them to quit their grasp and 
 fall back headlong into the waves. Still 
 he watched, until, seeing a whole mass of 
 bodies sink together, and thus leave an 
 empty space just below him, he com 
 mended his soul to God. and, springing 
 from his support, sank at once to the 
 bottom. 
 
 After a brief space, when his eyes had 
 cleared a little, he saw what it has sel 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 I8 5 
 
 dotn been the lot of human being to wit 
 ness. On the sand, there in the lower 
 depths of the lake, lighted by the lurid 
 glare of the burning boat, loomed up 
 around him ghastly apparitions of per 
 sons drowned or drowning men, wo 
 men, small children too : some bodies 
 standing upright as if alive ; some with 
 heads down and limbs floating ; some 
 kneeling or lying on the ground : here a 
 muscular figure, arms flung out, fingers 
 convulsively clenched, eyeballs glaring ; 
 there a slender woman in an attitude of 
 repose, her features composed, and one 
 arm still over the little boy stretched to 
 his last rest by her side. Of every de 
 meanor, in every posture they were a 
 subaqueous multitude ! A momentary 
 gaze took it all in, and then Hartland, 
 smitten with horror, struck upward, away 
 from that fearful assemblage, and reached 
 the surface of the lake and the upper 
 world once more. 
 
 There he found the water, not only 
 around the bow, whence most of the 
 passengers had been precipitated, but 
 
 also between himself and the shore, so 
 overspread with a motley throng that he 
 resolved to avoid them, even at risk of 
 considerably lengthening the distance. 
 He swam toward the stern, where the 
 surface was comparatively free, and after 
 pas-sing one or two hundred yards be 
 yond, seeing no one now in the line of 
 the land, which was distinctly visible, he 
 struck out vigorously in that direction. 
 
 Then he swam on, but with gradually 
 diminishing strength and courage, and a 
 little nervous trembling. 
 
 He estimated the distance to the land 
 at half a mile. It was, however, in 
 reality, a quarter of a mile farther. But 
 the air was balmy, and, though the wind 
 blew, the waves were not sufficient to 
 impede a stout swimmer. There are 
 hundreds among us who can swim a 
 much greater distance. Yes, if they 
 start fair, mind and body unexhausted. 
 But after such a terribly wearing scene 
 of excitement as that the man fifty- 
 seven years old, too will his strength 
 hold out to reach the land ? 
 
PART X. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 FOR LIFE. 
 
 BETWEEN the detached sandbar on 
 which the steamer had stranded and 
 the land the lake was deep. The bot 
 tom was a smooth sand, and as one ap 
 proached the low, level shore the water 
 shoaled gradually. Hartland, with great 
 exertion, had made about half the dis 
 tance when a man the first survivor he 
 had seen came up behind him, swim 
 ming strongly. As he ranged alongside, 
 Hartland perceived, with equal pleasure 
 and surprise, that it was the miller whom 
 so lately he had seen go down in what 
 seemed a death-struggle. Tyler called 
 out to him: "Take it quietly, Mr. Hart- 
 land ; don t swim so hard. You can t 
 hold out so." 
 
 The other felt that the caution was 
 timely. He became aware that in his 
 eager efforts he had overtasked his 
 strength. "You are right," he said. 
 " I have been overdoing it : I must go 
 more slowly." 
 
 " Can I assist you in any way ?" 
 
 " Thank you, no. You ll need all the 
 strength you have. Save yourself. Don t 
 wait for me." 
 
 " Well," said the other, as he struck 
 out in advance, " perhaps it s best. I 
 may help you yet." 
 
 Left alone, Hartland proceeded more 
 leisurely, seeking to husband his powers. 
 But for a man of his years, unused to 
 violent exertion, the distance was great 
 too great, he began to feel, for reason 
 able hope that he might reach the shore ; 
 for he felt now, at every stroke, the strain 
 on his muscles. After a time, so pain 
 ful was the effort that he could scarcely 
 throw out his arms. Then a numbness 
 crept over his limbs, gradually reaching 
 his body. He was resolute, scorning all 
 weakness that suffered the mind to usurp 
 control over the will : he struggled, with 
 Puritan hardihood,- against the nervous 
 helplessness that was invading his whole 
 1 86 
 
 system ; yet, even while he despised and 
 sought to repulse all imaginative sensa 
 tions, the fancy gained upon him that 
 life was receding to the brain. He had 
 no longer power to strike out. After a 
 few random and convulsive movements, 
 as if the body rebelled against the spell 
 that was cast over it, he sank slowly to 
 the bottom. An anxious sensation of 
 distress, oppressing the breast, followed, 
 becoming gradually more urgent and 
 painful, until in his agony he instinctively 
 struck for the upper air, which he reached 
 almost immediately. A few deep inhala 
 tions, and a consciousness that he was 
 now in comparatively shallow water, re 
 stored for a minute or two the exhausted 
 powers, but after making a little way 
 these soon failed again : he could no 
 longer maintain his mouth above water, 
 and, choking as a small wave broke over 
 his face, he sank a second time. Strange, 
 this time, was the transition ! All pain, 
 all anxiety was gone. The world seemed 
 gradually sinking away. As he went 
 down a sense of ease and comfort came 
 over him, while a strange haze diffused 
 around a yellow light. Then, as has 
 happened to so many thus approaching 
 the term of earthly things, the man s 
 life passed in review before him. And 
 there he argued, before the tribunal of 
 his own conscience as never before, the 
 question whether his conduct to wife and 
 child had been marked by that love which 
 is the fulfilling of the Law. Many alle 
 gations he made, numerous pleas he 
 brought forward urging the duty of dis 
 cipline, setting out the saving efficacy of 
 severity, pleading the example of Him 
 who scourgeth every son whom He re- 
 ceiveth. In vain ! He was too near 
 the veil. The light from Beyond, where 
 Love reigns evermore, shone through his 
 filmy sophistry. His soul heard the ver 
 dict against him ! It heard more than 
 the verdict. It heard those words, gen 
 tle yet terrible : "To him that hath shown 
 mercy shall mercy be shown." Then it 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 187 
 
 cried out, entreating for a little more 
 time a year a single year only in 
 which to atone for the harsh, unloving 
 past. So eager grew the longing that 
 it drew forth, from life s inmost depths, 
 the last residue of that reserve fund 
 which Nature, in kind foresight, pro 
 vides against a season of overwhelming 
 exertion; and once more a spasmodic 
 effort brought him to the surface and to 
 suffering again. Yet he breathed: he 
 was still alive. How could it be, after 
 that hour, so crowded with incidents, 
 spent below ? An hour ? That pro 
 tracted trial, the accusation, the defence, 
 the pleas he had set forth, the arguments 
 he had employed, the verdict, the bitter 
 repentance, the prayer for respite to 
 amend and repair the wrong, it had all 
 passed in less than a hundredth part of 
 the time which, to his quickened con 
 sciousness, had seemed so long. Some 
 twenty seconds only had he tarried be 
 low. A vague conviction of this stirred 
 hope of life afresh, and a few feeble 
 strokes carried him some yards nearer 
 to the land. Then again that leaden 
 sense of exhaustion ! He gave it up. 
 But this time, as his limbs sank beneath 
 him, the feet just grazed the ground. 
 It was like the touch of mother Earth to 
 the Lybian giant, kindling a spark of life. 
 A faltering step or two he made, and the 
 water just mounted to his chin. Had he 
 reached the land too late ? He stretched 
 out his arms toward it, but the body, 
 powerless, refused to follow. Even then 
 the tenacity of that stubborn spirit as 
 serted itself. He dropped on his knees, 
 digging his ringers into the sand and 
 dragging himself along, till he was forced 
 once again to rise and take breath. But 
 with the light and the air came back ex 
 cruciating pain. Then an overwhelming 
 torpor crept over sense and frame. His 
 limbs refused their office. Unable longer 
 to maintain himself erect, he dropped on 
 the sand. A brief respite of absolute 
 rest there imparted a momentary courage. 
 He crawled, under the water, a few yards 
 farther. Then consciousness and volition 
 gradually failed. As if by the inherent 
 powers of the system uncontrolled by 
 will, an automatic struggle was kept up 
 
 for a few seconds no more ! That was 
 the last life-rally against fate. The temp 
 tation to lie there quiet, immovable all 
 care dismissed, all effort abandoned 
 was irresistible. But what was this ? 
 a fearful reminiscence from the scene he 
 had escaped ? No. These bright sparks 
 that flickered before his eyes were lam 
 bent and harmless. In his brain, too, 
 there seemed an internal light an irrad 
 iate globe, but genial and illuminating, 
 not burning. Then came back again 
 that wondrous atmosphere that calm, 
 effulgent, pale-yellow haze ; and with it 
 such a sense of exquisite enjoyment that 
 all desire to return to the earth passed 
 from the soul of the expiring man. A 
 smile over the wan features, a slight 
 quivering of the limbs, and then all cog 
 nizance of the world and its doings had 
 departed ; and the spirit was entranced 
 on the verge of that unexplored phase 
 of life to come, where the wicked cease 
 from troubling and the weary are at 
 rest. 
 
 What, meanwhile, had been the fate 
 of our sturdy friend the miller ? A more 
 practiced swimmer than Hartland, and, 
 though a few years older, a more power 
 ful man, he was yet all but worn out 
 when his feet first touched bottom. He 
 had full two hundred yards still to go ; 
 and he fell three or four times while 
 slowly and painfully wading toward 
 shore. 
 
 The land once reached, and all motive 
 for exertion gone, he dropped on the 
 very edge of the water, lying there some 
 five minutes or more without power to 
 move. Then gradually he revived suf 
 ficiently to sit up and turn his gaze on 
 the scene of horror he had left behind. 
 The steamboat was now one sheet of 
 flame from stem to stern. Little else 
 than fire and smoke was visible except 
 the lower portion of the wheel-house, 
 where Tyler thought he could discern a 
 small cluster of human beings still hold 
 ing on ; but of this he was not sure, the 
 distance was so great. The boilers, he 
 thought, could not have burst, for he 
 had heard no loud explosion : now and 
 then in the stillness slight detonations 
 
188 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 caught his ear, occurring, no doubt, as 
 some barrel of inflammable matter was 
 reached. 
 
 Then he looked to see the fate of his 
 companions. Day was dawning and the 
 wind seemed to have abated. His first 
 impression was, that the lake had en 
 gulfed the whole of that gallant steam 
 er s living freight, and that he alone was 
 left to tell the tale of disaster. But as 
 he scanned the water more narrowly he 
 caught sight, here and there, of a swim- 
 met making for the shore. Several of 
 the heads, however, sank as he watched 
 them. One had approached more nearly 
 than the rest, but that, too, disappeared. 
 Could it be Hartland s ? He looked for 
 it eagerly. It came in sight again, re 
 maining stationary, as if the person had 
 reached footing and paused to take breath 
 ere he walked out. He was sure of it 
 now: Thomas Hartland it was stretch 
 ing out his arms too, as if imploring 
 help. Again the head sank, and again, 
 but for a few seconds only, it came to 
 the surface. At that moment, and be 
 fore it went under to show itself no 
 more, Tyler took rapid note of the direc 
 tion in which it appeared almost in a 
 line from the spot on which he sat to 
 the stern of the burning steamer. 
 
 " I must save him," was his next 
 thought. But he was fain to rest there 
 full five terrible minutes ere the vital 
 forces rallied so that he could trust him 
 self to the effort. Even then he stag 
 gered along like one drunk or just risen 
 from sickness once over a log sub 
 merged in about two feet of water. On 
 that he sat down for a brief space to re 
 cover spirit and vigor. Precious mo 
 ments he knew well, but he must rest. 
 After a time he rose, bracing his nerves, 
 and calling to mind that his friend could 
 be now scarcely a hundred yards distant. 
 After he had advanced, slowly and cau 
 tiously, until he supposed he must be in 
 the vicinity of the body, he observed, 
 some six or eight yards farther on, and 
 a little off the line he had marked out to 
 himself, a few air-bubbles, as if rising 
 from below. He remembered to have 
 heard that during the last efforts of a 
 drowning person the pressure of water 
 
 on the chest usually expels a portion of 
 the air that still remains in the lungs , 
 and greatly encouraged by the indication, 
 he approached the spot. There, after a 
 time, feeling around with his feet, he 
 came upon the body. The touch gave 
 him fresh courage. 
 
 But what to do next ? He felt that 
 if he attempted, in that depth of water, 
 to drag the drowning man by the arm, 
 his own head under water the while, he 
 would but sacrifice his life without sav 
 ing that of Hartland. In this strait, as 
 the ripple broke over his shoulder, and 
 something flapped lightly against his 
 cheek, he was reminded that one of those 
 stout Hibernians who had opposed his 
 efforts to reach the bow of the boat had 
 grasped the upper portion of his shirt 
 sleeve and torn it half off. A bright 
 thought ! Tearing it off entirely and 
 splitting it lengthwise in two, he knotted 
 the pieces together, thus obtaining an 
 impromptu bit of cordage, one end of 
 which he managed to fasten around 
 Hartland s left wrist. By this contriv 
 ance he was enabled to drag the body 
 along without stooping. Buoyed up as 
 it was, in a great measure, by the water, 
 a slight pull sufficed to move it in shore. 
 Yet even that small exertion exceeded 
 Tyler s waning strength. At each step 
 his limbs dragged more heavily : several 
 times he stumbled from sheer weakness, 
 and he was utterly spent by the time he 
 reached the log where, on his way out, 
 he had rested. Forgetting where it was, 
 he fell over it as before, but not, as be 
 fore, to rise again. There were less 
 than six inches of water over his burly 
 frame, yet he lay there helpless and in 
 sensible as the friend he had striven so 
 hard to save. 
 
 ***** 
 Suddenly he found himself at home 
 again, before his own dwelling ; and 
 strangely enough, without question in his 
 mind as to how he came there. He 
 heard Ellen s voice, and saw her issue 
 from the house and cross to the well, a 
 few steps off. She had an old-fashioned 
 pitcher in her hand, the lower half blue, 
 the upper white, with grapes and grape- 
 leaves embossed over it a legacy from 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 189 
 
 his dead mother which the miller highly 
 prized. 
 
 Beside the well stood Hiram Goddart, 
 Tyler s principal hand in the mill, a 
 good-looking, brisk young fellow, with a 
 tin washbowl on a small bench before 
 him, drying face and hands after his 
 morning ablution. 
 
 " Good-day, Miss Ellen," he said, 
 " I m sorry to see you looking pale this 
 mornin . Are you ailin ?" 
 
 " Not ailing, thank you, Hiram, but 
 I had uneasy dreams last night, and 
 haven t got over them yet." 
 
 " You expect the old man here this 
 evening ?" 
 
 "Or to-morrow, some time." 
 
 "I ll be blithe to see him, Miss 
 Ellen," blushing and hesitating. " I 
 had a letter from Uncle Samuel yester 
 day : he s well-to-do, and has neither 
 chick nor child to do for. He s willin , 
 if I need it, to send me a thousand dol 
 lars or two to set me up in the world. 
 I think your father likes me well enough. 
 He ll have to go partly in debt to pay for 
 that machinery he s buying ; if I raise 
 the two thousand, he might take me in, 
 for a partner, like, in the millin business. 
 Then I wouldn t be a hirelin , and may 
 be Ellen s eyes glistened with tears, 
 not of joy : her rustic lover s quick eye 
 saw that, and his countenance fell. 
 " You wouldn t let me ask the old man" 
 he said it despondingly " if he would 
 trust you to me ? You d be very lonely 
 if" 
 
 " Oh, Hiram," the girl cried, her sobs 
 reaching Tyler s ears, it s cruel of you 
 to talk that way, and father gone, and 
 only last week seven people killed when 
 the rail-cars ran off the track. And 
 then you know I ve told you, as plainly 
 as I could say it " 
 
 "Yes, Miss Ellen, you needn t repeat 
 it," said the poor fellow. " You never 
 gave me no encouragement: I ll always 
 say that." Then, taking the pitcher 
 gently from her hand : " Let me fill it 
 for you." 
 
 Ellen thanked him, voice and hands 
 trembling. He drew a fresh bucketful 
 and filled the pitcher. As she received 
 it from him, it slipped through her hands 
 
 and fell to the ground, breaking in 
 pieces. 
 
 " How clumsy I am !" she said : "and 
 father s favorite pitcher, that grandmother 
 gave him ! Oh dear ! But don t wait, 
 Hiram. I ll send Nancy with another. 
 Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes." 
 
 With that she recrossed to the house, 
 passing, Tyler thought, close to him. 
 Then it first occurred to him as some 
 thing strange that neither of them took 
 notice of his presence that they spoke 
 of him as absent. And then the whole 
 scene faded away : he shivered with 
 cold ; seemed to be lying out some 
 where: felt hands turning him over, 
 and heard a rough voice saying, " He s 
 no that awfu cauld. Hell aiblins come 
 to. I dinna think he ll coup the cran 
 yet."* 
 
 " He s a maist deed, faither : he does 
 na stir," said another voice. 
 
 "That s naithin , Tarn. Nae doot 
 he s sair forfoughten. A droukit folk 
 is, that s been lyin a blink, wi the water 
 aboon them. And he tumbled owerjust 
 as we lap the fence o Squire Doolittle s 
 cornfield. He must ha laid there four 
 or five minutes or ever we gat at him 
 and pou d him out. I wonder what on 
 airth the doited carle was aboot ? Dinna 
 ye mind, Tarn, that he was wadin in and 
 staggerin as if he was foil, when we first 
 cam ower the hill and got sight o him ? 
 He must ha gane clean wud, the crazy 
 cheel, to try it the second time, and he 
 no able to stand. Hech, sirs !" he 
 added, as a deep sigh, half groan, burst 
 from Tyler, whatten an ausome grane 
 was that ! He s waukin up. Tarn, 
 help me turn him ower on his brisket : 
 they say that s gude for them that s been 
 drowninV f 
 
 And when he had laid him face down 
 ward, the kind fellow took off a heavy 
 frieze coat he wore and laid it over his 
 patient. Then he put his hand on the 
 region of the heart. 
 
 * A few words, here and there, in the way of glos 
 sary, may be acceptable : Aiblins, perhaps. Coup Hie 
 cran, kick the bucket die. 
 
 t Sair forfoughten, quite exhausted. Drcntklt, 
 drenched. Blink, a little while. Doited carle, stu 
 pid fellow. Fou, drunk. ^ud, ma 1. A usome 
 grane, awful groan. Brisket, breast. 
 
I 9 o 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " Is the breath in him yet?" asked the 
 son. 
 
 Deed is it. He ll be speakin , 
 belyve. He s a wee dozened yet ; that s 
 a ."* Then to Tarn, as he called him : 
 " My bairn, tak aff that bit coatie o 
 yours and wrap his feet in t." Tom did 
 as he was bid, starting, however, as he 
 laid hold of one foot : it moved in his 
 grasp. "The man s alive, daddie," he 
 said, " sure enough : he can kick." 
 
 The father raised Tyler s head, placing 
 his hand under the forehead. A little 
 water came from the mouth : then the 
 eyes opened. After a fruitless effort or 
 two, the miller said : " Am I here yet ?" 
 
 " Deed an ye are," replied the other. 
 " Whar did ye think ye had gotten to ? 
 It s no very liks the land o the leal, 
 here d ye think it is ? wi this cauld 
 soakit sand anaith ye, and you in thae 
 screeded duds, and us twa in our sark 
 sleeves." f 
 
 The words were not very intelligible 
 to the miller, but he felt that this was 
 real. "I d like to sit up," he said, 
 faintly. They assisted him, but he was 
 so weak that but for Tom, who planted 
 himself behind him and sustained his 
 back, he must have fallen over again. 
 
 Then he took it all in: the sun risen; 
 the lake, almost calm now ; the steamer, 
 still enveloped in flames ; three or four 
 stragglers crawling up the sand a little 
 way off, and several men from the coun 
 try hastening to their assistance. That 
 brought back to his mind his own efforts 
 to rescue Hartland. 
 
 Mr. " 
 
 " My name s Alexander Cameron. 
 Ye may ca me Alick if ye like : maist 
 folks do." 
 
 " You ve saved my life, Mr. Cameron." 
 
 " Me and Tarn, yes. It was easy 
 done. There wasna twa foot water 
 where ye lay." 
 
 " There s another man there : I was 
 trying to drag him out when I fell." 
 
 " An that was what took ye into the 
 water when ye were yinst out ? Aweel, 
 ye re a spunkie cheel, if ye are auld. So 
 
 * Belyve, by and by. Dozened, stupefied. 
 t Land o" the leal, land of the faithful heaven. 
 Screeded duds, torn rags. Sark sleeves, shirt sleeves. 
 
 there s anither man in yonder ? I m 
 thinkin his parritch is cauld by this. A 
 gude half hour he s been lyin there. 
 But if it ll ease yer mind ony, Tarn and 
 me ll try and howk him up. Can ye sit 
 yer lane, d ye think ?"J 
 
 The miller entreated them not to mind 
 him. After searching a few minutes, 
 they dragged Hartland s body on shore 
 and laid it out on the land, near to 
 where Tyler was. Cameron examined 
 it carefully. The veins of the head 
 were swelled ; the face was blue and 
 livid ; the tongue was visible between 
 the lips, which were covered with white 
 froth ; not the slightest warmth over the 
 heart or elsewhere. Even Tyler, who 
 contrived to creep up to the body, 
 thought the case desperate. They em 
 ployed the usual means of restoration, 
 however cold water on the face, upward 
 friction on the limbs and body, without 
 obtaining the least sign of life. " They 
 say sneeshin s gude for t," said Came 
 ron, taking from his pocket a small 
 sheep s horn, or mill as he called it, 
 containing snuff, and inserting a portion 
 of the contents into the nostrils of the 
 drowned man. 
 
 Ten minutes had elapsed in these 
 fruitless endeavors, when a young fellow, 
 clad in homespun, his small pocket-sad 
 dlebags indicating his profession, gal 
 loped toward them from an inland road. 
 
 "Od, but I m fain to see ye, doctor," 
 said Cameron: "here s some gear needs 
 your reddin . It s past me, ony way."|| 
 
 The young doctor, dismounting, ex 
 amined the case with solemn and critical 
 air, shook his head, and said, 
 
 " Do you know how long this patient 
 has been under water, Alick ?" 
 
 " A matter o half an hour and mair." 
 
 " It s almost hopeless. There are 
 cases on* record of resuscitation after 
 more than half an hour s immersion, but 
 they are rare." 
 
 " I gied him some sneeshin , doctor. 
 Was that a right ?" 
 
 "Quite right. It stimulates the in- 
 
 % Yinst, once. Parritch, porridge. Howk ^tp, dig 
 up. Yer lane, by yourself. 
 
 Sneeshin, snuff. 
 
 || Fain, glad. Some gear needs your reddM, a job 
 that needs your care. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 191 
 
 terior surface of the nostrils, and tends 
 to excite circulation." 
 
 "It was wasted on the puir bodie : 
 he ll never need bicker* nor sneeshin- 
 mill mair." 
 
 In the mean time the doctor had been 
 feeling Tyler s pulse as he lay listening 
 to their conversation. " Alick," he said, 
 "ye d better be attending to the living. 
 This man s made a narrow escape of it, 
 and he ought to be in a warm bed this 
 very minute, instead of here on the wet 
 sand. Take my horse, if he can sit 
 him, get him home as fast as ye can, 
 and ye ve got some brandy or whisky 
 in the house ?" 
 
 " Oo, ay : we aye keep a sma drap- 
 pie : ye never ken when it may be 
 needed." 
 
 " Well, it s badly needed now. The 
 man s chilled through." 
 
 Tyler declined the offer of the horse, 
 but on receiving from the doctor the as 
 surance that he would not leave Hart- 
 land until every means of restoration had 
 been exhausted, he consented to go. 
 Alick made him put on the frieze coat, 
 and he and Tom supported him, one on 
 each side. 
 
 It was hardly three-quarters of a mile 
 to the Scotchman s cabin, but the mill 
 er s sufferings during that short journey 
 were terrible. It seemed to him as if a 
 hundred needles were pricking him from 
 head to foot. His head swam : he was 
 forced to sit down and rest a dozen times 
 on the route. When they came to the 
 squire s fence, Cameron and his son had 
 to lift him over. The field had been re 
 cently ploughed. The Scotchman look 
 ed at it doubtingly. 
 
 " He s unco silly," he said to Tom, 
 " and this bit bawk s hard to win through. 
 We maun jist carry him. r f 
 
 And, in spite of Tylers remonstrance, 
 the stout farmer and his son picked him 
 up between them. 
 
 " He s a buircllyj carle," said Cam 
 eron, quite out of breath, as they set 
 him down on the other side of the 
 field. "I se warrant him to weigh gude 
 
 * Bicker, wooden dish. 
 
 t Unco silly , very weak. Bawk, ploughed land. 
 
 \ Buirdly, bulky, broad-built. 
 
 fourteen stane. What s your callin , 
 stranger ?" 
 
 " I m a miller. Nelson Tyler is my 
 name. I live at Chiskauga : it s a vil 
 lage near the Indiana line." 
 
 " Tyler ? That s a gude Scotch name 
 a maist as gude as Cameron. Aweel, 
 we ll hae ye hame in a jiffy, and I ll gar 
 Grannie pit on some het water, and we ll 
 hap ye up and rub ye weel. Ye re feck 
 less the noo, but the mistress has some 
 auld Ferintosh in the aumbry that ll set 
 ye up ; and we ll hae ye hale and hearty 
 the morn." Then, after a pause : "We d 
 best be steerin , gin ye think ye can 
 hirple on. They bare feet o yours 11 
 be gettin cauld." 
 
 Tyler could not help looking down 
 disconsolately at his own forlorn condi 
 tion : his drawers were the only nether 
 garment he had saved. Cameron under 
 stood the look. 
 
 Ye left yer breeks on that burnin 
 boat, did ye ? But never fash yere 
 thoom about that, man : there was mair 
 tint at Sherra-moor. I hae a pair o 
 shoon and some orra-duds at hame : 
 they re maybe a thought ower tight for 
 ye, but ye re welcome to them till ye can 
 do better. ; || 
 
 The miller thanked him warmly, and 
 as the rest of the way lay over level pas 
 ture-field, he contrived to walk, though 
 at each step the leaden weights that 
 seemed to clog his heels grew heavier. 
 By the time he reached the spacious 
 double cabin a feeling of stupor and utter 
 helplessness came over him, and ere a 
 chair could be brought he had sunk on 
 the floor. 
 
 They carried him to the fire, and "the 
 mistress," as Alick called his hale, stout, 
 red-cheeked wife (who bore her forty- 
 odd years as if they scarcely numbered 
 thirty), bustled about, and soon had a 
 warm bed ready, in which Tyler was 
 
 Gar, make. Feckless the noo, exhausted just at 
 present. Auld Ferintosh in the aumbry, old whisky 
 in the pantry ; so called because a certain Forbes was 
 allowed, in 1690, to distill whisky on his barony of 
 Ferintosh in Cromartyshire, free of duty. Steerin 
 stirring, moving. Hirple, to walk lamely or with 
 difficulty. 
 
 || Mair tint at Sherra-moor, more lost at (the battle 
 of) Sheriff Moor (an action disastrous to the Scottish 
 arms, fought in 1715). Orra-duds, spare clothing. 
 
192 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 laid. "Grannie" was greatly exercised 
 just at first, rushing about the house 
 without any definite purpose, exclaiming, 
 The Lord s sake ! Gude guide us ! 
 That bangs a !" But she soon resumed 
 her usual equanimity, put a large kettle 
 on to boil, and was ready, with her ex 
 perience of threescore-and-ten, to pre 
 scribe various infallible remedies for the 
 exhausted man ; chief among them a 
 warm potent potion, sweetened with 
 brown sugar a Scotchman despises 
 white sugar when whisky is concerned 
 and of this palatable mixture the " Fer- 
 intosh" which Tyler s host had promised 
 him formed a chief ingredient. 
 
 The miller s sensations, as he lay 
 there dream -haunted and bewildered, 
 were of a singular character. The sheets, 
 as he touched them, seemed as thick as 
 the coarsest sailcloth, the blankets like 
 inch boards. His own body appeared 
 to him to have stretched out to gigantic 
 proportions. He felt as if he were eight 
 or ten feet long, and as if it were im 
 possible that the bed on which he lay 
 should contain him. Then there was a 
 sinking down, down, as if to some depth 
 impossible to reach. He thought the 
 man who had dragged him to the bottom 
 of the lake ere he could get free of the 
 boat had again clutched his arm. He 
 started in terror, struggling, to free him 
 self, and rolled over on the cabin floor. 
 When they came to lift him up he stared 
 wildly round him, muttering, " I couldn t 
 help it : it was his life or mine." 
 
 After they had covered him up again, 
 and, at Grannie s instigation, put some 
 bottles of warm water to his feet, he fell 
 into a troubled doze, which lasted an 
 hour or two. 
 
 When he woke, he saw, lying on a 
 bed opposite to him, a stout, portly, rud 
 dy-faced man, in full dress, with a shin 
 ing black satin waistcoat and a massive 
 silver watch-chain. The miller rubbed 
 his eyes, wondering if that cou ld possibly 
 be the same gaurmand he remembered 
 to have seen only the day before at din 
 ner on shipboard, stuffing himself with 
 delicacies till one wondered where he 
 found room to stow them away, and call 
 ing for an additional bottle of champagne 
 
 the captain s supply was exhausted. 
 The very same ! That expanse of satin 
 waistcoat was unmistakable. But how 
 could he ever have come here in all 
 that toggery too ? 
 
 " Is it possible" he said to his host, 
 who had come to ask if he felt better 
 " is it possible that fellow with the watch- 
 chain got off from the boat ?" 
 Deed did he." 
 
 And swam ashore with all his clothes 
 on?" 
 
 Hoot na ! He couldna soom, buskit 
 that gait.* There was a bit coble gaed 
 out to the steamboat ; 
 " A coble ?" 
 
 " That s a fishin -boat, ye ken 
 "It brought off some of the pas 
 sengers ?" 
 
 " A matter o twenty o them, they 
 say. They grippet on to the. big wheel, 
 and bided there till the boat took them 
 awa ; yon chiel amang the lave. It s a 
 wonder to me how siccan cattle as that 
 hae a the luck : the Lord aboon, He 
 kens the gowk was na worth savin . 
 And there s anither o them ; that Dutch 
 body, sittin by the chimlie-lug."f 
 
 The man to whom he referred was a 
 Jewish-featured German, some fifty or 
 sixty years old, sitting on a rocking-chair 
 by the fire, bemoaning his fate. "Ach, 
 mine Gott !" he repeated : " mine gelt 
 ischt all gone ! Gott im Himmel ! Was 
 soil ich thun ? Verdammter Zufall ! 
 Every thaler ischt gone !" 
 
 Cameron went up to him. "Auld 
 man," he said, with some asperity, 
 "you ve been grainin aboot that siller 
 ye ve lost till I m sick and tirecl hearin 
 ye. Ye seem to hae clean forgotten that 
 yer life s been saved the day, when hun 
 dreds o better men have gone to Davie s 
 locker ; and deil hae me if I think ye ve 
 said a be-thankit for it yet." 
 
 "Mine life !" rocking himself violent 
 ly to and fro. " Was ischt mine li/e 
 goot for if mine gelt ischt all lost and 
 gone ?" 
 
 "No muckle, I ll agree; but then 
 
 * Couldna soom, buskit that gait, could not swim, 
 dressed up that fashion. 
 
 t A mang the lave, among the rest. Chirnlie-lug, 
 fireside (literally, chimney-ear). 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS 
 
 193 
 
 they say we should a be thankfu for 
 sma favors. Was ye yer lane ? Had 
 ye nae wife ?" 
 
 " Ach, ya ! But mine gelt ischt all 
 gone. Mine wife ischt all gone too." 
 
 "Won t somebody kill that d d 
 Dutchman ?" roared out Satin Waist 
 coat from his bed. 
 
 " Ye may come an kill him yersel , 
 for a me," said Alick, coolly, "but I 
 dinna think he s worth it : a man that ll 
 set up his money for an idol, as thae 
 pagan Jews did that gowden calf in the 
 wilderness, and then let the mistress 
 come in ahint a like Lot s wife when 
 she turned to a pillar o saut may gang 
 his ain gait for onything I care."* 
 
 Amid such talk the day passed. Many 
 dropped in before evening ; some from 
 the wreck others to hear the particulars 
 of so terrible an accident. It appeared 
 that a boat which had put out early in 
 the morning had picked up twenty-one 
 persons one woman among them 
 chiefly those who had saved themselves 
 by clinging to the lower portion of the 
 starboard wheel ; of which number, 
 strange to say, was a child not more 
 than seven or eight years old the son 
 of an English emigrant, it appeared. 
 Father, mother and four children were 
 among the lost, and the poor little or 
 phan, but a few hours before member of 
 a cheerful, thriving family, now stood in 
 this Western cabin a solitary estray, with 
 out relative or friend. Grannie took 
 him on her knee. "Hae, there s a 
 piece," she said, handing him a large 
 slice of bread and butter : " dinna greet, 
 my bonny dawtie : yer faither and yer 
 mither s forsook ye, but the Lord 11 tak 
 ye up." 
 
 Six persons only, besides Tyler, saved 
 themselves by swimming in all but 
 twenty-eight surv vors out of four hun 
 dred and twenty souls. The captain 
 was found amrng the dead, his arm 
 around his wife. Not a few perished, 
 as had nearly been the miller s fate, in 
 shallow water. Many more would doubt 
 less have reached the shore by swim 
 ming but for the fatal encumbrance of 
 clothes. All appeared to have retained 
 
 * Ahint, behind. Saut, salt. 
 
 their shirts, the greater number their 
 drawers, and many bodies washed on 
 shore were of persons, like him of the 
 watch-chain, fully dressed. Pity they 
 had not followed the example recorded 
 by Saint Pierre in his world-renowned 
 story of the sailor on the deck of the 
 Saint Gdran, "tout nu et nerveux comme 
 Hercule," who, though he failed like 
 Paul to rescue Virginia, yet, by the wise 
 precaution he took, succeeded in saving 
 his own life. 
 
 The young physician, who called late 
 in the afternoon, brought word that 
 though he had persisted for several hours 
 in his endeavors to save Hartland, they 
 had been ineffectual, and that arrange 
 ments were already being made for his 
 interment. 
 
 An hour before sunset a four-horse 
 wagon, with several chairs and one or 
 two feather-beds, drove up to the cabin. 
 It had been sent by the innkeeper of a 
 village some tive or six miles distant, in 
 case any of the survivors chose to re 
 turn with it to his hotel. The miller 
 decided to go, in spite of Cameron s 
 hospitable invitation, kindly pressed, to 
 remain with him a day or two. 
 
 Satin Waistcoat went also, of course. 
 He pulled out a purse, apparently well 
 filled, and came toward his host to pay 
 for breakfast and dinner. " Put up yer 
 siller," said the latter, a little sharply. 
 " We re no bien to brag o . But I dinna 
 keep a public, to be seekin pay for a 
 meal s vittals ; and naither am I a beg- 
 garman, to need an aumos.f Ye re wel 
 come to what ye ve had." 
 
 When they were taking leave, Tyler 
 asked Cameron what he intended to do 
 with the little orphan. 
 
 " Oo, we ll jist let him rin with the 
 bairns, and gie him a bite and a sup till 
 better turns up." 
 
 "Suppose I were to take him and 
 make a miller of him ?" 
 
 "Ye hae a rale leal Scotch heart, 
 Mr. Tyler, anaith that broad brisket 
 o yours. I m unco glad me and Tarn 
 pou d ye out. It ll be the makin o the 
 bairn." 
 
 * Were no bien to brag o\ we re not rich to boast 
 of. Aumos, alms. 
 
I 9 4 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 The Lord be thankit !" said Gran 
 nie. " I kenned weel He would baud 
 till His word." 
 
 " Will you come and spend a week or 
 two at the mill this summer or fall," said 
 Tyler to Cameron, ." and bring Tom with 
 you ? Maybe he d like to be a miller 
 too. I d give him the best kind of a 
 chance." 
 
 " I m no misdoubtin ye would, and 
 Tarn s gleg at the uptak.* But I canna 
 weel spare him frae the farm. Ony way, 
 I se come and see ye the first chance." 
 
 I won t say a word about these 
 trowsers and the hat and the jacket you 
 made me take." 
 
 " Ye d best no, or we ll hae a quarrel. 
 But I ll tell ye what : we ll mak a niffer,f 
 and ye ll gie Willie here that s what the 
 wean ca s himsel ye ll gie him a pair 
 o Sunday breeks and a blue Scotch bon 
 net wi a tassel to t. Wad ye like that, 
 Willie ?" 
 
 Willie did not quite understand the 
 kindness that was intended him, but 
 when Tyler, laughing, asked him, "Would 
 you like to go in that wagon, Willie, and 
 sit beside the driver and see the horses ?" 
 the little fellow clapped his hands, and 
 then gave one of them to Tyler. 
 
 So, with many thanks to the mistress 
 and to Grannie, and a hearty shake of 
 the hand from Tarn, they bade good-bye 
 to the hospitable Scotchman. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE BODY THAT WAS TOO LONG FOR THE 
 BOOT. 
 
 EITHER Grannie s prescription warm 
 and strong, or her son s dry humor, or 
 else perhaps the excitement of the day, 
 fed by constant news touching the fate 
 of his fellow-sufferers, had, at the mo 
 ment Tyler left Cameron s log cabin, 
 caused the miller almost to forget his 
 aches and pains. But these were griev 
 ously recalled on the journey, brief as it 
 was, over a rough wagon-road to the 
 village tavern. Though he had lain 
 down on one of the feather-beds, each 
 
 * Gleg at the uptak, quick at learning, 
 t Niffer, exchange, swap. 
 
 jolt of that springless wagon was tor 
 ture. He grew weaker, mile by mile. 
 The landlord and a stable-boy had to 
 carry him up stairs to bed, on which he 
 sank, body and mind utterly exhausted, 
 and scarcely conscious where he was or 
 how he came there. 
 
 A doctor was sent for, who shook his 
 head and spoke a little doubtingly of the 
 case, prescribing nourishing food, given 
 often and in small quantities, with oc 
 casional stimulants. Mounting his horse, 
 he said to the landlord : " The man 
 would do well enough, and might be up 
 to-morrow, if he had twenty years less 
 on his shoulders. But age tells. I can 
 ride Speckleback" patting his neck 
 "as far in a day, for all his fifteen years, 
 as I could when he was a seven-year- 
 old ; but when patients are plentiful and 
 far apart, and I put him through his 
 fifty miles before night, then I have to 
 ride the filly for two or three days till 
 his old legs supple again. He s a stout 
 fellow for his age, that lodger of yours, 
 but even if there s no funeral, he isn t 
 likely to be up for a week. You may 
 bring him through by good nursing: 
 that s the main thing." 
 
 Tyler remained for several days, sunk 
 in a -strange sort of lethargy a dreamy 
 state, the past and the present inextri 
 cably mixed ; his mind sometimes en 
 gaged with dim and shadowy reproduc 
 tions of the horrors he had passed 
 through, sometimes visited by peaceful 
 visions similar to those that soothed Hart- 
 land s dying moments. But there was 
 once in each twenty-four hours a sort of 
 lucid interval, in which the patient took 
 note of things around him and was com 
 paratively clear-headed. This occurred 
 from two to three o clock each morning, 
 lasting, at first, about an hour. Except 
 during these intervals he could not eat. 
 While they lasted the chief thing Tyler 
 noticed was the appearance of a woman 
 at the foot of his bed : she might be of 
 any age above sixty parchment-faced, 
 with snow-white hair and cap, silent, 
 and, except that her fingers knitted rap 
 idly and mechanically, absolutely im 
 movable no change in the cold, impas 
 sive face, the gray eyes fixed on him 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 95 
 
 Tyler rubbed his own eyes, but there it 
 was still. C9uld it be an apparition 
 his grandmother, who, he recollected to 
 have heard, was a celebrated knitter? 
 If so, it must have been a ghost of the 
 ministering kind, for it glided slowly to 
 the fire, stirred something that had been 
 set to simmer there in a small pot, and 
 brought the sick man, by and by. a glass 
 not of nectar, unless nectar be a bev 
 erage much resembling warm egg-nog 
 with whisky in it. It did not say any 
 thing to him, however, merely signing 
 to him to drink what it presented : then, 
 after setting the empty tumbler on a 
 small table at the bed-head, it resumed 
 its station and its knitting, and the gray 
 eyes watched him with stony gaze as be 
 fore. Then the old crone was mixed up 
 in his dreams ; sometimes extending a 
 hand to help him out of the water some 
 times telling him that she would meet 
 him soon in the next world. 
 
 Gradually the intermittent periods of 
 lucidity became longer two, three, four 
 hours. He was coming back to life, 
 and the figure at the foot of the bed 
 emerged from its ghostly phase feeling 
 his pulse, dropping, now and then, a 
 word or two as to his wants : in short, 
 settling down into a careful, flesh-and- 
 blood nurse, albeit singularly taciturn. 
 
 On the fourth day a slight fever su 
 pervened. That abated, however, and 
 on the sixth Tyler sat up, with a feeling 
 of returning health and a keen sense 
 that the sunshine had never before look 
 ed half so bright. 
 
 He had replenished his wardrobe from 
 a ready-made clothing store in the vil 
 lage, the owner giving him credit without 
 scruple. " I know by your face you ll 
 pay me," he said ; " but even if you 
 didn t, it wouldn t break me ; and we 
 must all lend a helping hand in a case 
 like this." 
 
 He was two hours in dressing, com 
 pelled to rest every few minutes during 
 the process. When nearly dressed he 
 happened to cast his eyes on a looking- 
 glass set on a chest of drawers. Startled, 
 he turned round to see who had entered 
 his room. No one there ! Yet when 
 he looked again in the glass there still 
 
 it stood a feeble, wan-faced old crea 
 ture, with hollow, staring eyes, and hair 
 silver white. A second time he turned 
 perplexed, wondering whether his senses 
 were beginning to wander again. At 
 last, after a third look in the mirror, it 
 flashed upon him that was NELSON 
 TYLER ! 
 
 What we call Time in this world may 
 not exist in the next under any phase 
 which corresponds to our present per- , 
 ceptions of it. These perceptions, even 
 here, are sometimes revolutionized. 
 That hour of twenty seconds spent by 
 Hartland beneath the lake waters in 
 self-trial and condemnation was as truly 
 an hour to him as if the long hand of the 
 clock had marked its sixty minutes. And 
 so even physical effects that are usually 
 the result of years may be produced in 
 days. That terrible week had been ten 
 years in Tyler s life. He was ten years 
 nearer death at its close than he had 
 been at its commencement. His hair, but 
 slightly sprinkled with gray on that bright 
 May-day morning when the Queen of 
 the Lakes" swept gracefully from her 
 moorings in the harbor of Buffalo, was, 
 on this seventh of May, colorless as the 
 snow when it falls from heaven. The 
 rush of circumstance had put forward 
 the hands of life s dial. Would his own 
 child recognize him under his advanced 
 years ? 
 
 In a buggy which the landlord loaned 
 him he ventured out, taking Willie who 
 had been thriving under the buxom land 
 lady s care with him, and driving slowly 
 to the scene of disaster. What a sight 
 met his eyes ! A wide trench, some 
 one hundred and fifty or two hundred 
 feet long, had been dug along the bank, 
 and contained so they told him three 
 hundred and seventy bodies that had 
 been washed ashore, or dragged up from 
 the sand-bar on which the steamer 
 stranded by friends and relatives in 
 search of their dead. These bodies had 
 been enclosed in rough poplar boxes, 
 the lids loosely tacked on, so that the 
 corpse within could be readily inspected. 
 
 I Upon each lid had been chalked the 
 name when there was any clew to it, 
 
 i but in the great majority of cases only a 
 
196 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 few words designating sex. probable age 
 and apparent nativity of the deceased. 
 
 A crowd was assembled around this 
 hideous trench : the greater number 
 mere spectators, drawn thither by the 
 curiosity which any great tragedy arouses, 
 but a good many were engaged in ex 
 amining the rude lettering on the boxes, 
 and some in the ghastly duty of inspect 
 ing their contents, urged, perhaps, by 
 hope of recognizing, in some decaying 
 form, a brother, a father, perhaps a sis 
 ter or wife. 
 
 Some of these searchers, however, 
 seemed to be young lawyers or other 
 agents, who had accepted the revolting 
 office an office not without danger also, 
 for Tyler s perceptions, sensitive through 
 sickness, detected a faint odor, indicating 
 that in a portion of that encoffined mass 
 decomposition had already begun. 
 
 Two men, who appeared to have been 
 thus employed, came from the crowd and 
 stopped to take a last look at the scene 
 near Tyler s buggy. 
 
 " Catch me undertaking such a job 
 again !" said the younger of the two to 
 his companion. "If it hadn t been for 
 that chloride of lime, or soda, or what 
 ever it is, I think I should have fainted 
 before I got through that awful pit. I 
 don t believe the stench will be out of 
 my nostrils for a week. And we have 
 to give it up at last." 
 
 " We found one of the two," replied 
 the other ; and that s better luck than 
 most of them had." 
 
 I say, Jack," rejoined the first speak 
 er, "did you hear the dreadful stories 
 they were telling about the plunder of 
 the dead bodies watches, jewelry, 
 money they suppose too ; and one young 
 girl who had her earrings torn off." 
 
 "It may be exaggerated," replied the 
 other, " but no doubt it is partly true. A 
 great crowd always draws pickpockets ; 
 and they probably concluded that the 
 dead would miss their rings and watches 
 and pocket-books less than the living, 
 and would be very sure not to prosecute 
 them for the theft." 
 
 I suppose that is their cold-blood 
 ed way of looking at it, but it s very 
 norrible." 
 
 " I came across a more horrible thing 
 just before I left home." 
 
 " Did you ?" 
 
 I was standing in our savings bank 
 last Saturday afternoon when a crowd 
 of depositors came in ; one widow among 
 them, over fifty, and four children to feed 
 by taking in plain sewing. She had put 
 a fifty-dollar note the savings, she told 
 me afterward, of nearly two years into 
 her bank-book, and held that over her 
 shoulder in the press. Some villain 
 picked it out. These wrecker-thieves 
 are honorable gentlemen compared to 
 him, if they do look Death in the face 
 and go on picking and stealing still. You 
 ought to have seen that poor creature s 
 agony. Money saved, twenty-five cents 
 at a time, through two whole years, to 
 be laid by against a rainy day, and gone 
 in a single moment, no doubt to pamper 
 drunken riot or worse debauchery. It s 
 very shocking to think of, the tearing rings 
 out of the ears of a young creature that s 
 dead, but it s a venial crime compared 
 to tearing the heartstrings of a poor, old, 
 overtasked, hardworking mother that s 
 living and can feel the torture." 
 
 " You always were a queer creature, 
 Jack, but I can t help thinking of the 
 bleeding ears for all that." 
 
 "Don t let s talk about it, Ned. I 
 want to get out of this. Let s hunt up 
 the two men that hired that hack along 
 with us, and see if we can t get off 
 to-night." 
 
 Tyler had seen and heard enough. 
 He returned to the tavern a good deal 
 fatigued, but a quiet night s rest did 
 much for him. He was up, though a 
 little late, to breakfast. 
 
 As he passed out with Willie to go 
 to his room, the two men whose conver 
 sation he had listened to on the lake 
 shore were paying their bills at the office 
 counter. Tyler stopped to look at them. 
 The face of the elder seemed familiar, 
 but he tasked his memory in vain to 
 discover who he was or where he had 
 met him. They passed up stairs to look 
 after their baggage, and Tyler noticed a 
 four-horse carriage at the door. " Are 
 they going in that hack ?" he asked his 
 host. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 197 
 
 "Yes, to Cleveland, where they take 
 the railroad. Why couldn t you go with 
 them ?" 
 
 " I have no money to pay you my 
 bill." 
 
 " Don t let that stop you, Mr. Tyler. 
 I ll not be harder on you than the tailor 
 was. Send me ten dollars when you get 
 home, if you have it to spare." 
 
 "And the old woman that nursed 
 me?" 
 
 " I guess she ought to have a V. So 
 you can make it fifteen." 
 
 " I ll send you twenty the day I get 
 home. Give the old woman half. She 
 earned it." 
 
 Just then the two men came down, 
 the younger first. " Mr. Morris," said 
 the landlord, "couldn t you give this 
 man a seat in your hack ?" 
 
 " Very sorry, but we re full already 
 four of us, and that s all it holds." 
 
 " Who wants a seat ?" said the other 
 as he came forward " anybody from the 
 wreck ?" 
 
 " Yes, this old man here : he swam 
 ashore, and then went back into the 
 water to try and save a friend of his. 
 That time he d have been drowned, sure 
 enough, if it hadn t been for Scotch 
 Alick. He s been a week getting over 
 it, as it was." 
 
 " Old gentleman," said he whom his 
 companion had called Jack, turning to 
 Tyler, " you shall have my seat, and 
 heartily welcome too : I ll get up beside 
 the driver." 
 
 Tyler wrung his hand in thanks : 
 I ve this little fellow, but he can sit on 
 my knee." 
 
 " Any baggage ?" 
 
 "Out in the lake, yes," smiling; "but 
 we won t wait for it." 
 
 It was just as much as the miller 
 could do to climb into his seat, the land 
 lord helping him. 
 
 " Hand me up that youngster, land 
 lord," said Jack ; " I know he wants to 
 see the horses, and my knees are 
 stronger than his grandfather s." 
 
 "That s not my grandfather," said 
 Willie as soon as he was seated. 
 
 " Your father, is it ? He s old to have 
 such a son as you." 
 
 " Father and mother are both drowned, 
 and Bessy and Liz Jem and Harry 
 too." 
 
 "Good Heavens!" said kind-hearted 
 Jack ; "and who s that old gentleman ?" 
 
 " Don t know. He s goin to make a 
 miller of me." 
 
 Jack looked at the child s sad, earnest 
 eyes and kissed him, his own eyes moist: 
 then he turned, and, after scrutinizing 
 Tyler s face, said to Morris : " Ned, 
 hand me up one of those printed hand 
 bills." He looked it over carefully ; 
 then to himself: "No, it can t be; but 
 it s a singular coincidence." 
 
 " Mr. Morris," said one of the occu 
 pants of the hack, " what sort of luck 
 had you and Mr. Alston ?" 
 
 " Got one body and sent it home, but 
 couldn t find a trace of the other, though 
 we must have opened at least fifty of 
 those infernal boxes. It may have been 
 washed ashore some distance off." 
 
 "Then probably the coroners didn t 
 have a quarrel over it." 
 
 " How do you mean ?" 
 
 " Didn t you hear about that ? The 
 bodies came on shore close to the county 
 line ; and there were two rival coroners, 
 each anxious to have the honor, or 
 rather the profit, of holding a few hun 
 dred inquests. Finally, I think, they 
 agreed to divide the spoils." 
 
 " Well," said Morris, " if a man s in 
 business he must look out for custom. 
 It s three dollars a body, and the county 
 can afford to pay it. These coroners 
 don t make fortunes : it isn t^ every day 
 they have such a windfall as this. I 
 wish one of them had made his three 
 dollars off that millers body, so we could 
 have taken it home to his daughter. No 
 doubt it would have been a comfort to 
 the girl. Are you worse, old gentle 
 man ?" turning to Tyler, who had sunk 
 back as if exhausted, his eyes closed. 
 
 "No, it s nothing," rousing himself; 
 "but is that gentleman s name, beside 
 the driver, Mr. Alston ?" 
 
 "Jack Alston, yes ; and a right good 
 fellow too, if he has odd notions some 
 times. From Mount Sharon : do you 
 know him ?" 
 
 " Mr. Alston," said Tyler in a feeble 
 
I 9 3 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 voice, without replying to Morris, " will 
 you let me see that handbill you were 
 reading ?" 
 
 It was handed to him. The reading 
 of it seemed to produce a strange im 
 pression. They saw him struggle for 
 composure. At last he said quietly to 
 Morris, " I think it s just as well the 
 coroner didn t hold an inquest on that 
 miller you re looking after." 
 
 " Why ? Do you know anything 
 about the body ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Then, in the name of Goodness, let 
 us know where it is. We ve had such 
 a time after it. Driver !" raising his 
 voice, " stop : we must go back again." 
 
 " No, you needn t : you ve got the 
 body here." 
 
 " What ?" said the other, confounded 
 "in the boot under the driver, or 
 strapped on behind ?" 
 
 Tyler, weak as he was, couldn t help 
 laughing : " The miller was six feet and 
 over : it would have been hard to get 
 the box into the boot, I think." 
 
 " For God s sake, stranger, tell us 
 what all this means, at once." 
 
 "It isn t every man that has a chance 
 to see his dead body advertised, and ten 
 dollars reward offered for it " 
 
 " By the Lord Harry !" broke in 
 Jack, "if it isn t the burly miller here in 
 the body among us ! Give us your hand, 
 old fellow. I had some suspicion about 
 it when this youngster here told me you 
 intended to make a miller of him. But 
 then the wjiite hair ! How could they 
 make such a mistake ?" 
 
 " No mistake, Mr. Alston ;" shaking 
 his head sadly ; " but / made a mistake 
 myself, yesterday, when I first got up 
 from a sick bed and looked in the glass. 
 I didn t know it was Nelson Tyler." 
 
 " No wonder I didn t find it out, then. 
 Well, I ve heard of such things before, 
 but I never believed them. Do you 
 mean to say that your hair was only 
 < sprinkled with gray, as the handbill 
 says, one week ago ?" 
 
 "The day we left Buffalo, yes if 
 that s only a week since. It seems to 
 me like six months." 
 
 Mr. Tyler," said Alston, " what was 
 
 it that the landlord said about your go 
 ing back into the water, after you had 
 saved yourself, to help a friend ? Who 
 was it you tried to save ?" 
 
 " Thomas Hartland of Chiskauga ; but 
 I didn t make it out. I contrived to get 
 the body along till the water was about 
 two feet deep, and then fell down sense 
 less myself. You would have got my 
 body, slick enough, along with Mr. Hart- 
 land s, if it hadn t been for a stout 
 Scotchman and his son who dragged me 
 out." 
 
 " You re a noble fellow, Nelson Ty 
 ler," said Alston, warmly : " first, to risk 
 your life, and all but lose it, for a friend ; 
 and then to adopt an orphan that hadn t 
 a soul left to take care of him. But how 
 did you expect to pay your way and his 
 back to Chiskauga ?" 
 
 " To tell you the truth, I didn t see 
 my path very clearly ; but in our coun 
 try you can always find somebody to help 
 in a case like this. I felt sure the rail 
 road people would put us through free." 
 
 " That reminds me," said Mr. Morris, 
 taking out his pocket-pook and selecting 
 from it two half-eagles, " that I owe this 
 gentleman a debt." He handed the 
 money to Tyler, adding with the utmost 
 gravity, "The reward for finding that 
 body, Mr. Tyler, that was too long to 
 get into the boot, you know." 
 
 They had a good laugh over this, and 
 quite a merry time, all things considered, 
 till they reached Cleveland, whence, the 
 same afternoon, they proceeded by rail 
 on their return to Chiskauga. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 ONE OF NATURE S WONDERS. 
 WHILE Tyler lay in lethargic sleep 
 and penniless off the line of telegraphic 
 communication, too at that country 
 tavern, he had neither spirit nor means 
 to send speedy news of his condition to 
 his daughter. But ere he left Cleveland 
 he telegraphed to a friend at the River- 
 dale railroad station nearest to Chis 
 kauga, asking him to ride over and in 
 form Ellen that her father was on his 
 way home. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 199 
 
 The tidings came like a message from 
 heaven to the desolate girl. The terri 
 ble suspense worse than the worst cer 
 taintywhich she had been enduring for 
 the last five days had worn on mind and 
 body till she seemed more fit to occupy 
 a sick bed than to go about as she still 
 did, wearied and wan, attending mechan 
 ically to her daily duties. 
 
 The poor child had her own personal 
 griefs and anxieties in addition to those 
 which regarded her father s fate. She 
 had fallen, alas ! into pitiless hands. 
 
 The ancients were wont to picture the 
 Harpies as rapacious birds with human 
 heads, who snatched from some hungry 
 man the untasted meal, destroying or 
 befouling what was intended for nourish 
 ment and comfort. More cruel are the 
 Harpies of humankind filching or de 
 filing the holier food of the mind and 
 heart, decrying good name, bedaubing 
 fair fame and murdering reputation. 
 Venial in the comparison, and of motive 
 less shameful, is even the base offence 
 of the robber-incendiary. He may hope 
 to clutch from the burning edifice valu 
 able spoil, and that edifice may, ere long, 
 be rebuilt stronger, fairer, more stately 
 than before ; but the backbiter has not 
 even the poor excuse of plunder, and the 
 ruins of a blasted reputation may be 
 eternal beyond reach of restoration 
 even by the slanderer himself, should 
 late repentance seek to repair the deso 
 lation he had wrought. 
 
 But Amos Cranstoun and Catherine 
 Wolfgang thought of none of these 
 things. The one stung by jealousy, the 
 other by envy, they sought to gratify 
 these evil passions, reckless on whose 
 head their defamations fell. Neither 
 specially disliked Ellen Tyler, yet, as 
 events turned, she was their chief vic 
 tim. They felt that Mowbray and Celia 
 could be most effectually reached and 
 punished by imputations on the chas 
 tity of the miller s innocent and simple- 
 hearted child. 
 
 Day by day she was made to feel, 
 sometimes by intangible trifles, some 
 times by ruder demonstrations, the 
 spreading of the subtle influence. On 
 May-day there was a pic-nic, numerously 
 
 attended, on Grangula s Mount, and to 
 this the invitation had been of a general 
 character. Ellen went. By Celia, Leo- 
 line and others she was treated with 
 their wonted kindness, but on the part 
 of several of her usual companions she 
 met averted looks, a few rudely and 
 pointedly avoiding her. On one occa 
 sion, when she had seated herself on a 
 bench on which six or eight young girls 
 of her acquaintance had already taken 
 seats, they rose in a body and left it. 
 
 She returned home heart-broken ; and 
 when, two days later, there was super- 
 added a week of torturing suspense in 
 regard to her father s fate, the unhappy 
 girl, looking forward to desertion by all 
 earthly aid and hope, was, for the time, 
 crushed beneath her load of sorrow. 
 
 One star was it of bane or of bless 
 ing ? shone through the darkness that 
 was enshrouding her. She met Mow- 
 bray twice during that terrible week. 
 He spoke to her gently, kindly, sooth 
 inglyspoke, at last, of marriage. Ellen 
 burst into tears, faltering out Celia s 
 name. 
 
 " Do not let us speak of her," said 
 Mowbray, coloring. "She has Every 
 thing is over between us for ever for 
 ever, dear Ellen! It was her doing: 
 perhaps she likes somebody else better : 
 at all events, I was glad to be honorably 
 released. Don t you know why? I 
 have felt lately you must have felt it 
 too that for months I have loved you 
 far better than her far better than any 
 one else in all this world. It would 
 have been wrong for me to marry her, 
 loving you best. Now I am free, and 
 you will be my little wife will you not, 
 dear, dear Ellen ?" 
 
 It was not in a nature like Ellen s to 
 make any answer but one to this. Child 
 like, faithful-hearted, inexperienced, ten 
 der, she saw in Evelyn Mowbray more 
 than her love : he was her hero also, her 
 ideal of all goodness, nobility, generosity. 
 To another it might have occurred that 
 Mowbray s conduct to Celia showed in 
 constancy, and laid him open to the 
 charge of mercenary motive. Not one 
 light cloud of suspicion rested on the 
 heaven of her simple faith. Celia s po- 
 
200 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 sition, if she had lost much money, 
 seemed to Ellen still far above her own, 
 and it was Celia s own doing. Didn t 
 Mr. Movvbray say so ? 
 
 But the glamour which indued the 
 image of clay with the vestments of a 
 god owed its power of charming to 
 something more. Mowbray had taken 
 a fancy to this pretty, warm-hearted, 
 bright-eyed girl. Celia had deeply 
 wounded his vanity, and Ellen s look of 
 love mingled with reverence was balm 
 to the wound. He had not lied to her 
 when he said that he preferred her to 
 her rival and to every one else : he cer 
 tainly did just then. Truth lent force 
 to his words and warmth to his tones. 
 Ellen knew that she was loved that she 
 was preferred to a young lady, beautiful, 
 refined, accomplished. Her vanity, like 
 his, was flattered, and became the ally 
 of her love. 
 
 Could she say aught but yes when he 
 offered her the first place in his heart, 
 and a shelter in his arms from the revil- 
 ings of a merciless world ? 
 
 One only condition she attached to 
 her consent that her father, when he 
 returned (not z/"he returned) should say 
 yes also. 
 
 He did return when hope was almost 
 gone ; but alas ! alas ! how worn, how pale, 
 how changed ! Ellen s tearful joy when 
 the old man took her once more in his 
 arms was most touching to see. She 
 supported him into the house, set him in 
 the wonted easy-chair ; then sank at his 
 feet, burying her face in her hands and 
 laughing and crying alternately, without 
 power of control. 
 
 When her first wild emotions had 
 somewhat subsided, she stood, with 
 swimming eyes and an aching heart, 
 gazing oh so piteously ! at that wast 
 ed form. Father, father !" she cried, 
 how terrible it must have been ! Poor 
 white hair !" putting it back from his 
 forehead and kissing him fervently again 
 and again. Then she knelt down, laid 
 her clasped hands on his knees, and 
 looked up in his face : " You must rest 
 now, father dear, and I must nurse you. 
 Hiram can mind the mill : he s been 
 quite attentive since you went away. 
 
 You must be very quiet : you mustn t 
 be anxious, nor trouble yourself about 
 anything except getting well." Then 
 sadly, in a low tone : " I ve been a trou 
 ble to you, father : I ve done what I 
 ought not to have done : you ve been 
 anxious and sorry about me. Dear, 
 kind father, you mustn t be anxious, you 
 mustn t ever be sorry about me, any 
 more. They may say what they please 
 and promise what they please : I ll stay 
 with you and take care of you, as mother 
 would have done if she hadn t gone to 
 heaven. I ll never leave you never, 
 father dear as long as you need me 
 as long as you want me to stay." Then 
 she took the white, thin hands in both 
 hers, stroked them and laid her face on 
 them. 
 
 The old man, wholly overcome, looked 
 at his daughter with dim eyes, thinking, 
 the while, of that pathetic old story that 
 tells us of the Hebrew widow and the 
 Moabitess, her daughter-in-law. The 
 words seemed to sound in his ears : 
 " Whither thou goest, I will go ; and 
 where thou lodgest, I will lodge. The 
 Lord do so to me, and more also, if 
 aught but death part me and thee." He 
 gently drew his hands from hers, laid 
 them on her bowed head and said : 
 "You are your mother s own child, 
 Nell the dearest blessing God has 
 given me. May He bless you as I do, 
 and lead and protect you when I am 
 gone !" 
 
 The next day, when a quiet night s 
 rest had a little recruited the miller s 
 strength, and when both were calmer, he 
 related to the wondering and excited 
 girl the tragical scenes through which 
 he had passed ; omitting, however, that 
 vision of home which appeared to him 
 while he lay under water insensible. 
 As he concluded his narrative, Hiram 
 Goddart came in to take his orders for 
 the day. When these were given and 
 the young man had departed, Tyler said 
 to Ellen : Has Hiram heard from his 
 uncle Samuel since I left ?" 
 
 "Yes" a little embarrassed: "did 
 he tell you he expected a letter ?" 
 
 "No. Any news from the old man?" 
 
 " The letter came on May-day, I be- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 201 
 
 lieve ; at least Hiram told me of it next 
 morning. He did not show it to me, 
 but I think it must have been in reply 
 to something he had written about a 
 partnership with you in the mill ; for he 
 said the uncle offered him one or two 
 thousand dollars to set him up in the 
 world." 
 
 The miller started, shuddered, turned 
 pale. 
 
 " Poor father !" said Ellen ; " how 
 you must have suffered ! You have 
 these pains still ?" 
 
 Not much, my child : it has passed. 
 Did Hiram say anything about a part 
 nership ?" 
 
 " I think he did. Oh yes now I re 
 member : he said you might perhaps 
 want money to help pay for that new 
 machinery. Was that all lost, father ?" 
 
 "Yes, Nell: nothing but the old man s 
 come back to you ; and he s good for 
 nothing but to give trouble now." 
 
 Ellen put her hand on his mouth : " I 
 know you love me, father dear," the 
 tears rising to her eyes, "and that you 
 don t want me to cry. Then you 
 mustn t say such cruel things as that." 
 
 " Well, I won t. I used to tend you 
 when you was little and your mother 
 ailin , and I never thought it a trouble. 
 So you shall fetch me a pitcher of water, 
 dear Nellie, fresh from the well." 
 
 Ellen brought it, and when she had 
 poured out a glass, her father asked, 
 "What s come of that blue and white 
 pitcher ?" 
 
 "Oh, father, I m so sorry!" 
 
 "It s broken ?" 
 
 "Yes. It was the very same morn 
 ing Hiram spoke to me about his uncle s 
 letter." Then, looking at her father : 
 " You are suffering still from those aches 
 you told me of. I see it in your face." 
 
 "Just for a moment, Nell: never 
 mind it. So you and he were at the 
 well together, were you ?" 
 
 Ellen blushed : " Why, how did you 
 know that, father ?" 
 
 " It wasn t difficult to guess. You 
 generally fetch a pitcher of water for 
 breakfast ; and that s about the time 
 Hiram mostly comes to wash by the 
 well." 
 
 " Yes, he was wiping his face and 
 hands when he told me about the letter." 
 
 "You see. That must have been 
 just about the time I got on shore. I 
 wonder if you had been dreaming about 
 steamboat accidents." 
 
 " No, but I had had bad dreams about 
 you, and kept thinking of the seven peo 
 ple that were killed on the railroad when 
 the cars ran off the track." 
 
 " And maybe Hiram kept thinking 
 that if anything did happen you d be 
 very lonely " 
 
 " He had no business to tell you all 
 that. I don t thank him for it !" a little 
 pettishly. 
 
 " Don t blame the lad for nothing, 
 Nell. He never said the first word 
 about it, good or bad. But my Scotch 
 aunt Jessie used to sing me a song that 
 Burns or somebody wrote : it began 
 
 Wilt thou be my dearie? 
 
 When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 
 Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 
 
 And I remember that was the way I felt 
 about your mother when I was courtin 
 her, one time when her father was ill. 
 I think Hiram must have been saying 
 something about some other partner 
 ship besides the millin business that 
 morning ?" 
 
 Again that telltale blush : " Father, 
 you must be a witch. How could you 
 guess all that ?" 
 
 " You think I never heard that, when 
 young people meet by the well, they do, 
 now and then, talk of such things ? How 
 do you know I never did it myself?" 
 
 " But then nothing can ever come of 
 it. Hiram s as good as he can be : you 
 never had a more faithful hand ; only I 
 couldn t love him. I told him it couldn t 
 be. And you don t want me to marry 
 him, do you ?" 
 
 " You love your old father, Nell, and 
 you re bent on taking care of him. D ye 
 think he would ever ask you to marry 
 anybody you couldn t love ?" 
 
 Tyler had many kisses from his daugh 
 ter that morning, but none more fervent 
 than the one she gave him as he said 
 that. Yet she could not make up her 
 mind to tell him, just then, that Mow- 
 bray had asked her to be his wife. By 
 
202 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 and by," she thought, when he is 
 stronger." 
 
 " Nelly," said Tyler, " you ve your 
 housework to do and that orphan Willie 
 to look to ; and I m a most as much 
 worn out tellin you that long story as 
 if I d gone through it all again. Leave 
 me to rest, child: maybe I ll get a nap." 
 
 Yet he was not thinking of napping. 
 When Ellen left him his mind was in a 
 tumult. As he recalled and arranged 
 the wonders .that had just come to light, 
 he sank into a long, solemn reverie. 
 
 He had looked upon it as a dream. No 
 thing more natural, considering whither 
 his thoughts had strayed off, even while 
 he was dragging Hartland s body through 
 the water, feeling step by step more like 
 dying himself than saving another. Yet 
 he had never, in his life, dreamed any 
 thing so vividly. No occurrence in the 
 actual world had ever seemed to him 
 more real. The Scotchman s voice and 
 the cold wet sand appeared to him, at 
 the first moment, more like a vision than 
 that from which they recalled him. And 
 thus actuated, however, by curiosity 
 rather than by any belief that the scene 
 had been truly enacted at the well-side 
 he had cautiously questioned Ellen. 
 
 The result overcame him with wonder 
 and with fear. The coincidences were 
 too many and too exact to be casual. 
 First, there was the correspondence as 
 to time the morning after May-day, 
 probably at the same hour, for the miller 
 was wont to breakfast about sunrise ; 
 then the various details of the conversa 
 tion Hiram telling the girl of the letter 
 from Uncle Samuel, and the sum named 
 in it, " one or two thousand dollars ;" 
 the proposal about a partnership, never 
 broached by the lad before ; then still 
 more unlike the fortuitous Hiram s 
 suggestion that the money might help to 
 pay for the new machinery ; then his 
 suit to Ellen and his allusion to her 
 being left alone ; finally a pitcher broken 
 at that very time, and that pitcher the 
 same he had seen in the trance his 
 mother s bequest. Common sense told 
 him this could not all be chance. What 
 was it, then ? 
 
 The man felt awestricken, as in the 
 
 presence of a Superior Power. The 
 next world came near to his senses, as 
 never before, though that might have 
 been due, in part, to his late narrow 
 escape from death. New and strange 
 thoughts crowded upon him. He had 
 never intended to doubt that the soul 
 had a separate existence and that it sur 
 vived the body : he would have been 
 shocked if any one had suspected that 
 he lacked belief in that article of the 
 Christian creed. Yet he had received 
 the doctrine, as the common mind re 
 ceives that and a hundred more, pas 
 sively with sluggish acquiescence only. 
 No living conviction of its truth had 
 come home to him. If he had been 
 hard pressed as to his reasons for faith 
 in that tenet, he might have been very 
 much puzzled to find them. 
 
 Very much puzzled ten days before, but 
 not after that morning on the lake shore. 
 For then he had seen, he had heard if 
 perceptions indicate sight and hearing 
 what till then it had not entered into his 
 heart to conceive. While his body lay 
 insensible under the waters soon to re 
 turn, it seemed, to the earth as it was 
 his spirit, love-called,* had hied away, 
 it would appear, leaving its earth-clog 
 behind, yet connected with it perchance 
 by some invisible, attenuated chord, 
 which still permitted return to its home 
 of clay, so long as the fine, spiritual 
 catenation was not finally severed. The 
 soul had in the twinkling of an eye, 
 overswept one or two hundred miles of 
 space to visit home and child, and take 
 note of the cherished one s well-being. 
 
 Such not in its detail, but in its 
 general outline was the theory upon 
 which Tyler, after an hour of profound 
 meditation, settled down. He accepted 
 the strange phenomenon it had been his 
 lot to witness as establishing the soul s 
 separate and independent action, and 
 affording proof past all denial of its im 
 mortality. But an untutored mind, sud 
 denly brought into contact with the new 
 and the wonderful, is apt to run to ex 
 treme ; and thus the miller, alarmed into 
 superstition, interpreted his vision not 
 
 * " Si forte ful affettuoso grido." 
 
 DANTE, In/erno, canto 5. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 203 
 
 only as evidence of another world, but 
 as an omen foreshadowing his own ap 
 proaching entrance into it. Many ex 
 ternal circumstances," says an able 
 naturalist,* "appear tp be received in 
 almost all countries as ominous." 
 
 But when an omen is taken to indi 
 cate death, the tendency of the belief 
 itself often is to work out its own fulfill 
 ment. Whether the miller s death was 
 hastened by his presentiment, or whether 
 his mind was disabused by communica 
 tion with those who held more enlight 
 ened opinions, will app ear in the future 
 chapters of this story. 
 
 In the mean time his love for Ellen 
 caused him scrupulously to conceal from 
 her what agitated his own mind. But, 
 like Mary at the Master s feet, he laid 
 up these things in his heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 UNDER THE DEPTHS. 
 
 DR. MEYRAC sat by Mrs. Hartland s 
 sick bed counting her pulse, one rainy 
 evening several weeks after the ship 
 wreck. Celia had gone down to see to 
 the preparation of a nourishing s.oup. 
 The voice of the patient, as she address 
 ed her physician, was faint and low : 
 
 "You will tell me the truth, doctor. 
 What are the chances that I shall live ?" 
 
 He did not immediately reply ; and 
 when he did the question he asked 
 seemed irrelevant : 
 
 " Is it that madame has great anxiety 
 about the affairs ? I heard say that Mr. 
 Hartland lose by one railroad." 
 
 " You suppose I wish to make a will ? 
 No ; I am not thinking about property : 
 Ethan attends to that ; but I wish you 
 to tell me" 
 
 " I am very pleased. Now I will an 
 swer madame s question. According the 
 symptoms, you ought to recover ; but I 
 see you sink, sink, all the days. There 
 is some wrong. I can cure de body, 
 but I have no medicine for cure de mind. 
 Madame s mind is not at ease." 
 
 The agitation that caused a sudden 
 
 * Brande, who succeeded Sir Humphrey Davy as 
 professor in the Royal Institution. 
 
 flush over Alice s pale, thin face attested 
 the sagacity of the observation. 
 
 " I pray madame not to imagine I 
 vould inquire : it is not at all my affair ; 
 but I vould offer one advice." 
 
 " Speak to me frankly, doctor : I ask 
 it as a favor." 
 
 You are too good. Veil den. Some- 
 ting oppress you. It weighs on your 
 mind day and night. You rest not : you 
 sleep not. But I cannot cure nobody 
 visout sleep. You must change dat." 
 
 " How can I change it ?" 
 
 " See ! If you shut it up, it vill op 
 press you more and more : maybe it vill 
 be too strong for my tisanes, and you 
 will go to die. The body must be help, 
 and dere is a vay to help it. You are 
 not one Catholique, or I vould tell you 
 send for your confessor ; but it is just 
 as good. Find some sage friend dat 
 you love, and say it all. It vill be much 
 relief: vat you call disburden. Ven one 
 is ill, it must never too much load down 
 eeder de stomach or de mind." 
 
 Celia entered, and soon after the doc 
 tor took his leave, she accompanying 
 him to the door. Mademoiselle Celie," 
 he said, in French, " try to amuse our 
 good friend. Read to her, sing to her. 
 Don t let her feed on her own fancies : 
 they are not wholesome. Too much 
 care will kill a cat." 
 
 In the course of the evening, Celia, 
 mindful of the doctor s injunction, pro 
 posed reading something. What shall 
 it be?" she asked. 
 
 " Have you not been translating re 
 cently portions of Madame Roland s au 
 tobiography ?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " I once dipped into it, and I think it 
 would have interested me intensely, but 
 you know how imperfectly 4 . 1 understand 
 French." 
 
 When Celia fetched her manuscript 
 and began to read, she was amazed at 
 the emotion exhibited by her auditor at 
 certain passages this among them : 
 
 " Roland was of a dominating charac 
 ter, and twenty years older than I. One 
 of these two superiorities might have 
 been well enough : both together were 
 too much." 
 
204 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 And again : "It was Roland s desire, 
 at the commencement of our marriage, 
 that I should see as little as possible of 
 my intimate female friends. I conform 
 ed to his wishes, and did not renew my 
 intimacy with them till he had acquired 
 sufficient confidence in me to be no 
 longer jealous of their love. That was 
 a mistake. Marriage is grave and 
 austere " 
 
 Celia started : that sigh from the sick 
 bed seemed to come from the very depths 
 of the heart ; but she proceeded : 
 
 Marriage is grave and austere ; and 
 if a woman with strong affections is de 
 prived of the solace of friendship for 
 those of her own sex, a necessary ali 
 ment is cut short and she is exposed 
 thereby. How numerous the corollaries 
 from that truth !" 
 
 The invalid clasped her hands, press 
 ing them tightly over her heart, but she 
 said nothing; and Celia went on reading: 
 
 "If we lived in solitude, I had many 
 weary hours of sadness and suffering. 
 If we went into society, I attracted the 
 affection of persons, some of whom, I 
 perceived, might have interested me too 
 much. So I devoted myself wholly to 
 work with my husband ; but that, too, 
 had its evils." 
 
 " Dear Madame Roland !" was all 
 the comment Alice made. Celia, fear 
 ing over-excitement in her aunt s feeble 
 state, said : 
 
 I translated only passages that struck 
 me here and there. Here is one other: 
 In default of happiness, one can often 
 obtain peace, and that replaces it. " 
 
 Celia laid her manuscript aside as 
 Ethan entered. He noticed, with appre 
 hension, the hectic flush on his mother s 
 cheeks. Fever was rising, but she urged 
 her son and niece to retire. " You have 
 both your day s work to do to-morrow," 
 she said, " and need rest : Nancy can 
 stay with me." 
 
 " Housework is as hard as keeping 
 school," said Celia. " Let me stay with 
 you to-night, mother please !" 
 
 Mrs. Hartland had two hours troubled 
 sleep in the early part of the night 
 more than she had been able to obtain 
 for several days and nights past. As 
 
 soon as she stirred, Celia sprang from 
 the lounge where she had dropped into 
 a light nap, and was by her side. The 
 cheeks betrayed high fever. 
 
 " Does it still rain ?" Alice asked. 
 
 Celia threw back the shutters, and 
 moonlight from a cloudless sky filled the 
 room. " It is a brilliant night," she 
 said. 
 
 That storm oppressed me. Put out 
 the lamp, dear child. I want the moon 
 light." 
 
 Celia sat down beside the bed. Her 
 aunt tossed about, occasionally moaning. 
 The forehead was burning hot, and the 
 girl began to fear delirium. But after a 
 time Alice took her niece s hand and 
 seemed to be thinking of her, for she 
 pressed it several times, shuddering a 
 little now and then. When half an hour 
 elapsed, she startled her niece by saying, 
 
 " Dr. Meyrac thinks I shall die, but I 
 must tell you something before I go. I 
 knew how I had sinned, but, Celia, Celia, 
 I never thought I should do wrong to 
 you." 
 
 Wrong to me, mother ?" 
 
 " I did not see that I was doing wrong. 
 It s all clear now. Surely in the next 
 world all will be clear." 
 
 " Do you mean that you have loved 
 me and indulged me too much. What 
 else have you ever done ?" 
 
 " I want to tell you about the days 
 when your dear mother and I went to 
 school together. We lived in Arch 
 street, next door to a rich merchant ; 
 and his eldest son Ah, Celia, what a 
 noble, generous, handsome boy he was ! 
 He was just your mother s age three 
 years older than I. I don t remember 
 when I first knew him, but he went to 
 school with us more than three years ; 
 and never did brother treat sister more 
 gently, more kindly, than he treated me. 
 His name was Frank." 
 
 Is he alive still, auntie ?" 
 
 " I think I must have been a preco 
 cious child : I know I was a foolish one. 
 It wasn t love I felt for Frank: it was 
 worship. At school I contrived always 
 to sit so that I could see him, yet I 
 scarcely ever dared to look. If he was 
 in the same room with me anywhere, it 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 205 
 
 was happiness enough for me. I seem 
 ed to feel it if at any time he was going 
 to pass our window, and I always looked 
 up just in time. But if anybody had 
 guessed all this, I think I should have 
 died. One day I was terribly frightened. 
 We had got together with a number of 
 children, and one of them proposed that 
 all the boys names should be written 
 on scraps of paper, folded up and put 
 into a hat. Each girl was to draw one. 
 We thought it was rather wicked, but 
 when it came to the point none of us 
 refused to try our chance. I drew two 
 one accidentally folded within the other. 
 The first I glanced at was the name I 
 had hidden in my heart : I crushed it, 
 unobserved, in my hand, and showed 
 them the other, which contained the 
 name of a rude boy whom I could never 
 abide. I know I should have fainted 
 on the spot if I had been obliged to 
 show Frank s name. Yet I could not 
 make up my mind to destroy the scrap 
 it was written on. I had a small bead- 
 purse, lined. I ripped open the lining, 
 slid the precious memento inside and 
 carefully sewed it up again." 
 
 Did he die, mother dear ?" 
 
 " He went to a higher school after 
 ward to college. I didn t see him for 
 sixteen years : then I was a wife and he 
 a widower. Oh you mustn t despise 
 me, Celia. I was a wife, and I am a 
 widow now, yet I have that little bead- 
 purse still." 
 
 For some time she was unable to pro 
 ceed, covering her face with her hands, 
 her frame snaking with sobs. Celia 
 sought to soothe her, kissed her tender 
 ly, and could not restrain her own tears. 
 With a strong effort, Alice at last mas 
 tered her emotion so as to proceed. But 
 she evidently spoke under high feverish 
 excitement, and as if she felt she must 
 go through with it : 
 
 " Maybe I had some excuse for mar 
 rying. He had married some years be 
 fore. I knew it would be an awful thing 
 to go on loving a married man. And, 
 besides, it was not a man I had loved 
 only a boy ; and I thought it would be 
 so different when I saw him again. 
 Then Mr. Hartland was such a moral, 
 
 upright person. Everybody respected 
 him, and so did I. I never chose my 
 seat in church so that I could see him, 
 to be sure ; nor ever particularly noticed 
 whether he was in the room or not ; and 
 I never knew or cared when he passed 
 our window. But I had got it into my 
 head that if a woman married a good 
 man, she wouldn t be able to help loving 
 him afterward. Dear child, whatever 
 you do, never marry a man you don t 
 care for, no matter how good he is, in 
 hopes that you may love him by and by. 
 And if you care for your own soul, Celia, 
 never marry one man as long as you 
 love another." 
 
 " I shall never marry anybody, dear 
 auntie never !" 
 
 "That s bad, too. And you don t 
 know. If that boy I worshiped so had 
 turned out a worthless man, I think I 
 should never have connected the two, 
 or kept caring for him. But when he 
 was there for years daily before my eyes 
 daily doing good the very embodi 
 ment of all that is kind and generous 
 and faithful the idol of hundreds besides 
 myself the benefactor of the whole 
 neighborhood your own best, noblest 
 friend, too " 
 
 " Gracious Heaven !" 
 
 "Yes, you have guessed it Frank 
 Sydenham. Sometimes I watched him 
 from behind the curtains as he rode past 
 our windows. But he never saw it. 
 Thank God that he has no cause to 
 despise me ! I had to tell you, Celia, 
 for I haven t come to the worst thing I 
 was guilty of the wrong I did you." 
 
 "You are exhausting yourself, dear 
 mother " 
 
 " It must be told, and better at once. 
 I saw that Mr. Sydenham loved you, 
 Celia indeed, how could he help it ? 
 and I didn t wish him to marry you. It 
 was very, very wicked in me ; but that 
 was one of the reasons why I wanted so 
 much that you should marry Mowbray." 
 
 Celia was so amazed at this disclosure 
 that, for the time, she could not utter 
 a single word. Alice proceeded des 
 perately, as a convict might in his last 
 confession : 
 
 "I did think I d hide it from you, 
 
206 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 darling, and let you believe your aunt 
 was a good woman. But I couldn t 
 bear to put it off. In heaven but I 
 dare say I sha n t go there after all I ve 
 done at any rate, I couldn t bear to 
 think that you should hear it there first ; 
 so I had to tell you here." 
 
 Celia still sat like one stunned, her 
 mind bewildered with the strange ideas 
 unwholesome fancies Dr. Meyrac might 
 well call them that had just been thrust 
 upon her ; and her aunt added : 
 
 I don t expect to live, my child, and 
 I m sure I don t wish it. But whether 
 I live or die, I want you not to think 
 worse of me than I deserve. If I live, 
 I shall never feel again as I have done. 
 I can t tell you how much this sickness 
 has changed all my thoughts and wishes. 
 Whether I am here to see it, or whether 
 I witness it (if spirits are permitted to 
 look back) from the other side, it will 
 be a happiness to me to see you Frank 
 Sydenham s wife. I hope and pray you 
 may be." 
 
 " Dear mother, don t I know there s 
 nothing you think would make me happy 
 that you wouldn t be glad of? But for 
 Mr. Sydenham s sake and for mine, 
 please, please don t talk so. Such a 
 thing never for one moment crossed his 
 thoughts." 
 
 " His lips, you mean. Of course not, 
 so long as he knew you were engaged to 
 Mowbray." 
 
 " Pray, pray don t ! I do believe Lela 
 doesn t love her father much better than 
 I do ; but my love for him is just like 
 hers" 
 
 At this point, however, conscience 
 checked her. She remembered the day 
 was it only seven or eight months 
 ago ? when she was sitting in that arm 
 chair before Sydenham s parlor fire. 
 Had she really told him then that he 
 never seemed to her like a father, and 
 never would ? Had he kissed her ? Only 
 on the forehead, and only as any kind 
 old gentleman might. But was he so 
 old, after all ? She was getting confused, 
 so she came back to what she did know. 
 
 " I haven t a heart to give to Mr. 
 Sydenham if he asked for it. They say 
 Evelyn is engaged to Ellen Tyler : I 
 
 dare say it s true ; but, mother, mother, 
 I love him still !" 
 
 Celia laid her head on the pillow be 
 side her aunt s. Alice put her arms 
 round the girl s neck, kissed her fervent 
 ly, and wept silently and long. My 
 own child, my own darling !" she said 
 at last. "Ah, if my little Lizzie had only 
 lived ! My heart would never have 
 strayed from home then." 
 
 After that they were long silent. 
 Then an intuition came to Celia. " They 
 would tell her if they knew all," she 
 thought ; then to her aunt : " You think 
 more of Ethan and his welfare than of 
 anything else, don t you, mother ?" 
 
 " Of you and Ethan. I have nobody 
 else to care for now." 
 
 " But you may have, by and by." 
 
 Her aunt looked up, troubled, but her 
 brow cleared when Celia asked : " Did 
 it ever occur to you that Ethan might 
 have taken a fancy to some one in 
 Chiskauga ?" 
 
 " Has he ?" with a look of surprise. 
 
 " It isn t settled, I think. She feared 
 that she was getting blind, and accepted 
 him conditionally only." 
 
 Miss Ethelridge, is it ?" 
 
 " Ellie yes. Such a noble, warm 
 hearted girl, mother : so much oh so 
 much better than I shall ever be. 
 Ethan s heart is in it, and he would 
 marry her, if she were blind, to-morrow." 
 
 But a blind wife a blind mother of 
 a household, Celia ?" 
 
 " I know ; but perhaps she might 
 have a dear, good mother-in-law staying 
 with her. You will never see your little 
 Lizzie again, auntie, till you see her in 
 heaven, but you may see your grand 
 children." 
 
 The look that came over Alice s face 
 was something beautiful to see. After a 
 pause she said, in a low voice, " Per 
 haps I may recover. Celia dear, what 
 was that last extract you read me from 
 Madame Roland s diary ?" 
 
 Celia went to the window and read by 
 the bright moonlight : " In default of 
 happiness one can often obtain peace, 
 and that replaces it." 
 
 Toward morning Alice slept tran 
 quilly several hours, and awoke free from 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 207 
 
 fever. Then she sent for Ethan, and 
 had a long talk with him. From that 
 day they dated her convalescence. 
 
 It was an imprudent thing in Alice 
 Hartland to speak as she did to her 
 niece, especially as, by Ethan s advice, 
 they had begged Mr. Sydenham to act 
 as Celia s guardian, and he had consent 
 ed and been appointed. The girl was 
 not at all disposed to imagine people in 
 love with her. But this new relation 
 brought Sydenham and her a good deal 
 together. Then, too, she visited Rose- 
 bank thrice a week to give Leoline mu 
 sic-lessons. So that, even if she had 
 desired to avoid him, she could not well 
 do so without appearing unfriendly or 
 ungrateful. She did not really desire to 
 avoid him, but she was no longer at ease 
 with him as formerly ; and when she 
 became conscious of this it provoked 
 and annoyed her. If she had not been 
 too busy to be sentimental, it might have 
 made her unhappy. 
 
 She had neglected the school some 
 what during her aunt s illness, but as 
 soon as Alice was able to sit up and 
 walk about a little, she returned to her 
 teaching, resolved to make up for lost 
 time. Some of the pupils, she found, 
 had been taken from school by their pa 
 rents. Was the poison working ? Was 
 she to be a clog, instead of an aid, to 
 Ellinor ? Her dream of usefulness be 
 gan to fade. 
 
 For a moment the thought crossed 
 her that she ought to withdraw from the 
 partnership. But Ellinor s waning sight ! 
 And then the indignation against injus 
 tice which lurks in the mildest natures 
 woke up a little too. Ought Mrs. Wolf 
 gang and her abettors to succeed in 
 their base plot ? " They ought not, and 
 they shall not," she thought, "if I can 
 help it." She was getting pugnacious. 
 That is wholesome in moderation. 
 
 The same evening (Mrs. Clymer hav 
 ing gone out) Leoline and her father 
 urged Celia so cordially to take tea with 
 them, after her lesson was over, that she 
 could not well refuse. She spoke of the 
 pupils they had lost. 
 
 " I shouldn t wonder," said Syden 
 
 ham, "if you have been setting that 
 down to your account." Celia looked 
 embarrassed. " I thought so," pursued 
 Sydenham. " There is a cabal formed 
 not against you individually, but against 
 the Chiskauga Institute. Poor Ellinor 
 Ethelridge has her full share of the 
 abuse. They have been inventing and 
 circulating all kinds of scandalous stories 
 about her past life." 
 
 " Who, papa ?" asked Leoline. 
 
 " Cranstoun and Mrs. Wolfgang, and 
 their set all whom they can influence 
 or delude." 
 
 "If it really would shield Ellie from 
 their malice " Celia began, but Leoline 
 gave her such a look that she stopped, 
 half inclined to laugh. 
 
 "If you do if you do !" said Leo- 
 line, shaking her finger at her. "What ! 
 Give it up, and let these wretches have 
 it all their own way !" 
 
 "We must fight the battle through, 
 Celia," Sydenham said " not for your 
 sake and Ellinor s only : for the sake 
 of the place. I never let such things 
 go." 
 
 " That s my darling papa," said Leo- 
 line, kissing him. " And, Celia, if you 
 desert us, I ll disown you." 
 
 " She will not desert us," said her 
 father, smiling. 
 
 "I m afraid," said Celia, "that what 
 somebody calls the old Adam within 
 me was a good deal stirred up when I 
 thought of Mr. Cranstoun and Mrs. 
 Wolfgang enjoying their triumph." 
 
 " I declare I begin to have hopes of 
 you, Celia." Of course it was Leoline 
 who said this ; and she added : " I once 
 heard some one say to papa (I hope it s 
 not wicked to repeat it) that we need a 
 little of the devil in us to keep the devil 
 out. But it s only a tiny bit of the old 
 Adam that s in you, my dear of Adam 
 when he was so old he had almost for 
 gotten about Paradise nothing worse, 
 you good girl. It s only creatures like 
 me that have a touch of the old Serpent. 
 Then, perhaps he wasn t so very bad, 
 after all. Milton gives him rather a fine 
 character." 
 
 Celia laughed, and that did her good : 
 " If you had been a man, Lela, what a 
 
208 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 soldier you d have made ! You would 
 have led your men anywhere." 
 
 I don t know about that. I never 
 was tried with that villainous saltpetre. 
 It must be a nervous sort of thing to 
 stand to be shot at." 
 
 " It needs as much courage to be 
 slandered without flinching," said her 
 father. "The best way to avoid cow 
 ardice in danger is to think of others, 
 not of one s self. These children that 
 are under your care will be the sufferers, 
 Celia, if you give way. Cranstoun and 
 his set are making war on them." 
 
 What motive can he have ?" 
 
 " Two, probably. A certain young 
 lady wouldn t have him : that cuts deep. 
 Then Creighton is in his way has 
 already carried off, probably, half his 
 law-practice. So he connects his name 
 with the scandal he spreads about Miss 
 Ethelridge. They were friends, you 
 know, before either of them came to 
 Chiskauga." 
 
 What a world !" said Celia. 
 
 " I dare say it s all right enough," 
 said Leoline. " What would be the use 
 of that organ of combativeness if every 
 thing went just straight ? Let s divide 
 forces, papa. If you ll manage that 
 sneaking rascal, Cranstoun, I ll under 
 take Mrs. Wolfgang." 
 
 " Gently, my child. I m afraid you ll 
 turn out like the beau sabreur. Murat, 
 with his white plume, was splendid at 
 the head of a cavalry charge, but when 
 it came to military tactics 
 
 "Well, papa, you be Napoleon. I 
 won t charge till you bid me." 
 
 Keep a good heart," said Sydenham 
 to Celia. " We are too strong for them. 
 And from what Creighton told me, you 
 may not need to remain schoolmistress 
 unless you like." 
 
 " But I do like, in any event." 
 
 Sydenham smiled, well pleased, and 
 Celia blushed. " What a ridiculous 
 habit it is !" she thought. 
 
 " And by the way," added Sydenham, 
 "all that lecture of mine on Grangula s 
 Mount went for nothing, it seems. I 
 have to congratulate you, Celia no, not 
 you, the people of Ohio that they had 
 sense and justice enough to pass and 
 
 maintain in force a law under which you 
 are your father s legitimate child." 
 
 " That must be gall and wormwood to 
 Mrs. Wolfgang," said Leoline. " It will 
 be no fight at all. Their ammunition s 
 giving out." 
 
 " Not so fast, Mademoiselle Murat," 
 smiling. "We mustn t underrate our 
 opponents strength. I haven t made 
 up my mind just what ought to be done, 
 Celia, but, depend upon it, we shall see 
 you and Ellinor through." 
 
 Then they had music, and Celia rode 
 home by moonlight. She left Rosebank, 
 as she almost always did after a talk 
 with Sydenham, in good heart. There 
 was something contagious, too, in that 
 daring spirit of Leoline s. 
 
 When Celia reached home, she found 
 that Ellinor had been spending the even 
 ing with Mrs. Hartland, and that Ethan s 
 lady-love was in a fair way to become a 
 special favorite with her possible mother- 
 in-law. " If you had searched the world 
 over," Alice said to Ethan, as he re 
 turned from escorting Ellinor home, " I 
 don t think you could have pleased me 
 better." 
 
 How happy the good fellow went to 
 bed ! After he was gone, Alice looked 
 so much better and more cheerful than 
 usual that Celia, after putting her arms 
 round her neck and kissing her, was 
 tempted to venture a saucy question : 
 "Auntie, you ve got over thinking you 
 were so terribly wicked, haven t you ?" 
 
 Alice winced a little, yet she could 
 not help smiling, and Celia went on : 
 " Do you think it would have been be 
 having so very much better to take a 
 stand against Evelyn, so that Mr. Syd 
 enham might have had a chance by and 
 by?" 
 
 "Ah! you think he might have had 
 a chance ?" 
 
 " No, I don t, but you do. Mother 
 dear, would it have been the virtuous 
 thing and the kind thing to run down 
 Mowbray, and tell me I ought to be 
 ashamed of myself to love such a man as 
 that, when there were so many better 
 ones in the world, and then to have 
 given me a hint that I had better take 
 Mr. Sydenham instead ?" 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 209 
 
 For shame, Celia ! You ve been 
 talking with Leoline, one can see." 
 
 " Not about you, mother. There s 
 another thing I want to know" in a 
 graver tone, a slight shade of sadness 
 coming over the April sky of that tell 
 tale face 
 
 Well, dear ?" 
 
 " I ve been with you daily, years and 
 years. You kept away from Mr. Syden- 
 ham. You devoted yourself to my uncle. 
 You labored with him as Madame Ro 
 land did with her husband. I think you 
 gave up dear friends, too, for his sake. 
 What more could you do ?" 
 
 " I don t know," hesitating. Yes, I 
 could have kept from thinking about 
 Mr. Sydenham at all." 
 
 " I wish you d tell me how to set 
 about such a thing, auntie." The tone 
 was light, but the soft eyes glistened. 
 " Right in the midst of our lessons I 
 keep thinking of a man that s not half so 
 good as Mr. Sydenham, in spite of all I 
 can do." 
 
 Poor child !" 
 
 " You kept thinking Mr. Sydenham 
 was a man in a thousand so he is 
 that he did ever so much good to this 
 village, to all the neighborhood. So he 
 does : I don t believe Pope s < Man of 
 Ross was a bit better. Why shouldn t 
 
 you think what was true ? Then maybe 
 you thought don t be angry, mother 
 dear maybe you did think, sometimes, 
 that if you had been his wife " 
 
 Alice turned deadly pale. 
 
 "Well, I won t, mother. But how 
 could you help it ? And it was true, 
 too. Then you did the right thing. 
 You never neglected one duty : you 
 never said one complaining word. You 
 did more than praying not to be led into 
 temptation : you kept out of it. My 
 uncle s dead and gone, and I shall never 
 think of him but kindly. Yet if I had 
 been in your place, auntie, I could never, 
 never have made him the wife you did. 
 You never crossed a wish of his. And 
 I dare say he knows now what a hard 
 time you had of it 1" 
 
 Alice wept -so long that Celia blamed 
 herself bitterly for the agitation she had 
 caused. Yet when it was over, and her 
 aunt had had a night s rest, she was all 
 the better for her niece s downright 
 words. Her mind gradually resumed its 
 tone. And let the truth be told even 
 if the widow s character suffer thereby 
 before another month had elapsed there 
 oame over her a calm, subdued cheerful 
 ness, such as, during all her married life, 
 that pale face had never worn. 
 
PART X I. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 WHAT THE CAPTAIN SAW ON THE SNOW. 
 " When deep sleep falleth upon men ; in slumber- 
 ings upon the bed ; then God openeth the ears of men 
 and sealeth their instruction." JOB xxxiii. 14. 
 
 "\7OU will come to see him, Mr. 
 
 I Harper?" 
 
 " Surely, my child. I did purpose to 
 call on Betty Carson this morning, but 
 that will do later." 
 
 " It will be such a kindness to us ! I 
 don t know what to think of father s 
 state." 
 
 It was Ellen Tyler who spoke. They 
 were sitting, on a bright, fresh morning, 
 toward the end of May, on Harper s 
 woodbine-shaded porch. 
 
 " What are the symptoms, Ellen ?" 
 
 "I m afraid you ll hardly believe me, 
 sir, they are so strange. I suppose he 
 must have dreams at night about that 
 awf;:l boat-burning. Anyhow, we can t 
 Jet him sleep without locking the door : 
 :he told us to do it himself. The reason 
 was, he had got up two or three times in 
 the middle of the night and rushed out 
 into the yard, as if the house was on fire. 
 Last night I heard a noise in his room : 
 he had raised the window and was try 
 ing to undo the shutters. When I ran 
 in and did my best to wake him, he 
 cried out : < Quick, quick, Nelly ! Don t 
 you see the flames ? Oh, Mr. Harper, 
 only think if he had jumped out ! You 
 -know our house stands on the edge of 
 the steep bank, and he would have gone 
 down, eighteen or twenty feet, into the 
 mill-race. I never was so frightened in 
 all my life." 
 
 " I am glad you came to me, dear 
 child." 
 
 " I wouldn t have troubled you indeed, 
 sir, if I had thought I could manage it 
 myself. Preacher Larrabee sometimes 
 comes to see father, though we don t 
 belong to his church ; but he s at Mount 
 Sharon this week. Seems to me father 
 has something on his mind that vexes 
 him ; and then oh I m sure he thinks 
 
 he s going to die. You re such a good 
 man, Mr. Harper, and I know you can 
 do him good." 
 
 He smiled and laid his hand kindly 
 on her head. " Wait here," he said : 
 " I ll go with you." 
 
 In an adjoining paddock was Trooper 
 comfortably browsing. His master en 
 ticed him, with a tempting ear of corn, 
 into the stable, harnessed him to the 
 ancient gig and drove round to the front 
 gate. 
 
 " Come, my child," he called to Ellen. 
 
 " Mr. Harper," the girl said as she 
 
 came up, " let me walk home. I d rather 
 
 father should think you came to see him 
 
 accidentally." 
 
 " What s that you ve been buying in 
 the village ?" 
 
 Some stuff to make a soft cushion for 
 father s arm-chair." 
 
 " Get in, then. I picked you up re 
 turning home. I ll tell him so." 
 
 The good man was quite unprepared 
 for the sad change in Tyler s appearance, 
 but evincing no surprise, he conversed 
 a while on commonplaces, and then said : 
 "Your daughter tells me you haven t quite 
 got over that terrible accident. You must 
 have passed through scenes such as few 
 men have witnessed." 
 
 " That s a truer word than you think 
 for, Mr. Harper. Nelly dear, I want to 
 have a good talk with the minister, and 
 maybe he ll stay and take a bite of dinner 
 with us. Nell brags on her strawberries, 
 Mr. Harper Hovey seedlings, I think 
 she calls them : her sparrowgrass is 
 pretty much over, but her peas are in 
 their prime " 
 
 " Strawberries and peas are too great 
 a temptation. I ll stay and see what 
 sort of gardener Nelly is." 
 
 "Now, Nell," said her father, "put 
 your best foot foremost ;" and the girl, 
 delighted, ran off on her mission. " I 
 didn t want the lassie to hear what I ve 
 got to tell : she has trouble enough 
 already. I ve had a call, Mr. Harper." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 211 
 
 A call?" 
 
 A notice that Fm not long for this 
 world." 
 
 Tell me about it." 
 
 Tyler related the story of his escape, 
 the vision he had during his trance be 
 neath the waters of Lake Erie, and the 
 numerous and minute coincidences be 
 tween what he dreamed and what actually 
 happened at the time in his mill-yard at 
 home. Then he added : " I dare say 
 you can t believe it, Mr. Harper, and I 
 won t think a bit hard of it if you say so. 
 Sometimes I think I don t more than 
 half believe it myself." 
 
 "A single year ago," replied the min 
 ister, " I might have acted the Sadducee 
 in such a matter : but I have had a 
 strange experience since. Last autumn 
 my Methodist friend, Mr. Larrabee and 
 he is a pious and truthful man told me 
 a story just as wonderful as that. But 
 you said that you had had some notice 
 that you were soon to die. How was 
 that ?" 
 
 " Wasn t that vision notice enough ?" 
 
 " I must tell you Mr. Larrabee s 
 story, Tyler, and then you can judge for 
 yourself." 
 
 He did ; and afterward, at Tyler s 
 earnest request, wrote it out for him, as 
 follows : 
 
 THE METHODIST PREACHER S STORY. 
 
 During the early years of the present 
 century, Captain John Pintard, then a 
 young, unmarried man, was master and 
 part owner of a small schooner belong 
 ing to Shrewsbury, New Jersey, and 
 trading between New York and Virginia. 
 
 On one occasion, during the month 
 of January, returning from Norfolk laden 
 with oysters, the vessel was driven on 
 shore, by stress of weather, between Cape 
 May and Great Egg Harbor. The cap 
 tain and crew succeeded, by strenuous 
 exertions, in reaching the land, much 
 exhausted, however, by exposure, espe 
 cially the captain, who had been at the 
 helm for nearly twelve consecutive hours. 
 By this time it was quite dark. 
 
 The spot where they got on shore 
 being only about forty miles from where 
 Captain Pintard lived, he was familiar 
 
 with the neighborhood, and knew that 
 there was a tavern about a mile distant. 
 He pointed out the direction to his men, 
 and through a dismal tempest of snow 
 and sleet they commenced their journey 
 toward it. 
 
 The captain took the lead, but thor 
 oughly chilled as well as exhausted by 
 his long vigil and exposure to the bitter 
 cold, he had not proceeded far before he 
 felt creeping over him that overpowering 
 torpor which to the wintry traveler has 
 so often been the precursor of death. 
 He knew his danger and sought to shake 
 off the lethargic feeling. In vain. He 
 threw himself on the snow, and bade his 
 men hurry on to the tavern and send 
 back assistance. At first the brave fel 
 lows refused to do so. Two of them 
 sought to drag him along, but after a 
 time, warned by approaching drowsiness 
 in themselves, they became convinced 
 that his safety as well as theirs required 
 that for the time he should be abandoned. 
 
 His sensations when they left him he 
 ever after described as soothing and 
 pleasurable. He felt as one enjoying 
 the luxury of a comfortable bed, and 
 was soon wholly insensible to cold and 
 tempest. 
 
 The next thing he remembered was 
 that he seemed to be getting over the 
 fence on the back part of the lot on 
 which stood his mother s house. He 
 saw the door open and his mother, sister 
 and aunt Nancy come out toward the 
 well. The aunt went in front, carrying 
 a lantern ; his mother followed with a 
 pail in her hand, and as she approached 
 the well, a sudden gust of wind blew off 
 her hood. " What a terrible night !" 
 he then heard her say: "it blows a hur 
 ricane. Pray God my poor boy be not 
 out in it !" 
 
 " Oh no," replied the aunt : even if 
 he was off the coast, he must have seen 
 it coming on and made for some harbor." 
 
 The captain was very anxious to speak 
 to them and assure them of his safety, 
 but the first attempt failed, and before 
 he could renew it, mother, sister, aunt 
 and his paternal home all faded aw ay, 
 and he felt sudden and excruciating pain. 
 Next he became sensible of voices 
 
212. 
 
 BEYOND TPIE BREAKERS. 
 
 around him. At last he distinguished 
 the words, " He s comin to : rub away, 
 boys ! Captain John s good for many a 
 year yet." He recognized the voice as 
 that of a pilot with whom he was well 
 acquainted. " Can I be at the old 
 tavern?" he thought. After a time he 
 opened his eyes, and they met those of 
 the pilot looking at him. This latter 
 was a jovial old fellow, but somewhat 
 profane withal : the captain and he had 
 often been boon companions. 
 
 Halloa, Captain John !" he cried. 
 " Come back, eh ?" The reviving man 
 tried to speak, but could not. " I say, 
 old fellow," continued the other, "been 
 on a cruise down below ? Seen Old 
 Davy there ? What s the news from 
 hell anyhow, Captain John ?" 
 
 A second strenuous effort to articulate 
 was more successful than the first, and 
 the captain, catching his old companion s 
 tone, replied : I heard there was a 
 great demand for pilots there." 
 
 The retort caused a roar of laughter 
 from all present, and none joined in it 
 more heartily than the object of the 
 joke. 
 
 The men, it seems, having safely 
 reached the tavern, had instantly des 
 patched aid to bring in the inanimate 
 body of the captain. The usual restora 
 tives had been employed for some time 
 in vain at last successfully. After a 
 few hours sleep the sufferer was com 
 paratively well. When he awoke next 
 morning, the strange dream he had had 
 during his trance recurred to his memory 
 with all the vividness of a real occurrence. 
 He could scarcely persuade himself he 
 had not actually been at home and seen 
 his relatives and heard their conversation. 
 
 Pondering over this matter, his impa 
 tience became so great that he bade his 
 first mate look to the condition of the 
 schooner ; and then, hiring a convey 
 ance, he set out for his mother s house 
 to have his doubts solved. 
 
 The old lady s joy at sight of her son 
 was great, and to the bad news he 
 1 -rough t she replied cheerily : " God 
 will give you the means to buy another 
 schooner. He didn t forsake you when 
 you lay in that trance on the snow." 
 
 "Mother," said the captain, "did you 
 go out to the well, last night, late ?" 
 
 " Yes, my son. Why do you ask ?" 
 
 " Tell me what happened, but try to 
 remember everything you said and did, 
 no matter whether it was important or 
 not. Was any one with you ?" 
 
 The old lady reflected : " Yes, Nancy 
 was with me, and your sister. It was 
 pitch-dark, and Nancy carried a lantern. 
 I remember, too, the wind was very 
 strong and blew off my hood. I thought 
 I should have lost it." 
 
 " Did you say anything, mother ?" 
 
 "Yes. I prayed God you might not 
 be out in such a fearful night." 
 
 "And I," said Nancy, "told her I was 
 sure you must have seen it come on and 
 made for some port or other." 
 
 The captain sat deep in thought. 
 " I ve been very wicked, mother," he 
 said at last. " My first word, when I 
 woke from that trance, was a profane 
 jest. But I did not know, then, how 
 merciful He had been. He showed me 
 last night that I had an immortal soul. 
 While my body lay on the snow He 
 brought my spirit here, home to you. I 
 saw you and Aunt Nancy and sister 
 come out to the well : I saw your hood 
 blow off: I heard every word you said. 
 I have been a wicked, careless sinner : 
 I ve never sought religion, as you wished 
 me to do ; but, with God s help, mother, 
 I will." 
 
 His mother, a devout Methodist, was 
 delighted. Her son kept his word. He 
 became a noted member of the Meth 
 odist Church, and a constant frequenter 
 of prayer and exhortation meetings. At 
 these latter it was frequently his habit 
 to relate, as the most remarkable inci 
 dent in his religious experience, the 
 story of his trance on the wintry snow 
 and his spirit s visit to the maternal 
 home. 
 
 When Mr. Harper had told the miller 
 the above story, in substance as here set 
 down, the latter asked: "But do you 
 think it can be depended on ? It must 
 be nearly fifty years since it happened." 
 
 " I like to follow up such things," 
 said Mr. Harper. "Last winter, as I 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 213 
 
 was going to New York, Mr. Larrabee 
 gave me a letter that put me on the 
 track. Captain Pintard, I found, had 
 been dead a good many years, but his 
 widow, Mrs. Phoebe Pintard, a hale, 
 hearty old dame, confirmed to me all the 
 main incidents. I found a niece, also, 
 Mrs. Maria Douglass, of Middletown, 
 New Jersey, who had heard the partic 
 ulars, more than once, from her uncle 
 himself; and she, after reading the story 
 just as I have it, allowed me to use her 
 name in attestation of its truth." 
 
 This set Nelson Tyler to thinking. 
 " How long did the captain live after 
 that vision ?" he asked. 
 
 "Over thirty years." 
 
 A deep sigh of relief attested the mill 
 er s satisfaction. That little fact out 
 weighed, with him, the longest philo 
 sophical argument. " But it s all very 
 strange," he said at last. 
 
 " Very strange, yes. We are fear 
 fully and wonderfully made. Yet I see 
 nothing unlikely in it. Skeptics and 
 scoffers are increasing among us, and 
 God may choose this method of helping 
 our unbelief. You were very near death, 
 Mr. Tyler. Your spirit may have been 
 asserting its independent existence a 
 little in advance, and borrowing of the 
 near Future one of the faculties to which 
 it is born heir. I do think you have 
 been favored by witnessing one of those 
 experimental proofs rare and precious 
 that confirm to us the soul s immor 
 tality one of those inestimable phe 
 nomena, the character of which enables 
 us to solve, by crucial test, the divine 
 problem of a world to come." * 
 
 * I agree with good Mr. Harper as to the import 
 ance and the need of such experimental proof. Many 
 excellent persons, pious and strictly nursed in faith, 
 have been overtaken by Giant Despair and led captive 
 to Doubting Castle. In the rectory of Epworth, oc 
 cupied a century and a half ago by Samuel Wesley, 
 father of John, the founder of Methodism, there oc 
 curred at that time certain strange physical disturb 
 ances which the family found it impossible to refer ex 
 cept to an ultra mundane source. Emily, the eldest 
 sister of John, narrating these in a letter to her broth 
 er, wrote : " I am so far from being superstitious that 
 I was too much inclined to infidelity ; so that I heart 
 ily rejoice at having such an opportunity of convincing 
 myself past doubt or scruple of the existence of some 
 beings besides those we see." Memoirs of the Wes 
 ley Family, " by ADAM CLARKE, LL.D., F. A. S., 
 vol. i., p. 270. 
 
 " It set me thinking about that more 
 than I had ever done before," said the 
 miller. 
 
 Ellen came to announce dinner. The 
 sight of the peas and strawberries proved 
 a pleasant diversion from the greater 
 mysteries of Nature they had been con 
 templating ; and when the good pastor 
 remounted his gig his young hostess said 
 to herself, " How much more cheerful 
 father is ! I haven t seen him look so 
 like himself since the day he came back 
 from that awful journey." 
 
 In the evening, all motive for conceal 
 ment being now done away, the miller 
 related to his wondering daughter both 
 his own experience and that of the Jer 
 sey captain. As in the father s case, so 
 in Ellen s the effect was to quicken 
 religious sentiment and bring home more 
 vivid convictions touching the reality of 
 a future state. 
 
 Up to this time, Nelson Tyler, though 
 he usually attended divine service, had 
 not been a "professor," but on the week 
 following he and Ellen joined Mr. 
 Harper s church. 
 
 Mr. Harper, meanwhile, revolving in 
 his mind what he had just heard, drove 
 slowly back to Chiskauga and stopped 
 at Betty Carson s door. 
 
 Betty was a little out of sorts. A 
 new washerwoman, Nance Coombs, had 
 taken off some of her customers. This 
 was due to the exertions of Mrs. Wolf 
 gang, who had resented the tone Betty 
 assumed in defence of Celia and her 
 parents. The villagers were beginning 
 to take sides on the Pembroke and 
 Ethelridge controversy, and the contest 
 promised to wax warm. Betty spoke to 
 Mr. Harper of the great kindness Mr. 
 and Mrs. Pembroke had shown her. 
 "And then I was always such a favorite 
 with little Miss Celia : she was a jewel 
 of a baby, sir. And Mr. Pembroke, he 
 set store by me. One day he made me 
 write my name to a paper of his for a 
 witness. I think he said." 
 
 " Why, Betty," said Harper, smiling, 
 I knew you could read, but I didn t 
 suppose you could write too." 
 
 "Just me name, sir. He was a rale 
 
214 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 kind man was my husband afore he 
 took to drink. He was a good scribe, 
 too ; and he used to set me a copy 
 Betty Carson till I could write it most 
 as nice as himself." 
 
 Mr. Harper did not think of asking 
 Betty what sort of paper it was she 
 witnessed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 THE MITE. 
 
 THERE was a Mite at Mrs. Hartland s. 
 
 When a village has two clergymen, it 
 is fortunate if they happen to be friends. 
 As the Methodists of our little village 
 did not feel able to support a resident 
 pastor, Mr. Larrabee preached on alter 
 nate Sundays at Mount Sharon (the 
 county-seat) and at Chiskauga. He and 
 Mr. Harper being on the best terms, 
 their respective congregations were wont 
 to act in harmony. 
 
 There was a ladies sewing society, 
 for example, composed of Presbyterians, 
 Methodists, and persons who were neith 
 er, the members of which had several 
 times helped to eke out Mr. Larrabee s 
 scanty salary by contributions, in labor 
 or in money, to the comfort of his fam 
 ily. Just at this time, the Presbyterians 
 hiving purchased a cabinet organ, on 
 which a hundred dollars was still duej 
 the society held weekly " Mites," as they 
 were called, at which each person con 
 tributed ten cents or more toward the 
 liquidation of the deficiency. Mr. Har 
 per, Mr. Larrabee, Mr. Hartland while 
 he lived, Mr. Sydenham and others had 
 a standing invitation to these meetings, 
 and while the ladies plied their needles 
 one or other of these gentlemen often 
 read or spoke to them. 
 
 About six weeks after Hartland s death 
 his widow offered the society the use of 
 her spacious parlors during the afternoon 
 for one of its weekly assemblies, and 
 Sydenham agreed to attend. He found 
 some fifty or sixty ladies. But Ellinor 
 and Celia, busy at school, were not of the 
 number : they were working, just then, 
 under considerable discouragement, near 
 ly one-fourth of their pupils having been 
 withdrawn. 
 
 Sydenham read to the society from 
 the life of Oberlin, the Alsatian philan 
 thropist and benevolent pastor of Ban 
 de-la-Roche. Adverting to the effects 
 of his fifty years labor of love among a 
 primitive people, he reminded his au 
 ditors how, by public instruction, whole 
 communities may advance in civilization. 
 Then, in few words, he took occasion to 
 commend the Chiskauga Institute. It 
 was managed, he remarked, by two la 
 dies of rare qualifications and admirable 
 judgment, and ought to have a hearty 
 and united support. " I have visited 
 schools and colleges," he went on, "in 
 many of our States, and in most of the 
 kingdoms of Europe, and I know that 
 this institution compares favorably with 
 the best of its class. Few villages in 
 any country are as fortunate as we in the 
 matter of teachers. I have heard with 
 regret," he added, after a pause, "that 
 idle or ill-disposed persons among us have 
 circulated mischievous stories regarding 
 these teachers stories that are either 
 irrelevant or without any foundation 
 whatever. So far as these tend to im 
 pair the usefulness of public function 
 aries, it is a war against the best inter 
 ests of the place an unprincipled war, 
 too. One of these young ladies has spent 
 her entire life among us. Blameless 
 you well know that life to have been. 
 Against her it is alleged that she is an 
 illegitimate child, and as such should not 
 be countenanced. If that were the fact, 
 it would be a most cruel injustice to visit 
 such a misfortune on the innocent. But 
 it is not true. Miss Pembroke is as 
 strictly legitimate as any one to whom I 
 have now the pleasure of speaking. 
 
 "As to the other lady in question, I 
 happen to know that of which we must 
 charitably suppose her detractors to be 
 ignorant. The reverse of fortune which 
 caused Miss Ethelridge to seek a home 
 among us resulted from no misconduct 
 of hers. The manner in which she has 
 borne it, the courage and ability with 
 which she has maintained herself, and 
 the good she has done us, are above all 
 praise : they entitle her to esteem and 
 honor. Her conduct ought to obtain for 
 her will obtain for her among all just 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 215 
 
 and well-disposed persons protection 
 and encouragement. I should not," he 
 subjoined in a quieter tone, "have taken 
 up your time with these remarks if I did 
 not feel that the reports to which I have 
 alluded are an injury not only to those 
 who disgrace themselves by retailing 
 them, but to all of us and to our children. 
 Will you allow me to recommend, ladies, 
 that you meet them with a demand for 
 proof, which you will find is not forth 
 coming ?" 
 
 Sydenham left soon after speaking, 
 and the circle gradually thinned till fif 
 teen or twenty only remained ; among 
 them, Mrs. Wolfgang, Mrs. Creighton, 
 Leoline, and our friend Norah, who had 
 joined the society on Leoline s invita 
 tion, and who proved to be as deft at 
 needlework as skillful in butter-making. 
 
 The ladies naturally dropped into talk 
 on what Mr. Sydenham had been saying. 
 At first the opinions expressed were fa 
 vorable. That roused Mrs. Wolfgang, 
 whose countenance had been gradually 
 darkening at each successive commenda 
 tion of the school and its teachers. " For 
 her part," she broke out at last, "she 
 thought there ought to be a line drawn 
 between morality and immorality. What 
 did they know about Miss Ethelridge, 
 except that Mr. Creighton had been ac 
 quainted with her before she turned up 
 here ? She knew, for the postmaster had 
 told her, that letters in Mr. Creighton s 
 handwriting had come to the lady year 
 after year. Was she engaged to him ? 
 She ought to be. But it didn t look 
 like it : she went about with other men. 
 Was that to be called decent behavior ? 
 She held her head high enough, as any 
 hussy might. What of that ? She had 
 relations, no doubt, yet not one of them 
 took the least notice of her : she never 
 heard of a letter coming to her in a 
 lady s handwriting. It was all very well 
 for Mr. Sydenham to say there was 
 nothing wrong. If there was nothing 
 wrong, why didn t he let them know all 
 about it ? A bad sign when things 
 won t bear the light ! And if he didn t 
 know any more about her than he seem 
 ed to know about Celia Pembroke, she 
 (Mrs. Wolfgang) wouldn t give much 
 
 for his opinion. She knew, if Mr. Syd 
 enham didn t, that the girl s mother nev 
 er was legally married : she had seen 
 letters from the father to Mr. Cranstoun, 
 confessing it. Wasn r t that proof? Others 
 might send their children to the daugh 
 ter of a kept mistress if they liked : she 
 had too much self-respect, and too much 
 regard to the morals and the reputation 
 of her poor innocent girls, to trust them 
 in the hands of any such creature. Like 
 father, like son, was a good old proverb, 
 and it applied just as much to daughters 
 as to sons. Then, too, what were they 
 to think of an ofience so scandalous that 
 it needed downright lies to support it ? 
 If the child of a man s mistress wasn t a 
 bastard, she d like to know what a bas 
 tard was ?" 
 
 Leoline, our readers may remember, 
 had said to Celia, as they were return 
 ing from Grangula s Mount after the 
 public speaking, that if she was " hard 
 put to it" she thought she could make a 
 speech herself. She ivas hard put to it 
 now. While Mrs. Wolfgang was abus 
 ing Celia and Ellinor she had sat still, 
 choking down her indignation, calling to 
 mind her father s warning to Mademoi 
 selle Murat, taking stitches each long 
 enough for two, and curbing with all her 
 might her eagerness to retort. She 
 would have succeeded for the girl, with 
 all her impulsive warmth, had a good deal 
 of self-control when occasion called for 
 it she would have succeeded in keeping 
 silence, but for the last hit, the imputa 
 tion against her father. That was the 
 drop too much. She started involun 
 tarily to her feet, dropping her needle 
 and crushing in her left hand the gar 
 ment she had been sewing. 
 
 " Mrs. Wolfgang," she burst forth, 
 " you called papa a liar." Then she 
 stopped, trembling from head to foot 
 and struggling desperately for compos 
 ure. " You called him so because he 
 said dear Celia was a legitimate child. 
 Yesterday I asked papa to show me the 
 law. I saw it: I read it. It said that 
 even if a marriage is not legal, the chil 
 dren shall be legitimate. Mrs. Pem 
 broke s marriage was not legal, but Celia 
 Pembroke is legitimate. The law of the 
 
216 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 land the authority next to God s says 
 she is. Who knows best the law or 
 Mrs. Wolfgang ? Who is the liar now, 
 and what is the liar s portion ?" Here 
 she checked herself. " That mayn t be 
 just. Perhaps she knows no better : it 
 may be sheer ignorance, but ignorant 
 people ought to hold their tongues. And 
 this is the woman that wants somebody 
 to tell her all about Miss Ethelridge 
 from the time she was a baby in long 
 clothes, so that her wisdom may en 
 lighten us, and we may get to know 
 whether it s quite safe and proper for us 
 to countenance our teacher ! She wants 
 to sit in judgment on Ellinor Ethelridge, 
 and settle who may write letters to her 
 and who may not ! Why, nobody can 
 look for an instant at the two faces with 
 out seeing which is the scold and which 
 the Christian and the lady. I want to 
 know what good Mrs. Wolfgang has 
 ever done among us to entitle her to be 
 judge and ruler? Has she lifted her 
 finger to help on the education of the 
 place ? Has she entered the walls of 
 the school she s been trying to ruin ? 
 Never since I ve been a pupil there. 
 What has she ever done for Chiskauga ? 
 Nothing that I know of, except to back 
 bite the best people in it, and set her 
 neighbors by the ears. Christ tells us 
 that the peace-makers shall be called the 
 children of God : I wonder whose child 
 Mrs. Wolfgang ought to be called ? I 
 know I d as soon have a viper in my 
 house. No wonder good Madame Mey- 
 rac turned her out of doors. f Poor Celia, 
 poor Ellinor ! to fall into such merciless 
 hands as hers !" 
 
 Here Leoline broke down for a mo 
 ment, bursting into tears. But she 
 dashed them indignantly away, and turn 
 ed from Mrs. Wolfgang to the other 
 members : "I m ashamed of myself, and 
 I m so glad papa wasn t here to hear me ! 
 I know I oughtn t to have spoken as I 
 did before ladies so much older than I. 
 I hope you ll forgive me. I never could 
 stand injustice and cruelty; but I m 
 very, very sorry I spoke at all : I wish 
 somebody else had done it." 
 
 Before she could say more, Mrs. 
 Creighton crossed over, took her in her 
 
 arms and kissed her. You re a brave, 
 generous girl," the old lady said ; but 
 when you ve been a few years longer in 
 the world, you ll find out that it s not a 
 bit worth while to vex and agitate one s 
 self so about bitter tongues. Get your 
 hat and parasol and come with me. 
 You re a darling, if you did < speak out 
 in meeting, like the old woman that 
 didn t intend it." 
 
 For the moment Mrs. Wolfgang had 
 been fairly cowed into silence by Leo- 
 line s impetuous charge upon her, but 
 as they went out her voice was heard 
 in an undertone, however denouncing 
 the insolence of upstart misses. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 THROUGH A KEYHOLE. 
 
 WHEN Norah returned from the Mite, 
 she had just time to prepare supper be 
 fore Terence came in from the farm. 
 At table she told him all that had passed, 
 and she observed that it made him very 
 grave. When the dishes were washed and 
 the children out at play, Terence said, 
 "An couldn t I tell Mister Sydenham 
 mor n he knows about Miss Ethelridge ?" 
 
 " An how did ye come to know any 
 thing about a lady like that ?" 
 
 " Sure, an wasn t I Cap n Halloran s 
 groom in the ould country, and didn t 
 she come to his rooms, and didn t I see 
 her there ?" 
 
 " Did she know ye, Teddy, when ye 
 took Derry and Cathy to school ?" 
 
 " Sorra bit. I guess she d a knowed 
 me fast enough when I was behind the 
 bar, and didn t wear no burd nor mus- 
 tashes. But me that s a rough fellow 
 now, with me face all hairy, and a farm 
 er s coat on that s another thing. Ye 
 ought to ha seen me in them days, in the 
 captain s curricle, wi them black-legged 
 bays, and a heap finer dress than the 
 captain s own. I wouldn t have had to 
 coort ye nothin like as hard as I did. 
 Ye d have took to me right off, Norah, 
 and jist dropped into me arms." 
 
 " I expec ye thought, them times, wi 
 the lace on yer coat and on yer hat, and 
 yer shiny, white-top boots, that it was 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 217 
 
 the girls place to ask you and not you 
 them. Set ye up ! I niver could abide 
 impudence, and I wouldn t have had sich 
 a stuck-up fellow to save him. But what 
 did ye know about Miss Ethelridge ?" 
 
 " It isn t Miss Ethelridge it s Miss 
 Talbot." 
 
 "Well, Miss Talbot, then. Was it 
 good or bad ye knowed about her ?" 
 
 "It was bad I knowed o the master, 
 and good I knowed about her. She s a 
 trump she is. The captain wanted to 
 have his wicked will of her, but she was 
 too many for him." 
 
 " I d tell Mr. Sydenham about it ef I 
 was you, Teddy." 
 
 " I ll do it, this blessed night. Haven t 
 ye got some butter for Miss Leoline ?" 
 
 " An isn t there two pounds and a 
 half good, that I churned jist afore I 
 went to that Mite ?" 
 
 It was put up with scrupulous care, 
 Pennsylvania-fashion, in a snow-white 
 napkin, the produce of Norah s own 
 spinning and weaving and bleaching in 
 her maiden days. With the basket on 
 his arm Terence- trudged to Rosebank. 
 
 When Sydenham admitted him to his 
 study he was somewhat embarrassed : 
 
 " I dunno ef it s the right thing for 
 me to be troublin ye, Mister Sydenham. 
 But I hearn they were speaking ill o 
 the schoolmistress, and and I knowed 
 somethin about her myself in the ould 
 country." 
 
 " Get yourself a chair, Terence. I 
 take an interest in anything that relates 
 to Miss Ethelridge." 
 
 " Thankee, sir ; that s just what No- 
 rah tould me." 
 
 " What did you know of her ?" 
 
 "Ye see, Mister Sydenham, me ould 
 faither had a chealin and a bit garden- 
 spot on Squire Halloran s place : that 
 was in Connaught. The squire, he had 
 lots and lots of land, and he had a son 
 that was a cap n in the army. He was 
 a wild young man, was master ; but I 
 didn t never think he d have been half as 
 bad as he got to be ef it hadn t been for 
 a divil of a black-coated Frenchman that 
 put him up to all sorts o tricks. The 
 fellow was the cap n s jintleman, that 
 waited on him and dressed him ; and I 
 
 was the groom. I hated that French 
 man. His name was Vealmong, but I 
 think they spelled it Vileman ; and he 
 was jist right named at that." 
 
 " Were you staying in London ?" 
 
 " Near St. James yes. I think it 
 was through the Frenchman somehow 
 on a race-course maybe that the cap n 
 got acquainted with a jintleman that cut 
 a great dash and was a most as wild as 
 master was Sir Charles Cunningem, 
 they called him. One day me and the 
 master went to his house and took two 
 ladies a-drivin in the Park : one of them 
 was Lady Cunningem, and the other was 
 Miss Talbot : I think she was a cousin 
 to Sir Charles. I had a good look at 
 them thin ; and though it was mor n a 
 year and a half after that, I knowed Miss 
 Talbot in a minnit when the cap n 
 brought her one evenin to his rooms." 
 
 " Miss Talbot ?" 
 
 " That s Miss Ethelridge. She look 
 ed bewildered-like, as if she didn t know 
 where she was or what she was doin ; 
 and master, he hurried her into the par 
 lor a most afore we had time to see 
 her. Then he came out and sent the 
 Frenchman off on an errand. Thinks I, 
 there s some rascality on hand ; and I 
 slipped into the cap n s bed-room, that 
 was next to the parlor, wi a door be 
 tween. I locked the door the lock 
 went very easy for fear he might come 
 in on me, and I got sight o them through 
 the keyhole. I ain t no eavesdropper, 
 Mister Sydenham, nor niver was : I d 
 scorn sich a meanness ; but I knowed it 
 wasn t fair play they was after, and I 
 knowed that Vealmong must be at the 
 bottom of it ; an sure enough he was. 
 An I kep a-thinkin a young thing like 
 that ought to have a chance, ef so be 
 they had set some of their divil s traps 
 for her." 
 
 " You re a good fellow, Terence." 
 
 " Sure, an ef it had been me own sis 
 ter wouldn t I have gone down on me 
 knees to anybody that would ave gi n 
 her a helpin hand ?" 
 
 " But what happened ?" 
 
 "It was sort o curious, Mister Syd 
 enham. I niver jist understood it. 
 Seemed she wasn t herself at first : she 
 
218 
 
 BEYOND TP1E BREAKERS. 
 
 looked stupid-like. It came across me 
 maybe he d had her somewhere to get 
 soda water or ice cream, or somethin , 
 and drugged it : there wasn t no wicked 
 ness that Frenchman couldn t put a man 
 up to. Any way, for a while she didn t 
 hardly look able to speak. The cap n, 
 he put his hands up to her, but she kep 
 him off all she could. At last, says she: 
 * Cap n Halloran, ef ye keep me from 
 goin back to me cousin s, I ll alarm the 
 house ! Says he, Me sarvants is too 
 well trained for that : they niver come 
 till I ring the bell ! With that she 
 made a spring at the bell-rope, but the 
 cap n, he was too quick for her. He got 
 her be the hands and forced her back." 
 
 " Is such villainy possible ?" broke in 
 Sydenham. 
 
 " Indade, an it is," resumed the 
 other : it s every word as true as the 
 blessed Gospel. The cap n, he says to 
 her then, Ye can niver go home no 
 more. Ye came here wi me alone and 
 o yer own accord. " 
 
 " O me own accord ? says she. O 
 me own accord ? How dar ye say that ? 
 
 " Me sarvants saw ye come in, says 
 he, as cool as ye like : < I can get them 
 to witness that no force was used. Ye Ye 
 disgraced for ever. Ye ve played me 
 fast and loose, Miss Talbot, long enough : 
 ye re in me power now. But I m a jin- 
 tleman. I ll send for another clergy 
 man, ef ye ll promise not for to go to 
 insult him, like ye did the last I got ye. 
 The poor thing sunk down on a sofa, 
 and I couldn t hear what she said. But 
 it sort o stirred him up, and says he : 
 < It s yer only chance to go from here 
 an honest woman. With that she sprung 
 up and looked all round her like a wild 
 thing. Ye needn t look, says he : * the 
 door s locked. And thin he sprung to 
 the chamber door and tried it. < Lucky ! 
 said he: that s locked too. She ran 
 to the window, but he snapped the spring 
 over it, and that was so high it was out 
 of her reach. Then she seemed like she 
 gi n it up, walkin away, slow and des 
 perate-like, to the fire-place. There, on 
 the mantelpiece, bless the luck ! was 
 lyin a dirk the prettiest little thing ye 
 ever seed, Mr. Sydenham " 
 
 " Thank God !" his auditor ejaculated. 
 
 It was in a blue velvet sheath, and 
 when the cap n went on some o his 
 wild sprees o nights he mostly took it 
 along. She had it in her hand in a mo 
 ment : I seed the blade flash in the light. 
 Then she was as quiet as if she d bin in 
 her own drawin -room. It was grand to 
 see, Mr. Sydenham. The cap n, he was 
 a-goin up to her, but I think she scared 
 him and he wasn t no coward, naither. 
 She didn t say a single word, but she 
 raised her arm as steady as if it had 
 been a fan she was holding and I guess 
 he saw in her eyes what would come 
 next. Anyhow, he started back, and 
 says he : For God s sake, Miss Tal 
 bot ! She jist lowered the dirk a little, 
 and says she, soft-like, as if she d been 
 a-speakin to some nice young man at a 
 party : < For your sake, Cap n Halloran. 
 I don t think yer soul s ready to appear 
 afore its Maker ; but it might ha bin 
 there by this ef ye d come one step 
 nearer. Ye expect a life o pleasure, I 
 suppose, and ye wouldn t like to have it 
 cut short to-night. Take care! Mr. 
 Sydenham, I never heerd soft words cut 
 so since me mother bore me. Thin I 
 saw her touch the point of the dirk, and 
 there was blood on her finger when she 
 drew it away. But she sort o laughed, 
 and she said to him, jist as easy as if 
 she d been talkin uv his white vest : 
 It s lucky the gallants, now-a-days, don t 
 wear no shirts o mail anaith their doub 
 lets. Nothin less ll turn that edge. 
 Ye better believe, Mr. Sydenham, she 
 had made him feel it was dead earnest." 
 
 " Well ?" cried Sydenham, as Terence 
 paused in his story. 
 
 " I saw the cap n was a most at his 
 wits end. He walked back and forth, 
 and I heard him cussin to hisself. One 
 time, when he came close to the door I 
 was at, he said somethin about taming 
 wild birds in a cage. Then he made for 
 the other door to unlock it. And didn t 
 I make tracks for the street door, to be 
 ready for him ? When he came along, 
 says he: Teddy, don t let nobody in 
 but Vealmong, ef ye vally yer place. 
 Then he turned as he was goin out and 
 says he to me : That poor lady in the 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 219 
 
 parlor is clane out of her mind. I m 
 goin for the doctor. Nobody must go 
 near her or say a word to her. She s 
 dangerous when she gits in them fits. 
 
 I waited till I knowed he must be 
 out o sight, and thin I jist quietly un 
 locked the bed-room door. She was 
 standin a-gazin at the fire ; and says I, 
 Miss Talbot, ef so be ye want to go to 
 yer own folks, it s me that ll help ye 
 away. Oh, Mr. Sydenham, I niver was 
 so beshamed in all me life. The poor, 
 sweet cratur went down on her knees to 
 me, that wasn t nothin mor n a sarvant, 
 and jined her hands, and the tears was 
 in her eyes ; and when she said, God 
 bless ye ! I most cried meself. But it 
 wasn t no time for cryin , for the cap n, 
 he might come back any minit. So I 
 took her down the back stairs and let 
 her out at the sarvants door, and says I : 
 An is it a cab ye d be needin , miss ? 
 for I wanted to see her safe out of his 
 sight. But says she, Ye mustn t go 
 for a cab. Ye may be missed, and I 
 don t want nobody to lose his place for 
 me. I ll find my way. She made me 
 take a sovereign from her, and I watched 
 her all the way down the street ; but 
 she didn t take the road to Sir Charles , 
 and I hearn she never got there." 
 
 " Did the captain," asked Sydenham, 
 suspect that you had let Miss Talbot 
 out ?" 
 
 "Jist at first yes. He axed, as mad 
 as fire, Who went and unlocked that 
 bed-room door ? 
 
 "The Divil, he knows, says I. And 
 sure that wasn t no lie, Mr. Sydenham, 
 for there s not a bit o doubt he was 
 helpin the cap n and knowed all about 
 it. But master, he looked hard at me, 
 and says he, * I m thinkin there s some 
 body else knows it, forbye the Divil. 
 
 " True for you, cap n, says I ; for 
 the lady must ha knowed it too. May 
 be she pried the door open wi a knife or 
 somethin ? The cap n, he gin a look at 
 the mantel, and there was no dirk there ; 
 and thin he went to the door and shot 
 the bolt, and looked at it keerfully. 
 
 " By God, said he, it s true ! She s 
 the divil. 
 
 " Now ye see, Mr. Sydenham, jist as 
 
 soon as I d let the lady out, I went up 
 to the bed-room, an I took a strong, 
 sharp knife, and I dented and scratched 
 the door-bolt till a man would ha sworn 
 somebody had been tamperin wi the 
 thing. And that was the way the cap n, 
 he got diated. But two days after, when 
 I hearn the poor young cratur was lost, 
 I couldn t nohow keep me tongue in me 
 head afore that Vealmong, an I tould 
 him to his face it was him that was the 
 head divil o the whole villainy. An he 
 was hoppin mad, and got the cap n to 
 pay me off. But the black varmint did 
 me a good turn, for all, for I might ha 
 stayed in the ould country an slaved 
 till me fingers was worn to the stumps 
 an me bones was old and stiff, and niver 
 had no sich lovely place to live in, nor 
 no sich nice jintleman to work for as 
 jist yerself, Mr. Sydenham." 
 
 "You ve been to Blarney Castle, 
 haven t you, Terence ?" asked Syden 
 ham, smiling. 
 
 " An is it at the Blarney-stone ye 
 think I larnt to tell the truth, Mr. Syd 
 enham ? Sure, I niver was in county 
 Cork, at all, at all. An , Mr. Sydenham, 
 don t ye think yerself that s a lovely 
 place, wi the graveyard quite convanient, 
 and all the white marble shinin through 
 the trees up there, and the waterfall 
 singin a most like the sea, and the creek 
 for Derry to sail his boat on ? And 
 thin, doesn t the whole country-side know 
 what a jintleman ye are, Mr. Sydenham, 
 and all that ye ve done for them as needs 
 it, Mr. Sydenham let alone them as 
 doesn t? That s naither new nor strange." 
 
 "Well, you shall have it your own 
 way," said Sydenham, laughing. " I m 
 glad you like the place, and I m well sat 
 isfied with the way you manage it. As 
 for Norah s butter, it can t be surpassed." 
 
 " Thin, if ye re continted, so is me and 
 Norah ; and I hope we ll live long to 
 serve yer honor and Miss Leoline." 
 
 " It would have been a pity and a 
 shame," thought Sydenham, as Terence 
 took his leave, " if that fine young fel 
 low had died in a prison." Then his 
 thoughts reverted to the strange story 
 he had heard. Poor Ellinor ! Brave 
 Ellinor ! 
 
220 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Later in the evening, another visitor 
 came Mr. Harper to see Sydenham 
 as Celia s guardian. He had been to 
 Dr. Meyrac s, where he met Ethan, and 
 where they had been talking over Celia s 
 fortunes, and speaking of the possibility 
 that Mr. Pembroke might have made a 
 will, which had been suppressed. Then 
 Ethan had said the only chance of get 
 ting at it was to find one or other of 
 the subscribing witnesses. As Harper 
 walked home, Betty Carson s story about 
 signing a paper for Mr. Pembroke came 
 suddenly to his mind : so he continued 
 his walk to Rosebank and laid the mat 
 ter before Sydenham. 
 
 " I am greatly indebted to you," said 
 the latter. " This may be important. I 
 shall see Creighton about it to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 He did so. Creighton proposed that 
 they should go to Betty s at once. She 
 told them, word for word, what she had 
 told Harper. 
 
 " Did Mr. Pembroke say anything 
 else, except that he wished you to wit 
 ness the paper ?" asked Creighton. 
 
 " Not as I remember, sir." 
 
 " You don t know what sort of paper 
 it was ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; only the sheets was long. 
 I can t write nothin forbye me name ; 
 nor I can t read writin ." 
 
 " Who was in the room at the time ? 
 Mrs. Pembroke ?" 
 
 "No, sir. It was in Mr. Pembroke s 
 room up stairs. Mrs. Pembroke was 
 givin Miss Celia a lesson in the parlor 
 below. There was nobody but us and 
 Mr. Cranstoun in the room." 
 
 " How did you happen to be there ?" 
 
 " Mr. Cranstoun met me at the front 
 door, and says he : < Betty, Mr. Pem 
 broke wants to see ye about the starchin 
 of them shirts o his n ! So I went up." 
 
 " Did Mr. Cranstoun know you could 
 write your name ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. He axed me wance to sign 
 a note along wi Matthew that s me hus 
 band that was and says I, < I can sign me 
 name, and I guess it s all right, Mr. Cran 
 stoun, but I can t read a word of it. It 
 wasn t all right, though, Mr Creighton, 
 for I had that note to pay twice." 
 
 " Did Cranstoun witness that paper 
 of Mr. Pembroke s, too ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Did Mr. Pembroke keep the paper 
 and put it away ?" 
 
 Betty considered a little : " Now I 
 think of it, sir, we heerd Mrs. Pembroke 
 on the stairs sayin somethin to Miss 
 Celia : and Mr. Cranstoun, he looked at 
 Mr. Pembroke, and says Mr. Pembroke, 
 hasty-like, < Take it, Cranstoun ; and he 
 grabbed it and put it under his coat, and 
 buttoned his coat up ; and I remember 
 I wondered what it could be that Mrs. 
 Pembroke wasn t to see." 
 
 " When was this ?" 
 
 " Well, sir, it was in winter I expect 
 three or four weeks afore Mr. Pembroke 
 died." 
 
 " Was he ill at that time ?" 
 
 " Not to say very ill, sir, but he was 
 confined to his room, and his wife was 
 desperate uneasy about him." 
 
 " Now, Betty, I want you to consider. 
 Do you think it was Mr. Pembroke s 
 will that you witnessed ?" 
 
 " Well, now," said Betty, with a start, 
 "in course it was. And wasn t I stupid 
 not to think of that before? Yes, Mr. 
 Creighton, sure enough, an it was his 
 will he had made ; and he didn t want 
 his wife to see it, for fear she d think he 
 was goin to die right off. Sich a good, 
 considerate man as he was !" 
 
 " But did he say it was his will ?" 
 
 " I guess he must have, Mr. Creigh* 
 ton. What else could it be, and he sick 
 and soon to die ? It was his will, sure, 
 and nothin less. I could a most take 
 my Bible oath on that." 
 
 That was all they could get. After 
 they left the house, " It s no use," said 
 Creighton to Sydenham. " It s a lost 
 ball. It would be the easiest thing in 
 the world to persuade that old woman 
 that Mr. Pembroke told her it was his 
 will she was asked to witness. I d only 
 have to suggest just what he was likely 
 to say, and repeat that three or four 
 days, and stick to it that I was quite 
 sure he must have told her, because it 
 was his duty to tell her, ?nd because he 
 wasn t a man to neglect his duty. I 
 haven t any doubt she w( uld swear to it 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 221 
 
 conscientiously. But it would be a lie. 
 He didn t tell her. One could see that by 
 her surprise when I suggested it. The 
 idea never had been in her mind before." 
 
 " But you have no doubt it was the 
 will ?" 
 
 " Not any. Observe the facts. Cran- 
 stoun selects Betty because he knows 
 that, though she can sign her name, she 
 cannot read manuscript. He watches 
 her arrival, meets her as she comes 
 in, makes an excuse to get her to Mr. 
 Pembroke s room. When they hear 
 Mrs. Pembroke coming, the husband 
 bids Cranstoun take the paper, and he 
 conceals it. I am satisfied it was the 
 will, and equally satisfied that we shall 
 never be able to prove that a will was 
 made at all. Cranstoun has burned it 
 long ago unless, indeed," he added after 
 a pause, " the rascal may have laid it by 
 as a card which, some clay or other, if 
 the game goes against him, he may play 
 with the chance of winning a trick." 
 
 They walked on for some time in 
 silence, when Mr. Creighton suddenly 
 stopped and turned to his companion : 
 " No, Mr. Sydenham : that will wasn t 
 burnt. Cranstoun was sure to preserve 
 it to be used, in case of accident, in 
 the event that Miss Pembroke accepted 
 him as no doubt the scoundrel dared 
 to presume she would as her husband. 
 But, so far as we are concerned, it might 
 as well have been burnt years ago, for I 
 don t see the smallest chance of getting 
 at it." 
 
 So that hope died out. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE MILLER S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Hear, Father hear and aid 1 
 If I have loved too well, if I have shed, 
 In my vain fondness, o er a human head, 
 
 Gifts on Thy shrine, O God, more fitly laid 
 
 " If I have sought to live 
 But in one light, and made a mortal eye 
 The lonely star of my idolatry 
 
 Thou, that art Love, oh pity and forgive !" 
 
 HEMANS. 
 
 AN unwonted excitement pervaded 
 Chiskauga. News had arrived, early 
 one morning, that Tyler s mill, dwelling- 
 
 house and all the outbuildings were 
 burnt to the ground ; that the miller and 
 his foreman Goddart had perished in the 
 flames ; and that they didn t know what 
 had become of the daughter. Various 
 corrections gradually modified this re 
 port, until, by midday, the most incor 
 rigible newsmongers were fain to admit 
 that it was the mill only that was burnt, 
 and that nobody was hurt except Hiram 
 Goddart, whose hands had been some 
 what scorched in a fruitless attempt to 
 drag out part of the personal property. 
 
 Even this last version of the story, 
 however, needed correction. The miller 
 had, indeed, received no personal injury 
 at the fire ; yet before two days had 
 passed his daughter began to fear that 
 worse had befallen him. 
 
 She slept in the room next to her 
 father s, and, still anxious about him, her 
 sleep, on the night of the fire, had been 
 unquiet and easily disturbed. A flicker 
 ing light shining through her chamber 
 window had awakened her. She went 
 out as quietly as possible, roused God- 
 dart, who alarmed the other hands ; and 
 by great exertions they succeeded, with 
 in half an hour, in checking the flames. 
 It was for the moment only, however : 
 they soon broke out afresh, and spread 
 so fast that it became evident the build 
 ing (a weatherboarded frame, with shin 
 gle roof) must go. 
 
 Then Ellen bethought her of her 
 father. Since the attempt he had made, 
 one night, to escape from his bed-room, 
 they had secured both the windows by- 
 stout bars outside, across the Venetian 
 shutters, besides locking the outside 
 door. There was a second door, com 
 municating with Ellen s room, so that he 
 could knock in case he wanted anything 
 during the night, but that also she locked 
 when she retired to rest. 
 
 When she unlocked this door on her 
 return from the fire, she was terribly 
 frightened. The glass in both the win 
 dows was shattered, a chair broken to 
 fragments lay on the floor, and beside it 
 her father, apparently insensible. Ap 
 proaching with the candle, she perceived 
 stains of blood on the floor. Then she 
 came very near fainting, but love over- 
 
222 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 came fear ; and when, with trembling 
 hands and tear-dimmed eyes, she had 
 examined his condition, she became sat 
 isfied that the blood came only from his 
 hands, which had been cut in several 
 places, apparently by the glass, in his 
 vain endeavors to force the windows. 
 The door also bore the marks of heavy 
 blows, dealt with the stout wooden chair, 
 which had evidently gone to pieces in 
 his hands. 
 
 She dragged a mattress from the bed, 
 and contrived to place him on it. When 
 she had sprinkled water on his face he 
 revived, and his first words were : " You 
 can t swim, Nell, but I can save you : 
 I was once a capital swimmer. Come !" 
 and he tried to rise, but fell back pow 
 erless. 
 
 " Father dear," said Ellen, " you are 
 at home. This is your own room. See !" 
 
 "But the fire, Nelly, the fire ! D ye 
 think I can t see through these cursed 
 shutters, if they are barred ? The boat 
 is on fire. Don t I hear the flames 
 crackling ? Quick !" 
 
 " Father, father, hear what I tell you. 
 There s no steamboat. The mill s on 
 fire that s true ; but the wind s north 
 east, and Hiram says there s no more 
 chance of the fire catching this house 
 than if it were a mile off. I m afraid 
 the mill s gone, past saving: I m very 
 sorry for that. But you re safe, father, 
 and we ve a house still over our heads. 
 God be thanked for that !" 
 
 If he had been able to rise, she 
 couldn t have kept him there, but his 
 desperate exertions to escape by door 
 or window had completely exhausted 
 him. Gradually, by dint of iteration, 
 she appeased him : and when Goddart 
 soon after came in and reported that 
 the mill could not be saved, it seemed 
 to relieve him, and the delusion grad 
 ually vanished. 
 
 " So ye won t get burnt nor drowned, 
 ny little Nell. Let the gear go ! Kiss 
 me, my child." 
 
 The wounds on his hands were slight ; 
 and when Ellen had dressed them, and 
 they had lifted him to bed again, he 
 sank into a heavy sleep. 
 
 It had been a great shock. The good 
 
 that Harper did had been undone. At 
 a time when the miller s mind had been 
 slowly regaining its tone, all the horrors 
 of that dreadful night on Lake Erie had 
 come back on him in full force. And 
 with these came back the fancy that God 
 had sent him a premonition of death. 
 The logic of Preacher Larrabee s story 
 was clear, indeed, but nerves already 
 shattered and terribly shaken by a sec 
 ond agitation beclouded logical deduc 
 tions. The father, tender of his daugh 
 ter s feelings, succeeded, however, in 
 concealing from her this superstitious 
 relapse. 
 
 Well did Ellen merit the old man s 
 regardful care. Weak in her judgments 
 because of inexperience and imperfect 
 culture, the girl had a strength such as 
 few strong men have, deep-rooted in her 
 affections a dangerous strength in a 
 world like this. Imprudence to any ex 
 tent she might commit, but one act of 
 deliberate selfishness, never. 
 
 Her love for Mowbray was an idol 
 atry, but because it was not a selfish 
 idolatry, so neither was it exclusive. 
 Never since her tiny arms were first 
 stretched to the proud father in infant 
 recognition had she loved that father as 
 now all the more warmly and devotedly 
 because of the warmth and devotion of 
 her love for another. The angel that 
 had stirred the depths of that young 
 heart was of the holiest in Heaven s 
 host. Duty was more sacred now, grat 
 itude more tender, good-will to all men 
 felt with livelier glow. The waters from 
 that mystic fount, motionless till the 
 angel came, now irrigated with freshen 
 ing influence all her life s little domain. 
 
 When a fortnight had passed, and the 
 miller was still unable to sit up more 
 than two or three hours each day, vigil 
 and anxiety began to tell on the poor 
 
 girl- 
 
 " Ellen," the father said one day, 
 "you ll be sick yourself if you wait on 
 me so much. You need the fresh air. 
 Take Joe : he s quiet to ride, and we 
 don t need him now. Willie can stay 
 by me, if you re uneasy about leaving 
 me alone." 
 
 When she came to see how he was 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 223 
 
 before she set out on her ride, she kiss 
 ed him, saying : " I promise you never 
 to do anything to make you sorry again. 
 You know I won t. Don t you, father?" 
 I know you re an old man s darling, 
 Nell, and as good as gold. I d let you 
 do anything anything in this world that 
 I thought would make you happy. But 
 to keep company with a young man that 
 that never asked you to marry him 
 that would make you miserable, Nelly 
 miserable, mayhap, as long as you live. 
 That s all I m afraid of: I want you 
 never to do that." 
 
 " I never will." And there she stop 
 ped, on the very point of telling him that 
 Mowbray and she were engaged. But, 
 as once before, she put it off with the 
 thought, " When he s better and strong 
 er." And she only repeated, " I never, 
 never will." 
 
 I know you won t, Nelly. God for 
 ever bless and protect you, dear child !" 
 Thenceforth Ellen usually rode out 
 two or three afternoons in the week. 
 Of course, Mowbray got to know it, and 
 of course he sought to meet his prom 
 ised wife. 
 
 To Mowbray s questions, repeated 
 each time they met, as to her father s 
 condition, she returned desponding an 
 swers. His brow clouded Ellen thought 
 from sympathy. One day he said, " Ellen 
 clear, have you ever told your father that 
 we re engaged ?" 
 
 I was afraid, he s so weak." 
 " But we couldn t marry without tell 
 ing him." 
 " Marry ?" 
 
 " Isn t a girl that s past nineteen old 
 enough to marry ?" 
 
 " How can we be married and father 
 so ill ?" 
 
 " I don t see what s to prevent it. 
 He might be ill for months or years." 
 "You wouldn t like, Mr. Mowbray " 
 " Evelyn, dear Ellen." 
 " Evelyn" hesitating and blushing 
 " you wouldn t like your wife to spend 
 half her time nursing a sick father." 
 
 He would have controlled his coun 
 tenance had he been able. Ellen read 
 its expression and added, "You see it 
 wouldn t do." 
 
 "Why couldn t we have a careful 
 nurse for him ? You could go and see 
 him when you chose." 
 
 " Oh, Evelyn, how can you ?" voice 
 trembling and tears springing to her 
 eyes. " God himself couldn t love me 
 if I forsook father." 
 
 " The Bible says a man shall leave 
 father and mother and cleave to his wife." 
 " Oh don t, don t ! He has nothing 
 left but me. It s fourteen years since 
 mother died : he has never said one 
 angry word to me since then, not even " 
 it flashed over her that it wouldn t do to 
 talk of that. " I ve often vexed him, 
 poor father ! I ve been thoughtless and 
 careless, and he s been so good ! I 
 think he always felt I had no mother, 
 and couldn t bear to thwart me or deny 
 me anything. If you only knew, Eve 
 lyn ! I m sure the Bible never meant 
 that a girl like me, that used most to 
 forget her mother was gone he nursed 
 and petted and loved me so it never 
 could mean that I was to go and leave 
 him on his sick bed now. And he s so 
 weak and helpless ! If you were to see 
 him, Evelyn ! His hair s as white as 
 snow. He s such an old man now !" 
 
 She said it plaintively, dreamily 
 pausing. Then, with sudden impulse, 
 I won t leave him !" Mowbray started, 
 and something in his face made her 
 add, " Dear, dear Evelyn, I can t." 
 
 " Of course you must do as you 
 please, Ellen." 
 
 " As I please ? You think I don t 
 love you ?" 
 
 Not as well as you love your father, 
 it seems." 
 
 Ellen wept like a child. Mowbray 
 tried to soothe her : " I know you love 
 me, dear Ellen : I didn t mean that I 
 doubted your love." He would have 
 been a wretch if he had doubted it under 
 the look of those sad, reproachful eyes. 
 
 All she said, as Mowbray assisted her 
 in mounting her horse, was : " He would 
 die if I were to leave him." 
 
 During the long summer afternoons 
 Tyler usually lay in a lethargic state. 
 Very, very mournful thoughts filled the 
 silent hours that Ellen spent by his bed 
 side. Never for a moment did she re- 
 
224 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 pent her resolution. He shall not die 
 if I can save him :" that was her one 
 thought as to her father. Yet she made 
 to herself a sort of reproach, pitying and 
 excusing her lover. 
 
 " It s not his fault" such were the 
 thoughts that swept over her solitude 
 " it s very natural he should feel put out 
 about it. What have I ever done for 
 him except to love him ? and I couldn t 
 help that. He makes all the sacrifices. 
 Don t I know I m no fit match for him ? 
 Couldn t he marry the best lady in the 
 land ? Then we re so much poorer now 
 than when he asked me : all the ma 
 chinery burnt on the boat, the mill gone 
 too ; yet he never said the first word 
 about it. And then that talk of the vil 
 lage ! When others left me and insulted 
 me, he was always the same. And now, 
 the only thing he ever asked me I had 
 to refuse him. Poor Evelyn ! I know 
 he must think I don t care for him as he 
 cares for me. If he could only look into 
 my heart !" 
 
 Then she began to think, could she 
 ever do anything make any sacrifice 
 for him to prove her love ? She was 
 romantic in her way, this simple miller s 
 daughter ; and she felt that if her father 
 no longer needed her it would be noth 
 ing to risk her life or lose it for Evelyn ; 
 but how could he ever know that? It 
 was only in novels that lovers had a 
 chance to give their lives for one another. 
 
 He had seemed to wish that she should 
 tell her father of their engagement. She 
 could do that, at least. So one day she 
 did, adding, I can live without him as 
 long as I ve you, father ; and may God 
 forsake me if I leave you till I see that 
 you don t need me ! I told him I never 
 would. But if you if you go to mother 
 and I am left here I shall want to die 
 too unless I m his wife. I love him so, 
 and he s so good, father you don t 
 know." 
 
 It was another shock, though he strove 
 to conceal that from his daughter. Still, 
 he received the news with mixed feelings. 
 The presentiment of death had been 
 gaining on him ; and who was to pro 
 tect the orphan when he was gone ? He 
 gazed on that sweet, sad face felt that 
 
 the heart of love and trust that spoke 
 from it was in the keeping of another 
 past recalling ; and the thought came to 
 him : Nobody but a mean coward 
 would injure her ; and the proud peat, 
 with all his uppish ways, is no coward. 
 And then he has made up his mind to 
 marry the miller s daughter. Anybody 
 might be proud of Nelly. Maybe he 
 will." So the kind old man, thinking 
 how soon he might be where he could 
 never show earthly kindness more, could 
 not find it in his heart to say no to his 
 child s love. 
 
 One only condition he attached to his 
 consent: "It s best you should both 
 have time to know your own minds. 
 You re not twenty yet, Nell. In a little 
 more than a year you ll be of age. By 
 that time either this useless father of 
 yours will be well again and able to 
 spare you, or else " 
 
 Ellen would not let him go on. She 
 had been touched to the heart by his 
 prompt consent : it was a load taken off 
 her mind ; and it was with a gush of 
 joy and gratitude she said : 
 
 " You re going to get well, father : 
 I m sure you are. But come what will, 
 I take God to witness that I will not 
 marry Evelyn Mowbray till I am twenty- 
 one years old. And if I ever do marry 
 him, I ll come and see you every day : 
 he said I might." 
 
 No concealment from her father now: 
 it lightened Ellen s heart ; but her 
 father s, alas ! though the girl knew it 
 not was loaded down with one grief the 
 more. How could he have confidence 
 in Mowbray ? 
 
 Accumulating burdens were becoming 
 too much for the old man s waning 
 strength. Before the fatal journey to 
 Buffalo he had fortitude, courage to meet 
 any reverse of fortune. He had escaped 
 from that burning horror one of seven 
 who had made their own way to shore. 
 But he had escaped, as soldiers often do 
 from the dangers of a hundred fields, to 
 return home broken-down, unmanned, 
 health and hope and energy gone. 
 
 The lethargic symptoms increased. 
 An hour or two a day was as much as 
 he could bear to sit up. Ellen became 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 225 
 
 thoroughly alarmed, and rode into town 
 for Dr. Meyrac. When the girl, on their 
 way back, related to him the particulars 
 of the shipwreck, the effect on her father 
 and the relapse on the night the mill 
 was burnt, he looked grave, but merely 
 said that it was a very remarkable case 
 such as he had read of, but never met 
 with before. 
 
 Alone with the miller, the latter said, 
 " I shall not live long, doctor." 
 
 " That may be. Yet I find not any 
 disease pronounced. De nerves are 
 shaken : de forces are feeble. If you 
 have not hope to live, it may arrive that 
 you vill die. All the same, you may 
 yet survive. The courage is there for 
 much ;" meaning, probably, that courage 
 had much to do with his p atient s chance 
 of recovery. 
 
 The miller briefly related to him his 
 trance and its correspondence with real 
 ities at home. The man of science 
 smiled with good-natured incredulity: 
 "It is hazard only. Dere are dreams 
 very singular, but dey prove not any 
 thing. Let not discourage yourself for 
 dat." 
 
 Harper s view of the matter had done 
 much more to quiet the miller s mind 
 than Meyrac s skepticism did. Chance ? 
 He knew that couldn t be so. Then he 
 brooded, more and more, over the idea 
 of a death-warning. The needed courage 
 that Meyrac had spoken of failed. 
 
 Ten days later his mind began to 
 wander. He was haunted by the recol 
 lection of the man who had clung to him 
 as he first rose to the surface. He ap 
 peared to re-enact the scene, struggling 
 desperately, striking out his clenched 
 fist, as if at an opponent ; and then, 
 drooping despondingly, he muttered, 
 "What could I do ? Is it murder to 
 strike a man that s just going to strangle 
 you ?" After a time he sank into a 
 comatose state, lasting many hours. 
 And when at last he came to his senses, 
 his feebleness was extreme. 
 
 Another day the over-excited brain 
 seemed to reproduce the scene of his 
 exertions to rescue Hartland. He im 
 itated the dragging of a heavy weight 
 till he was bathed in perspiration : then 
 
 fell into a heavy sleep that continued 
 all the night through. From each of 
 these attacks he awoke with diminished 
 strength. The lucid intervals, too, be 
 came shorter and less frequent. 
 
 But, except during t .ie moments when 
 fancy recalled the dangers he had passed, 
 he did not seem to suffer much. The 
 coma into which he constantly relapsed 
 became more and more deep. They 
 scarcely knew when he passed away. 
 Ellen sat, for the last two hours, his 
 hand in hers, and not a movement not 
 the slightest convulsive twitch gave in 
 timation of pain or struggle. Half an 
 hour before it was all over she heard him 
 say, in a tone that awed her so solemn, 
 so utterly different was it from his usual 
 manner " Deal with me, O God ! as 
 Thou wilt, but let that man love her : 
 let him cherish her." Then the very 
 last, low words of all two only : Dear 
 Nell!" 
 
 No need to speak of the orphan s des 
 olation. For days after her father s 
 death one wish was uppermost that she 
 had died with him. Even her lover was 
 half forgotten. 
 
 It was two weeks before she saw him ; 
 and the first time they met nothing of 
 moment occurred. He spoke kindly 
 and sympathizingly, doing what he could 
 to comfort her, and evincing deep regret 
 that there had ever been any difficulty 
 between her father and himself. 
 
 At their next interview she told him 
 that she had informed her father of their 
 engagement, and that he had acquiesced. 
 He expressed pleasure at this. 
 
 Then they talked of the future. How 
 forlorn you must be," he said to her, 
 "all alone there, with nobody to care 
 for you !" 
 
 " Hiram s as kind and attentive as he 
 can be. He seems to guess all I need 
 before I ask him. And then Fve little 
 Willie to care for." 
 
 "That mustn t go on, Ellen," a little 
 sharply. Of course we must let some 
 weeks or months pass, but sorrow can t 
 call back those that are gone ; and if we 
 could now know your father s wish, I ns 
 sure it would be that you should be hap- 
 
226 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 py, and have some one who had a right 
 to protect you as soon as possible." 
 
 Then she had to tell him of the sol 
 emn promise she had made to her father 
 on his deathbed. 
 
 He rebelled at once. How cruel, in 
 its results, is often the affection, even 
 the self-sacrifice, of weak, fond parents ! 
 All the strength of the young Widow 
 Mowbray s love, inconsolable under be 
 reavement, had centred blindly in her 
 boy. His very faults so much resem 
 bled those of the husband she had idol 
 ized throughout their few short years of 
 marriage that she could scarcely find it 
 in her heart to reprove them. In her 
 little household everything had given 
 way to him. In all things the child and 
 his will and his caprices had taken pre 
 cedence. They were poor : she had to 
 do much of her own work, but if the 
 little sluggard lay in bed two hours after 
 the breakfast-hour, he was never dis 
 turbed ; and when at last he sauntered 
 carelessly down, she broke off whatever 
 she was about, to see that he had a 
 warm, comfortable meal. In the same 
 way she saved him, year after year, every 
 exertion, every annoyance, at expense of 
 double exertion and double annoyance to 
 herself. When he grew to manhood, 
 and expenses necessarily increased, it 
 was she who must be stinted that he 
 might dress like a gentleman, wear fresh, 
 delicate kid gloves to balls and parties 
 and smoke the highest-priced Havana 
 cigars. When the young man began to 
 long as youth, ever since Virgil s days, 
 has always longed for a horse, their 
 scanty capital had to be encroached on 
 to build a stable ; and it was the mother, 
 not the son, who undertook additional 
 labor labor beyond her strength to 
 pay bills for oats and corn that the idle 
 fellow might spend half his days in 
 pleasure rides. 
 
 Selfishness is a weed needing little 
 culture, and Mrs. Mowbray had uncon 
 sciously nursed its growth for twenty- 
 four years in her son Evelyn. He grew 
 up utterly impatient of contradiction, and 
 feeling it as an injury almost as an in- 
 i,ult when another s comfort, or will, or 
 sense of duty even, crossed his own good 
 
 pleasure. Who can calculate the effects, 
 springing from devoted kindness, yet 
 tending from sin down to crime, of such 
 a training ? 
 
 Nonsense, Ellen !" Mowbray broke 
 out when she had made her confession. 
 " How old are you ?" 
 
 " In less than three months I shall be 
 twenty." 
 
 " And you mean to say you ve gone 
 and promised not to marry for nearly 
 fifteen months ?" 
 
 " Yes," though the poor child had 
 hardly courage to say it. 
 
 Then you did a very foolish thing : 
 that s all I can say." 
 
 Oh. Evelyn, think ! If your mother 
 had been dying, and she had asked you 
 not to marry me till you were twenty- 
 five, what would you have done ?" 
 
 " Mother never would have been so 
 silly. She knows how unhappy it would 
 have made me ; and she never crosses 
 me." 
 
 " Father didn t want to make you un 
 happy, Evelyn." 
 
 " Then what did he make you promise 
 that for ?" 
 
 Ellen was not ready with an answer. 
 
 "It would make me unhappy if you 
 were to keep your promise, Ellen ; and 
 if your father didn t want that, then it 
 would be wrong in you 
 
 " Don t say that, dear Evelyn." 
 
 " Why not ? Why does it make me 
 unhappy to wait ? Because I love you 
 so dearly. What would it signify to me 
 whether it was fifteen days or fifteen 
 months if I didn t care for you ? If you 
 cared " 
 
 He was looking at Ellen as he said 
 this, and her eyes, brimful of sorrow and 
 of love, would not let him go on in that 
 strain. So he said, Don t you think 
 your father wanted me to love you dear 
 ly, Ellen ?" 
 
 " Evelyn, Evelyn ! But I never told 
 you. Half an hour before before he 
 went to mother and left me alone that 
 was his dying prayer. The very, very 
 last word on his lips was my name. And 
 you want me to disobey him ?" 
 
 Was she listening to hear those last 
 words of the dying repeated again ? She 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 227 
 
 looked up to heaven, and the expression 
 that lighted her face overawed the man, 
 self-indulgent and impassive to spiritual 
 influence as he was. 
 
 "If father had not wished you well, 
 Evelyn," she went on after a time, 
 " would he have let me marry you ? I 
 don t know why he made me promise as 
 I did. I never can know now, except 
 that I m sure it was out of his love for me. 
 I only know that I did make that prom 
 ise, and that God heard me call His 
 name to witness that I would keep it. 
 And then, Evelyn " 
 
 " Well, dear ?" the tone getting im 
 patient again. 
 
 I think father can hear and see us 
 now. When he was lying hundreds of 
 miles away, all but drowned, his spirit 
 saw everything I did and heard all I 
 said, one morning at the well, to Hiram 
 Goddart." 
 
 " What did you say to him ?" 
 
 " He spoke of proposing a partner 
 ship in the mill. When father came 
 home he told me the very words." 
 
 Mowbray laughed incredulously. Then 
 his brow darkened : Did your father 
 hear Hiram propose a partnership to his 
 daughter too ?" 
 
 "You re cruel, Evelyn, and Hiram s 
 as good as he can be. He couldn t help 
 loving me, any more than I can help 
 loving you." 
 
 " If you think me cruel, and Hyram 
 Goddart the best man that ever was, I 
 suppose you can t help that either ?" 
 
 They were sitting on a mossy bank, 
 under the deep forest shade, Mowbray s 
 arm around her waist. He withdrew it. 
 The action, as much as the harsh words, 
 overcame her. She shuddered, as one 
 stricken with ague, and when she could 
 speak for weeping, she said, I don t 
 know what I m saying, Mr. Mowbray. 
 I didn t mean you were cruel : when 
 others were cruel, you ve always been 
 kind. And all I meant about Hiram 
 was that he is kind and good. Surely, 
 surely you know that I love nobody but 
 you." 
 
 " Why do you call me Mr. Mowbray, 
 if you love me ?" 
 
 " Did I call you so ? I think it must 
 
 have been because I didn t know if 
 you would ever be more to me than 
 that." 
 
 " Ellen, whatever I ask you, you re 
 fuse me. Are you going to break off 
 our engagement and marry Hiram ?" 
 
 That was the drop too much. With 
 an uncontrollable impulse she threw her 
 arms round his neck and hid her face in 
 his bosom, her frame convulsed with 
 sobs. 
 
 " If you knew, Evelyn," she faltered 
 out at last "if you only knew how it 
 breaks my heart to refuse you anything ! 
 But see ! Father mustn t be angry with 
 me, up there in heaven he and mother. 
 I think it won t be long till I see them 
 there ; and I must be able to tell the 
 old man him that never spoke one un 
 kind word to me that I didn t break 
 my word to him what I promised him 
 when he was dying. Oh, Evelyn, I 
 must, I must ! You re good, Evelyn : 
 you re so good so good to me ! You 
 don t want me, when I die, to be think 
 ing that the first word to them will have 
 to be that I lied to father just before he 
 left me, with a prayer to God for me on 
 his lips." 
 
 He did not reply, but he soothed and 
 caressed her, as she lay in his arms, till 
 the sobs gradually ceased and she re 
 covered, in a measure, her tranquillity. 
 
 After a time she spoke again : "You 
 said if I cared for you, Evelyn. I know 
 I ve never done anything for you. If \ 
 only knew if I could find out what a 
 poor orphan like me could do to show 
 you what sort of love it is I have for 
 you !" 
 
 It was a perilous state of feeling. 
 Ellen did not know that such affection 
 as hers once prompted Arria to suicide ; 
 and is not suicide a sin ? 
 
 " That promise I gave to father," she 
 pursued : " it s the only thing. Ask me 
 anything else, Evelyn anything. There s 
 nothing I would deny you but that." 
 
 " Nothing ?" A base, coward thought 
 just glanced through his mind as he said 
 it so base that the man, selfish as he 
 was, shrank from it as from a serpent. 
 Vice had still its "frightful mien" to 
 him. 
 
228 
 
 BE TON D THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " No, Evelyn, nothing." Sweetly, 
 calmly said. No dream of evil. Purity 
 itself in that trusting smile. No inkling 
 of wrong in those loving, guileless eyes. 
 How sharp the rebuke so unconsciously 
 given ! 
 
 Had the girl been less generous, less 
 faithful, more given to thinking of evil, 
 her danger would have been much less 
 than it was then. 
 
 In their after meetings Mowbray did 
 not again bring up the subject of Ellen s 
 promise, nor further insist on marriage 
 before the time her father had set. 
 
 I know it is the world s way, when 
 some poor young creature strays from 
 the path of peace, to settle it that she sins 
 at the prompting of selfish, incontinent 
 passion. Alas ! that happens some 
 times. But far, far more frequently the 
 
 temptation is one in which selfishness 
 has no part. Sometimes it is abject 
 poverty that rules : dishonor is incurred 
 to prolong the life of helpless father or 
 mother or to win bread for orphaned in 
 fancy left to a sister s care. 
 
 Sometimes and this sad truth almost 
 eludes attention the motive is traceable 
 to romantic self-sacrifice, wild eagerness 
 to prove the reality of a love arrested, 
 perhaps, for the time, in its placid, le 
 gitimate course. Few men conceive of 
 such a sacrifice. It is often made for 
 men when they know it not. God for 
 give the sacrilegious traitors who know 
 and accept it, bringing to ruin those the 
 latchet of whose shoes they are not 
 worthy to unloose! If such obtain Di 
 vine mercy at the last, what wretch, 
 blackened with a thousand crimes, but 
 may hope for pardon too ? 
 
PART X I I. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 THE ABDUCTION. 
 
 " Magnetism has been made, by turns, a trade, a 
 pastime ; a science, a philosophy, a religion : a lover s 
 go-between and a physician s guide." DELAAGE. 
 
 IN the study at Rosebank, on a Satur 
 day afternoon, some ten days after 
 Tyler s death. 
 
 "Is it possible, Mr. Creighton ?" said 
 Sydenham. It sounds more like some 
 coincidence invented to help out the plot 
 of a novel than an incident in real life. 
 What a strange chance !" 
 
 "/y there such a thing as chance?" 
 replied Creighton. "We are wonder 
 fully made : are we not also wonderfully 
 led sometimes? What so strange as 
 truth and God s economy ! But are you 
 sure as to the name ?" 
 
 "Terence pronounced it Cunningem, 
 and called him Sir Charles." 
 
 It must be the same," Creighton 
 said, referring to a paper before him : 
 < Charles Conynghame, Baronet? " 
 
 So that scoundrel Cranstoun could 
 not keep to the truth even about so 
 simple a matter as a name. Dunmore, 
 he told Celia, the guardian s name was." 
 " He was afraid we might forestall 
 hi m writing first, or by the same post 
 as himself." 
 
 "The suit is in Sir Charles own 
 name ?" 
 
 " Yes. He takes Miss Ellinor s death, 
 it seems, for granted." 
 
 " So, then, she is the heir ?" 
 " As against him, certainly ; but if 
 my view of the law in the case and 
 Mr. Marshall s too, by the way be cor 
 rect, Miss Celia is co-heir, and the sis 
 ters will divide equally." 
 
 " The sisters ! I can scarcely real 
 ize it." 
 
 " Mr. Cranstoun, however, would say 
 your ward was excluded from the suc 
 cession." 
 
 Celia will be delighted." 
 " That s a great deal to say for any 
 one, Mr. Sydenham." 
 
 So it is, but you will find I am 
 right." 
 
 Creighton s face flushed with pleas 
 ure : "It does one good to meet with a 
 nature so noble as that." 
 
 "Did you know that Ellinor s name 
 was Talbot ?" 
 
 "No. And she never told me her 
 guardian s name only the general in 
 cidents of her story. I knew her only 
 as Miss Ethelridge. Good that Terence 
 peeped through that keyhole : how else 
 should we have known what a heroine 
 the young lady is ? And then his de 
 position as to her identity is the very 
 thing. But first I must see her, to make 
 sure there s no mistake." 
 
 That same Saturday morning Celia 
 entered Ellinor s room in riding equip 
 ment. " Another French scholar," she 
 said" Ellen Tyler. I ve just been to 
 see the poor girl. What suffering there 
 is in this world !" 
 
 " Occupation is the surest alleviation. 
 I m glad she is coming to" us." 
 
 " How does the list of scholars stand 
 now ?" asked Celia as Ellinor set down 
 Ellen s name. " Is it up to what it was 
 when I joined you ?" 
 
 " Not quite, I see : five less that s 
 all. Good Mr. Sydenham s kind word 
 at the Mite was help in time of need."" 
 "And Lela s, the darling ! But I ve 
 something more to tell you, Ellie. I ve 
 had such a time with dear auntie ! I 
 never saw her so near being downright 
 angry with me before. I shall have to 
 give up, I m afraid, and you must help 
 me." 
 
 " I wish I had been there to see." 
 " You needn t laugh. I had got aunt 
 persuaded to let me pay Mr. Hartland a 
 hundred dollars a year for my board, and 
 eighty more for Bess. Now that it is 
 her own house she rebels, and says if I 
 won t accept my board and Bess keep 
 from my mother s sister, she ll never for 
 give me as long as she lives." 
 
 "She is in good circumstances, and 
 229 
 
230 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 you owe her that kindness. You must 
 agree to it, dear child." 
 
 "On one condition. I ll be a good 
 girl if you will too. See here, Ellie ! I 
 wanted to help you in the school, and 
 I ve been nothing but a millstone about 
 your neck." 
 
 " Indeed ! I d like to have a few 
 more such. I had no idea millstones 
 were such pleasant wear." 
 
 It s serious. Ellie : don t put me 
 out. Suppose Bess and I stay with 
 auntie for nothing. Mr. Sydenham pays 
 me a hundred and fifty dollars a year for 
 Leoline s lessons ; and I can t, with any 
 propriety, spend more than that on dress 
 and knickknacks." 
 
 " So you want to violate our articles 
 of partnership, and make me take all the 
 profits ?" 
 
 " What a darling you are to guess it 
 so nicely ! Precisely, my dear : that s 
 just it." 
 
 " You know, Celia you know I can t 
 do that." 
 
 "Indeed I don t. But I ll tell you 
 what I do know. If you stand out 
 against me, I ll stand out against auntie 
 I will. So you may take your choice. 
 Then I want to whisper something in 
 your ear." 
 
 " Be reasonable, Celia " 
 
 " Certainly, if you will only listen. 
 < Strike, but hear ! " 
 
 Well ?" 
 
 Celia whispered : It s all in the fam 
 ily, my dear. Ethan will be auntie s 
 heir. If I don t pay auntie, Ethan will 
 lose a hundred and eighty dollars a year. 
 That s all the same as if Mrs. Ethan 
 lost it : they twain shall be one flesh, 
 you know. I d be getting paid twice, 
 Ellie : is that what you call reason ? 
 Then how are you going to buy that 
 furniture ? Ethan tells me his secrets 
 sometimes." 
 
 You are too bad !" But Ellinor 
 took the laughing girl in her arms and 
 caressed her and kissed her and called 
 her pet names, till neither could refrain 
 from tears. What they both cried for I 
 don t exactly know. 
 
 After a while Celia said : " There are 
 two sisters, Ellie at least thev made an 
 
 agreement they were to be sisters. I 
 think the elder will be married soon. I 
 don t believe the younger will ever mar 
 ry not for many years, at all events ; 
 and she has more than enough to live 
 on comfortably. Now do you think it s 
 just the sisterly thing for these two to 
 keep such strict accounts that the elder 
 can t have what she needs for wedding- 
 things and to do a little toward house- 
 furnishing, because the younger may 
 possibly need some money ten years 
 hence ?" 
 
 " Ten years, Celia ? You re going to 
 make him wait that length of time ?" 
 
 Whom ?" 
 
 A knock at the door and Nelly came 
 in : Mr. Creighton, Miss Ellinor, for 
 to see ye." 
 
 " In a minute or two, Nelly, please 
 tell him." Then, when the girl had gone : 
 " If you don t know, Celia, or if Nelly 
 did not stumble on the answer, then I 
 can t pretend to guess. Wait for me, 
 won t you, dear ?" 
 
 In quarter of an hour she returned 
 pale and agitated. 
 
 " What has Mr. Creighton been tell 
 ing you ? Bad news, Ellie ?" 
 
 " No." Then, after a pause, " I ought 
 to be glad." 
 
 "And yet you re sorry. You ll tell 
 me all about it, won t you ?" 
 
 Yes, dear. I promised you I would, 
 some day." She drew Celia to the sofa, 
 retaining her hand. 
 
 " After mother s death I had a guard 
 ian a rich man, not a good one Sir 
 Charles Conynghame. Mr. Creighton 
 came this morning to know from me 
 if that was his name. I don t know 
 why : not from idle curiosity, he said, 
 and that he would tell me more to-mor 
 row. He had heard the name, it seems, 
 from a man who once saved me saved 
 me I mustn t think from what at my 
 utmost need : a brave, good young fel 
 low, the father of little Derry and Kath 
 leen. Strange that I didn t know him 
 again when he brought them to school !" 
 
 " Terence, the Irishman, who manages 
 Mr. Sydenham s farm ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but I must go back to my 
 story." Her gaze, as she paused, seem- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 231 
 
 ed exploring some mysterious distance. 
 Celia knew, as she looked at those eyes, 
 how sad the recollections must be. 
 
 " How happy you were, Celia," El- 
 linor said at last, to have had such a 
 mother! Mine but I dare say I was 
 wayward and disobedient and hard to 
 manage, or perhaps mamma was soured 
 by some cross or grief. It s terrible to 
 say, but I don t remember one really 
 happy day at home. I had happy days, 
 but they were spent with Cousin Con 
 stance. She was ten years older than 
 I ; and my idea of angels in heaven was 
 that they must be like her. One child 
 hood s recollection, standing out from all 
 the rest, is my being dressed out in my 
 first white silk frock just seven years 
 old then for Constance s wedding. 
 < She s Lady Conynghame now, my 
 nurse whispered to me as the bridegroom 
 placed the ring on her finger." 
 
 She married your guardian, then ?" 
 
 Her husband afterward became my 
 guardian yes. I remember, when the 
 marriage was over, I put my arms round 
 the bride and told her, crying bitterly 
 the while, what nurse had said, and 
 asked her if she wasn t my cousin Con 
 stance any more. She smiled, then 
 cried a little herself which I thought 
 was very strange on her wedding-day 
 and said she was my own very cousin 
 Constance, and always would be till she 
 died, and that there was nobody in all 
 the world she loved as well as me. I 
 suppose her husband didn t quite like 
 that, but he took me up kindly and kiss 
 ed me, and told me mamma had agreed 
 that I should come and see Cousin Con 
 stance whenever I liked. < Didn t you, 
 Mrs. Talbot ? he said, appealing to her, 
 and she assented." 
 
 Mrs. Talbot ?" 
 
 " Ah ! I forgot. Mamma, who liked 
 show and station, gave me three bap 
 tismal names Mary Ellinor Ethelridge : 
 Ethelridge was her maiden name. Con 
 stance always called me Ellie, and I 
 only brought two of my four names with 
 me to democratic America." 
 
 " Had Lady Conyinghame children ?" 
 
 None except me, she used to say. 
 Mamma died when I was twelve years 
 
 old, making Sir Charles her executor 
 and leaving me in his care, the property 
 to go to him in case I died unmarried 
 and without a will. I should have been 
 perfectly happy with my cousin, only 
 that, as I grew older, I saw that she was 
 not happy. She had been over-persuaded 
 to the marriage. Sir Charles was rich, 
 indulgent, good-natured in a general way, 
 but without any feeling deserving the 
 name of love. He became a gambler, 
 too, keeping dissipated company, and 
 risking hundreds, if not thousands, on 
 his favorite horses. Constance behaved 
 admirably to him. He was proud of 
 her, and grudged her nothing as long as 
 the money lasted. But what sympathy, 
 what companionship could there be ? 
 Some Frenchman talks of people who 
 think themselves entitled to rank and 
 fortune because they ve < taken the trou 
 ble of being born ! * Well, my dear, 
 Sir Charles was one of these." 
 
 " Poor Constance !" 
 
 " And if you had known, Celia, what 
 a noble, loving darling she was ! To 
 me friend, sister, mother teacher, too, 
 and guardian. If I know anything, if 
 I m good for anything, it was her doing. 
 I don t think one human being ever 
 owed more to another than I to her. 
 When I lost her" 
 
 She died ?" 
 
 " When I was seventeen. We had 
 been a year in Paris. The fashionable 
 dissipation into which she was forced 
 wore upon her, but far more her hus 
 band s increasing dissipation. Titled 
 swindlers, professional gamblers, jockeys 
 and stable-boys were his companions. 
 He seemed to become daily more reck 
 less, and was often embarrassed for 
 money. Once, I remember, we had 
 bailiffs in the house. But I think an 
 other grief wore on Constance s spirits 
 more than all the rest. In some way 
 perhaps from himself, when flushed with 
 wine she must have come to know that 
 he was using the money which as exec 
 utor had been placed in his hands." 
 
 * " Noblesse, fortune, un rang, des places ; tout 
 cela rend si fier ! Qu avez vous fait pour tant de 
 biens? Vous vous e"tes donne" la peine de naitre, et 
 rien de plus." BEAUMARCHAIS, Le Mariage de Fi 
 garo, Acte V., Scene 3. 
 
232 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 " Your property, Ellie ?" 
 
 " Yes. Some eight or ten thousand 
 pounds I don t know the exact sum. 
 On her deathbed, when delirious with 
 fever, Constance spoke, in frenzied words 
 which I shall remember to my dying 
 day, of some terrible dishonor some 
 breach of trust of which her husband 
 had been guilty. Suddenly she took me 
 in her arms, lamenting over me in terms 
 oh so pitiful ! then crying as if her very 
 heart would break. Later I knew what 
 it meant. I m sure it hastened her 
 death. Next morning ah, Celia, I was 
 never an orphan till then !" 
 
 Celia had taken Ellinor in her arms, 
 and when a burst of grief, controlled up 
 to that moment, had subsided, she asked 
 her, " Had you to remain in Sir Charles 
 house ?" 
 
 " What could I do ? When we re 
 turned to London, his widowed sister, 
 Mrs. Beaumont hard, haughty, aristo 
 cratic in the worst sense came to keep 
 house for him. To her I was an en 
 cumbrance, and no day passed in which 
 she did not make me feel it. I was far 
 worse than alone. If a fervent longing 
 could have brought death, I should soon 
 have been with my lost darling again." 
 
 " You were spared to do good here, 
 and for me to love you, Ellie." 
 
 " God overrules all, but in those days 
 I had not learned to realize that. I fell 
 into a weak, nervous state. The phy 
 sician recommended exercise. To avoid 
 driving out with Mrs. Beaumont, whom 
 I hated, I went regularly to a noted 
 riding-school not far off." 
 
 There she stopped. Celia guessed 
 the reason. "If it pains you to go on, 
 dear " she began. 
 
 "I ma coward: that s the truth. I 
 linger over details, because the rest 
 Never mind, I want you to know it all." 
 
 Well, Ellie ?" 
 
 " The style of people who frequented 
 our house after dear Conny s death 
 changed much for the worse. Among 
 them was one whom we had known 
 while Constance was alive, and who had 
 seemed to me, at first, better than most 
 of the others. He was Sir Charles in 
 timate friend Captain Halloran, of the 
 
 Guards. He was handsome, and I think 
 may once have been good. I liked to 
 talk to him more than he deserved : even 
 then I used to be conscious that I did. 
 Yet there was something genial and 
 pleasant enough about him, except now 
 and then when a certain look came over 
 his face : I can t describe it, but it gave 
 me the idea of a reckless, self-indulgent 
 man. At other times I felt in his society 
 quiet, satisfied, and, strange to say, often 
 very drowsy." 
 
 " As I do, sometimes, near you, Ellie." 
 " Yes, dear. Once or twice in the 
 evening I had to leave the drawing-room 
 after talking with him, for I was actually 
 afraid I should go to sleep. Yet it was 
 some time before it occurred to me that 
 he had anything to do with it : I thought 
 it was only nervous weakness. One 
 morning, when he called to see me, and 
 when I pleaded my engagement at the 
 riding-school as excuse for cutting short 
 the visit, he begged so hard to accom 
 pany me that I yielded, though till then 
 I had never allowed any one but a ser 
 vant to attend me. During the lesson 
 he remained in a small gallery overlook 
 ing the riding-arena, and to which gen 
 tlemen accompanying young ladies to 
 the school were admitted. Once or twice 
 during the hour I rode a sleepy fit came 
 over me, so that the riding-master no 
 ticed it and asked me if I had not been 
 up very late the night before. In return 
 ing home the unaccountable feeling so 
 gained on me that I must have walked 
 some distance in an unconscious state. 
 The thundering rap which announced 
 our return awoke me on the doorstep." 
 " What a wonderful thing !" 
 " When I thought it over, it recalled 
 to me a discussion I had heard, a few 
 evenings before, between Captain Hal 
 loran and several other gentlemen, but 
 to which, at the time, I had paid little 
 attention. They had spoken of human 
 magnetism and its strange effects, and 
 now it suddenly occurred to me that my 
 drowsiness might be due to magnetic 
 influence." 
 
 " Did you avoid him ?" 
 " I never allowed him to go with me 
 j to the riding-school again ; and I tried 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 233 
 
 to keep away from him as much as I 
 could. But I found that a difficult thing 
 to do. Several times, when he sat down 
 by me and began to talk, I resolved, as 
 soon as common politeness permitted, 
 to rise and leave him. But when I tried 
 to rise I felt that I had lost the power. 
 It seemed to me as if he were telling me 
 to sit still, and that I had to obey him. 
 I felt, too, a sort of fascination, partly 
 painful, partly pleasurable, in yielding to 
 this mysterious authority." 
 
 Poor Ellie !" 
 
 " I had a sense of danger, too ; and 
 had it been possible I would have left 
 the house for some other where the cap 
 tain could not reach me ; for in his ab 
 sence he was comparatively indifferent 
 to me, and I had self-control enough 
 left earnestly to desire that I might never 
 see him again. But Sir Charles was 
 the only relative I knew anything about 
 the only person, indeed, on whom I 
 had any claim." 
 
 " Did Captain Halloran make love to 
 you, Ellie ?" 
 
 " About a year and a half after Lady 
 Conynghame s death he proposed to me. 
 With a strong effort I managed to refuse 
 him ; and very glad I was of it after he 
 was gone. But he persisted, coming 
 almost every evening, usually to dinner. 
 Mrs. Beaumont, I saw, encouraged him. 
 One day, when I felt that I grievously 
 needed help, I asked him how he knew 
 that Sir Charles would consent. Then 
 it came out about my property. The 
 captain said my guardian had squander 
 ed every penny of it, and of course would 
 resist my marriage with any one. Then 
 he professed that he cared nothing about 
 the money: his father would come 
 down handsomely, he said, in case of 
 marriage. But on my guardian s ac 
 count it must be a private marriage by 
 special license. I have it here, he 
 said, taking a paper from his pocket. 
 I ve often wondered, Celia dear, how the 
 poor little birds feel when the serpent s 
 eye is on them and they can t even move 
 a wing. When I read that license, it 
 seemed to me like the fiat of doom. If 
 I had had anybody to sustain me, I 
 could have escaped. But everything 
 
 seemed crumbling around me, life value 
 less, and nothing worth striving for or 
 striving against. I had, indeed, misgiv 
 ings about my suitor, yet I felt a sense 
 of protection, a soothing of nerves, when 
 I was near him. All the other habitues 
 of the house were repulsive to me. 
 Captain Halloran saw his advantage and 
 pressed it, assuming my consent. I 
 felt that I was giving up, half by attrac 
 tion and half in despair." 
 
 " You agreed to marry him ? Poor 
 darling !" 
 
 " When it came to the point, and he 
 told me, one afternoon, that he had a 
 carriage a square off to take me to his 
 aunt s, where the clergyman awaited us, 
 I repented and flatly refused to go. To 
 my surprise, he said it should be just as 
 I pleased ; he would wait my time and 
 pleasure ; he would speak to his servant 
 and dismiss the carriage. How long he 
 stayed after his return to the drawing- 
 room I never knew, nor when nor how 
 I left the house. I first awoke to a 
 sense of my situation (as I had done in 
 returning from the riding-school) at the 
 loud rat-tat-at of a fashionable knock. 
 I heard the captain swearing at his ser 
 vant for making such a noise, and he 
 looked uneasily at me. But I had pres 
 ence of mind enough to express no sur 
 prise, and followed him submissively into 
 the house, with one resolve on which I 
 strove to concentrate my will namely, 
 not to suffer that stupor to return." 
 
 " Was the clergyman there ?" 
 
 " A man with a hateful countenance, 
 but scrupulously dressed in canonical 
 robes. Then there was what seemed, at 
 least, a lady, over-dressed, very conde 
 scending, and to whom the captain in 
 troduced me, calling her aunt : several 
 younger ladies also, and a baronet, a 
 friend of the captain, whom I had often 
 met at our house. When the aunt 
 kissed me I shuddered. You will think 
 me superstitious, I know, dear 
 
 " Perhaps not, Ellie." 
 
 It came to me, I cannot tell how 
 I suppose a Swedenborgian would say 
 my interior sight was opened it came 
 to me, not in words I think, but flashing 
 over my mind as if I had heard some 
 
234 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 one whisper : No aunt, no clergyman : 
 all false ! I turned suddenly to the wo 
 man, who spoke to me in what she 
 meant for an affectionate style, intro 
 ducing to me two of the young ladies 
 dressed in white, who were to act, she 
 said, as my bridesmaids. They also ad 
 dressed to me some civil commonplaces. 
 But something in the tone and manners 
 of all three made me think they were 
 not persons of position, accustomed to 
 good society. The captain beckoned to 
 the clergyman, who began the ceremony, 
 speaking with a slight foreign accent, I 
 thought. I let it go on till it came to 
 the question whether I took this man 
 to be my husband ; and then to Hallo- 
 ran s utter astonishment for I know he 
 thought me still entranced I answered 
 with all the energy I could muster, No, 
 I do not. " 
 
 " Brave darling ! But what a terrible 
 plot !" 
 
 " These things don t happen in novels 
 only, Celia. The wonder is, that the 
 strange control which animal magnetism 
 gives is not more frequently abused. 
 There was a pause when I came out 
 with that unlooked-for denial, and I felt 
 that Captain Halloran was exerting his 
 utmost influence to throw me again into 
 a somnambulic state. But either some 
 mysterious guardian influence interposed, 
 or my excited indignation enabled me to 
 resist, for I succeeded in resisting. 
 
 " ; Go on, said the captain to the 
 clergyman : it was a mistake. Ask 
 the question again. But before he had 
 time to proceed I turned to the young 
 baronet. Sir George, said I, <aman 
 of honor will not stand by and permit 
 this. 
 
 " D n it, Tom, this won t do, said 
 he to the captain: an elopement s all 
 well enough, but a gentleman can t re 
 fuse a lady protection when she asks it. 
 
 " The captain turned white to the 
 very lips with anger, but he choked it 
 down and only said, You know she 
 came here willingly, George. 
 
 " Maybe, the other replied; but a 
 lady has the right to change her mind. 
 Where do you wish to go to, Miss 
 Talbot ? 
 
 " Home, I said, to Sir Charles ." 
 
 " < You hear ? said Sir George to the 
 captain : it can t go on. 
 
 " Sir George, cried Halloran, < you 
 shall answer for this. 
 
 " All right, my good fellow, said Sir 
 George, coolly. But will you take her 
 home, or shall I ? 
 
 " The captain, I saw, was furious, but 
 after some hesitation he said that if the 
 carriage was still in waiting, and if I 
 insisted, he would escort me. With that 
 he left the room. I expressed my grat 
 itude to Sir George, and begged that he 
 would see me safe out of the house. 
 This, on the captain s return, he did, 
 waiting till he heard the order given to 
 the coachman : < To Sir Charles Conyng- 
 hame s. Then I felt comparatively at 
 ease again, having made up my mind to 
 disclose the whole to my guardian, and 
 to ask that Captain Halloran be forbid 
 den the house. This threw me off my 
 guard, particularly as the captain spoke 
 in the most submissive terms, saying 
 that he saw now that my aversion to 
 him was unconquerable, and that it was 
 useless to press his suit farther. As he 
 said this I felt and hated myself for 
 feeling that in spite of his gross mis 
 conduct, I had no aversion to him. On 
 the contrary, I felt again that inexplicable 
 attraction, and found myself seeking ex 
 cuses for his behavior. It occurred to 
 me that perhaps, in trance, I might 
 have actually consented to leave Sir 
 Charles house ; and then, as to the 
 marriage, had I not seen the special 
 license ? This revulsion of feeling was 
 dangerous the more so, as we were in 
 a coupd. single-seated, and I had no 
 choice but to let the captain sit by me. 
 He had lowered the blinds, which I was 
 glad of, for I feared to be recognized as 
 we drove along. Gradually that subtle 
 influence began to steal over me again. 
 The way seemed very long, but such 
 was the fascination that I did not care 
 how long it was. I felt as if I could go 
 on so for ever. The last thing I re 
 member was the thought that, though I 
 was again sinking into trance, the knock 
 ing at Sir Charles door would awake 
 me." 
 
BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 235 
 
 " Did it ?" asked Celia, eagerly. 
 
 " Alas, dear child ! we never arrived 
 there. When I awoke to partial con 
 sciousness we were ascending the stairs 
 of a house that was unknown to me. It 
 seemed to be divided into apartments 
 after the foreign fashion. The door had 
 been opened by Halloran s groom, whom 
 I recognized ; and in the passage I 
 caught a momentary glimpse of a face 
 that of a servant in black which I felt 
 sure was the same repulsive countenance 
 that belonged to the person who as 
 sumed to marry us. Then the whole 
 base plot lay bare before me, and 
 I knew that I had been brought, in 
 trance, to Captain Halloran s private 
 apartments." 
 
 " Good Heavens !" exclaimed Celia. 
 What didjOM do ?" 
 
 Then Ellinor narrated to her friend the 
 substance of the scene with which our 
 readers are already familiar, ending with 
 her escape, by Terence s, aid, into the 
 street. 
 
 " And then ?" asked Celia, breath 
 lessly. 
 
 " I hurried, I knew not whither, pass 
 ing through street after street, and when 
 darkness came on I found myself in a 
 part of the city quite different from any 
 I had ever seen the streets narrow and 
 dingy, the houses poor and dirty. It 
 must have been some disreputable region, 
 for, to my terror, I was several times ac 
 costed in a shocking manner by vulgar 
 men, from whom I had the greatest diffi 
 culty in escaping. The bystanders offer 
 ed me no aid : indeed, my alarm seemed 
 to afford them amusement. Or perhaps 
 it was my dress, so utterly out of place 
 there. One ruffian, after talking to me 
 in the most revolting terms, attempted 
 by force to thrust me into a horrible- 
 looking house. My screams brought a 
 policeman to the spot. At first he seem 
 ed disposed to treat me with indignity 
 also. But when I explained to him that 
 I had lost my way, he became more re 
 spectful and offered to take me to the 
 nearest stand for coaches. On the way 
 a desperate resolve took possession of 
 me. What explanation to my relatives 
 was now possible ? I could not face 
 
 my guardian and that insolent sister of 
 his. 
 
 Anywhere, anywhere, 
 Out of the world! 
 
 these were the terrible lines that beat 
 themselves into my brain. Yet I strug 
 gled for control as long as I was with 
 the policeman, entering a cab, and, when 
 he asked where the man should drive 
 to, giving my guardian s address, in 
 Grafton street, Piccadilly. Soon after, 
 however, I stopped the cabman, asked 
 which was the nearest of the bridges, and 
 bade him drive there. He hesitated, 
 muttering something about his fare. But 
 when I produced a sovereign and in 
 sisted, he turned. I shuddered fearfully 
 when I found he had obeyed my order. 
 I seemed to hear the rebuke : You fear 
 the face of man and affront the presence 
 of God ! I had my hand on the cab 
 window to lower it and call the driver. 
 But Despair prevailed, ever recalling, 
 with frighful iteration, the lines : 
 
 Mad from life s history, 
 Glad to death s mystery 
 
 ( Swift to be hurled 
 Anywhere, anywhere, 
 Out of the world 1 
 
 I was beside myself. I felt as if I were 
 pursued by the Furies. Oh forgive me, 
 darling !" 
 
 Celia could not reply for weeping. 
 
 "It s cruel, dear child," Ellinor re 
 sumed, " to grieve you so, but the rest is 
 soon told. In the very act of springing 
 from the bridge a friendly hand held me 
 back. I turned, indignant at first, but 
 when I met Mr. Creighton s honest, man 
 ly face, and heard a few words of gentle 
 expostulation, the evil spirit was exor 
 cised. Yet I was scarcely clothed in 
 my right mind. The remaining events 
 of that night are phantasmagorial. I 
 know we were roughly repulsed from sev 
 eral doors where Mr. Creighton sought 
 to obtain a room for me. At last I 
 found myself in bed. Toward morning 
 I sank into a sort of stupor, from which 
 a knock at my chamber door aroused 
 me. I had lain down in my clothes, so 
 I rose and unlocked the door. It was 
 Mr. Creighton. He begged me, though 
 it was early morning, to come with him 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 at once, as he had secured a lodging for 
 me. As he hurried me into the street, 
 I found that we were leaving a hotel, 
 and I turned for an explanation, asking 
 him where I had passed the night. He 
 is one of God s noblemen, Celia, with 
 the true instincts of God s nobility. I 
 shall never forget how he spoke to me 
 with such delicate forbearance, with 
 such tender regard for my feelings. 
 
 < Forgive me, young lady, he said : < it 
 was an absolute necessity, since the 
 alternative was that we should remain 
 all night in the street. I had to give 
 you my room. Then, when he saw how 
 dreadfully embarrassed I was, he added : 
 
 < You are too weak now to tell me by 
 what terrible cruelty or injustice you 
 were brought to despair, and perhaps 
 you may never think me worthy to know. 
 But to-morrow I shall call to ask if I 
 can take a message to your friends or 
 serve you in any way. All the rest of 
 his conduct was of a piece with this. 
 When he found I was resolved never to 
 see my relatives again, but to maintain 
 myself by needlework, and ,that I posi 
 tively refused to accept money from him, 
 he refrained from visiting me except at 
 considerable intervals ; and when, after 
 several weeks, he was obliged to leave 
 London, he told me he had written about 
 me to his uncle, an old Quaker gentle 
 man, who would visit London in a month 
 or two. I told you the rest. When 
 Mr. Creighton took leave I don t think 
 I said one grateful word, but I know 
 Elizabeth Browning s glorious lines were 
 in my heart : 
 
 Thee I do not thank at all : 
 I but thank God, who made thee what thou art 
 So wholly godlike. 
 
 I don t know which I venerate most- 
 Mr. Creighton, young as he is, or that 
 saint-like old man, Uncle Williams, as I 
 used to call him. They did far more 
 than to save me from suicide : they re 
 conciled me to life in a world where 
 such honor and loving-kindness are to 
 be found." 
 
 Celia took the weeping girl in her 
 arms and kissed her again and again. 
 They were as kind to me as to you," 
 she said : " they sent me a sister." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 EVENTS THICKEN. 
 
 " So we grew together, 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted." 
 
 Midsummer Night s Dream. 
 
 AFTER a time, when the two girls had 
 become quieter, Celia fell into a reverie. 
 When she looked up and saw Ellinor s 
 eyes on her with that wonderful look of 
 love they sometimes wore, she said, " I 
 keep thinking but that s foolish and 
 ungrateful too if you only were my 
 real, real sister." 
 
 "Ah, that reminds me I ve some 
 thing to tell you, Celia. It s almost as 
 strange as that dismal story of mine, but 
 it s not gloomy. Last evening I picked 
 up a little book a wonderful book, 
 Celia; you must read it Isaac Taylor s 
 Physical Theory of Another Life. Con 
 stance had once given me a copy of it, 
 and it brought her forcibly to my mind. 
 When I went to sleep, thinking of her, 
 there came to me such a vivid dream. 
 I can scarcely yet believe that I didn t 
 actually see my darling standing beside 
 the bed." 
 
 " She appeared to you ?" 
 "As in very life, Celia, except that 
 she seemed idealized, etherealized. How 
 beautiful she was !" 
 
 Did she say anything ?" 
 " Not at first, but above her head it 
 seemed in letters of light were the 
 words : < Bring forth the blind people 
 that have eyes. (I found the text this 
 morning in Isaiah.) Then I saw in the 
 distance, but gradually enlarging or ap 
 proaching (I couldn t tell which), two 
 figures you, Celia, and, strange to say ! 
 myself. I or rather my < double 
 seemed groping as if to touch you. 
 Then I thought Constance turned, raised 
 her hands as in blessing over us, and I 
 heard, in a tone that went to my heart, 
 the word * SISTER ! With a start I 
 awoke, and it was long before I could 
 convince myself that Constance wasn t 
 there." 
 
 "What could it mean, Ellie ?" hesi 
 tatingly. 
 
 Ellinor smiled: "That I shall be 
 blind, and that you will be to me a sister 
 and a blessing." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 237 
 
 " And you smile ?" 
 
 " Constance smiled when she turned 
 and blessed us, though I had to grope 
 for you, dear child." 
 
 "But I m not your real sister; so 
 maybe you won t be really blind." 
 
 As God wills." 
 
 " And if God does will it, I ll try to 
 be <eyes to the blind ; but, at all events, 
 you must be my real cousin my cousin 
 Ethan s wife, Ellie dear. I don t think 
 he would live if you were to refuse him." 
 
 Supper was late that evening at Dr. 
 Meyrac s. They were waiting for Ethan 
 Hartland, who had been invited to join 
 them, but had first to go on business to 
 Mount Sharon. 
 
 When they were seated, and Ethan 
 had been telling them the news from the 
 county-seat, Ellinor suddenly exclaimed, 
 
 " Who put out the lamp ? Or was it 
 the oil that failed ? But in a single mo 
 ment how strange !" 
 
 No one replied. They all turned, in 
 amazement, to Miss Ethelridge. She 
 was not in the habit of jesting, and the 
 look on her face was of unmistakable 
 surprise. 
 
 " What did you say ?" Ethan began, 
 after a pause. Ellinor looked at him 
 at least her eyes, bright with intelligence, 
 were directed, inquiringly, to his face. 
 Was it possible ? His very heart stood 
 still at the thought. 
 
 " Ellinor, dear child," said Dr. Mey- 
 rac in French, I would see you a mo 
 ment in my study." He went up to her 
 and took her hand : " Shall I conduct 
 you ?" 
 
 Ellinor s mind was in a maze, but she 
 assented. "What is it, doctor?" she 
 asked as he led her off. 
 
 " Is she ill, mamma ?" said Lucille 
 Meyrac. 
 
 " Alas, my child ! It is as your father 
 has feared. But how very, very sudden ! 
 And without the least pain, for she evi 
 dently thought not of it." 
 
 " Blind, mamma ?" And tn*e girl 
 turned pale as a sheet. 
 
 " I remember that your father once 
 told me of just such a case in some 
 town of the provinces. But I was in 
 
 credulous. It is rare : it usually occurs 
 by degrees." 
 
 "Is it paralysis of the optic nerve ?" 
 Ethan forced himself to ask. 
 
 " Yes. Poor dear mignonne !" 
 
 Then they were silent. After a time 
 the doctor and Ellinor returned, and he 
 assisted her to her seat. Ethan s bitter 
 grief gave way to wonder and admiration. 
 Not a trace of sorrow on that placid face. 
 Could she not see him ? for the brilliant 
 eyes turned to his, he actually thought, 
 as if to discover how he bore it. But 
 he knew now. It had come in very 
 deed ! How glad he was she didn t see 
 his tears ! Did she not see them ? 
 for she said, in a tone that sank into his 
 heart of hearts, " Do not grieve, dear 
 friend. It is a relief to me that it is all 
 over." 
 
 Dr. Meyrac was often abrupt, and 
 now and then somewhat despotic, but he 
 was a man of instinctive delicacy. He 
 had found out how it stood with Ethan 
 and Ellinor, and he so contrived it that 
 when supper was cleared away they were 
 left alone. "It is he who must be her 
 physician henceforth, my dear Elise," 
 he whispered to his wife. "See to it 
 that no one intrudes on them." 
 
 Nor must we. When, at the end of 
 an hour, Ethan rose to go, Ellinor said : 
 " To-morrow evening, dear, dear Ethan. 
 Cannot you wait for my decision till 
 to-morrow ?" 
 
 He kissed her fervently and tore him 
 self away, without trusting his voice to 
 answer. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast next morn 
 ing, Creighton called at Mrs. Hartland s 
 and sent up his card to Celia. She 
 came down at once, but with her hat and 
 shawl. 
 
 " You were going out, Miss Pem 
 broke ?" 
 
 "To see poor Ellie. You have 
 heard" 
 
 " Yes. But I have something to tell 
 you that you ought to know before you 
 go. It relates to her." 
 
 The evening before, Ethan had, with 
 difficulty, persuaded Celia not to see 
 Ellinor that night. When she came 
 
338 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 down to meet Creighton she had been 
 nervously impatfent, and, almost uncon 
 sciously, had remained standing. But 
 his words recalled her. Laying aside 
 hat and shawl, she seated herself. " I m 
 afraid I ve been very rude, Mr. Creigh 
 ton," she said, blushing a little : " I shall 
 be most happy to hear what you have to 
 say." 
 
 Our readers know what it was. Celia 
 felt as if she were dreaming. She 
 scarcely took it in at first. She asked 
 him again and again if he was sure, quite 
 sure ; and when the details he gave her, 
 including Terence s testimony, left no 
 longer a doubt on her mind, she sud 
 denly recalled all that Creighton had 
 done, and for whom. 
 
 Tears started to her eyes, and she 
 gave him both her hands: "I know 
 what a good man you are, Mr. Creigh 
 ton : she told me yesterday. And you 
 saved my sister s life." 
 
 Creighton blushed like a girl, but he 
 turned it off, asking, " Will you tell her, 
 or shall I?" As Celia hesitated, he 
 added : " It will come best from you." 
 Then, smiling, You are not sorry now 
 that I detained you, Miss Pembroke ?" 
 
 All the way home Creighton kept 
 thinking of the look she gave him in re 
 ply. But gratitude is not love. 
 
 And what were Celia s thoughts as 
 she sped toward Dr. Meyrac s ? They 
 were mingled still, for a time, with in 
 credulity. Sudden, unlooked-for joy, 
 like some unexpected stroke of misfor 
 tune, often comes before us, for the mo 
 ment, as incredible. Celia seemed to 
 herself almost as walking in trance, and 
 she half feared to wake and behold it a 
 dream. Had the news been that her 
 lawsuit was gained and a certain forty 
 thousand dollars still her own, she would 
 have received it joyfully, of course, but 
 calmly, and she would have believed in 
 it at once. But this was something be 
 yond her wildest anticipations like some 
 gift in a fairy tale. Would it vanish 
 away ? 
 
 No. That mysterious being whom 
 she had heard of as her father s first 
 wife had been Ellie s mother. Never 
 one happy day at home, Ellinor had 
 
 said. Ah ! that explained her father s 
 flight. But he must have loved Ellie. 
 She thought of him taking his first-born 
 in his arms, kissing her, weeping over 
 her, perhaps, before he left ; grieving 
 after her, too, no doubt, even when a 
 second daughter came. How strange it 
 all was ! 
 
 Another apology she found for her 
 father s conduct. Though he had aban 
 doned his little daughter, still she re 
 mained at first, as he knew, with her 
 mother ; and afterward, as he must also 
 have known, in the care of one who was 
 far more than that mother had ever been 
 to her. She was well provided for, too. 
 He had given the mother and child half 
 his fortune. 
 
 A new train of thought ! That forty 
 thousand dollars would not go to prof 
 ligate Sir Charles Conynghame now. 
 Eliot Creighton had come that morning 
 specially to talk to her on that branch 
 of the subject. But at first, when he 
 saw her wild joy at the discovery of a 
 sister, he could not find it in his heart 
 to speak to her of money. And after 
 ward that look of Celia s, which he car 
 ried home with him, put it out of his 
 head. A poor head for a lawyer, it must 
 have been : he was ashamed to think of 
 it when he got home. But Celia thread 
 ed her legal way without his aid. Creigh 
 ton had already told her that the guard 
 ian was heir-at-law only in case the ward 
 could not be found. Ellinor was the 
 heir. The sole heir ? Never mind : 
 time enough to think of that by and by, 
 for just then she reached Dr. Meyrac s 
 garden gate. 
 
 At the first moment when she opened 
 the blind girl s .chamber door, and saw 
 the large resplendent eyes fixed on her 
 with all their wonted love, the arms 
 stretched out in welcome and the face 
 calm yes, actually with a smile on it ! 
 she was bewildered. But when she sat 
 down beside her, and Ellinor put one 
 arm round her and passed the other 
 slowly, gently over her face, with a 
 slight start as she detected the tears 
 then the reality burst on Celia at once. 
 Never, never again to see the sun or the 
 spring flowers or the face of a friend ! 
 
BEYOND TPIE BREAKERS. 
 
 239 
 
 Morning and night, the glorious break 
 of day and the peace-breathing twilight, 
 all one changeless blank now ! Over 
 the whole fair external world the black 
 ness of darkness for ever ! She had 
 been told of it the evening before : she 
 had lain awake half the night thinking 
 of it ; but 
 
 " Because things seen are greater than things heard" 
 
 she had never felt it, it had never be 
 come part of her consciousness, till now. 
 She had come to tell her sister the in 
 credible secret, but even that, for the 
 moment, passed from her mind. " Ellie, 
 Ellie !" was all she could say ; but the 
 blind can detect sobs as well as tears ; 
 and no words could have told half as 
 much as that warm embrace. 
 
 After the first gust of grief, however, 
 Celia struggled bravely for composure. 
 Ellinor s silent caresses, too, produced 
 their usual soothing effect. Then, with 
 returning tranquillity, came back to her 
 also the astounding, the rapturous news. 
 The long swell after the tempest was 
 there still, but the sun broke out on it. 
 
 The sun, warm and cheering. Her 
 heart overflowed under its glow. " Ellie," 
 she said, and the blind girl started : she 
 felt that there was joy in the tone 
 "dear Ellie, you don t know what I ve 
 got to tell you. It would have made 
 me it has made me oh so glad !" 
 
 " Then it will make me glad, too, 
 dear child. Tell it me." 
 
 " I have a right to take care of you 
 now. Till you re married, Ellie, no 
 body nobody in all the world will have 
 the same right." 
 
 "What is it, Celia? what is it?" 
 The eyes turned eagerly, restlessly, to 
 Celia s face, as if, for the first time, 
 the soul within were impatient of the 
 darkness. . 
 
 "Your mother thought herself a widow. 
 She was not. Your father our father, 
 Ellie! think! our father came to this 
 country and changed his name from Tal- 
 bot to Pembroke." 
 
 " To Pembroke !" Celia feared, for 
 a moment, that Ellinor would faint, she 
 grew so deadly pale : the conflicting 
 emotions of the last twenty-four hours 
 
 had sorely tried her nerves. But the 
 color gradually returned to her cheeks, 
 the sightless eyes lighted up, and a look 
 came over hr face such as Celia had 
 never seen there before. It awed her. 
 It seemed to her the expression of heav 
 enly joy. 
 
 " God is good !" Ellinor said in a low 
 tone "oh how good ! In man s hands 
 that s terrible ! but in His Then 
 her lips moved as in prayer. 
 
 Yet after a time there was a sudden 
 revulsion. She came back to this lower 
 world again, all the feelings of her im 
 pulsive nature breaking over the bounds 
 within which she had schooled them to 
 abide. Her joy was exultant. Triumph 
 was the expression Celia now read in 
 her face. Ellinor took the astonished 
 girl in her arms, kissed her passionately 
 again and again, laughing and crying 
 over her the while. " Sister !" she re 
 peated sister ! my own, my own !" 
 
 Then the current of her excited feel 
 ings changed once more. " Constance 
 knew it," she said, humbly : " she knew 
 all that awaited me. Really blind, Celia ; 
 and this my real, real sister !" Grad 
 ually the wild excitement subsided, and 
 she added : " God has given you your 
 wish, dear child, and we shall be so 
 happy !" 
 
 The first day of blindness ! Yet it 
 was said from the very heart. 
 
 When they had sat together a little 
 space in silence, Ellinor resumed : " I 
 think you know I would never tell you 
 anything but the very truth." 
 
 " I don t believe in what I see and 
 feel more than I do in your word." 
 
 " I m very glad of that. Then see, 
 dear ! In the last few hours two things 
 have happened to me. I have become 
 blind I dare say for life ; and I ve found 
 out that the very girl I would have 
 chosen out of all the world out of all 
 the world, Celia is my own, actual sis 
 ter. Do you think that I would take 
 back my sight on condition that I should 
 remain all my life blind to what you ve 
 told me just now ? I ve gained far more 
 than I ve lost. As God is my witness, 
 I do most religiously believe it." 
 
 Oh, Ellie, how can you talk so ?" 
 
243 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 A knock at the door, and Dr. Mey- 
 rac came in : "I think my patient had 
 better keep out of church this morning, 
 Mademoiselle Ce lie. We must have her 
 a little accustomed to her new phase of 
 life before she goes into public." 
 
 They assented, and then they told 
 him the news. He was much surprised, 
 of course, but he received it quietly, with 
 French politeness : " I know not which 
 of the two is the more fortunate. You 
 are worthy of each other, my dear young 
 ladies." 
 
 Then the business aspect of the affair 
 struck him : " Ah, it is charming. That 
 good-for-nothing of a Cranstoun is check 
 mated." 
 
 For the first time that day Celia saw 
 a painful expression cross her sister s 
 face, but Ellinor said nothing until the 
 doctor, after inviting Celia to dinner, left 
 the room. Then she took Celia s hand : 
 " Sister, I see what good Dr. Meyrac 
 means. It is to Sir Charles Conyng- 
 hame that Cranstoun has written. If 
 suit is commenced, it will be in Sir 
 Charles name." 
 
 " It has been commenced." 
 
 " Ah ! Then my name can be used 
 to arrest or defeat it ; but it will be a 
 mere form. We know well enough 
 Mr. Creighton is convinced that that 
 father made a will, witnessed by Cran 
 stoun, leaving his American property to 
 your mother and you." 
 
 " He thinks so that s all : there s no 
 proof of it." 
 
 "Of course it s so. He knew or he 
 thought that I was provided for. We 
 must respect his wishes, Celia." 
 
 " Sister Ellie, you can t always have 
 your own way, even if" She com 
 menced the sentence playfully, but broke 
 off with a deep sigh. 
 
 Even if I am blind. Well, dear ?" 
 
 Celia sat lost in thought for a brief 
 space ; then she looked up : " There s 
 nobody you respect more than Eliot 
 Creighton." 
 
 Nobody." 
 
 " You didn t hear his election-speech : 
 I did. That, man wouldn t swerve one 
 hair s breadth from the right for favor of 
 man or woman." 
 
 " He s the very soul of honor." 
 
 " Well, Ellie darling, there s one thing 
 only one that we two sha n t agree 
 about. Let us refer it to him and abide 
 his decision." 
 
 After some further talk, in which Celia 
 stood her ground resolutely, her sister 
 assented ; and it was agreed that after 
 dinner they would visit Mrs. Creighton. 
 " I can t see my way," Ellinor said, " but 
 I shall be love-led." 
 
 They found mother and son at home. 
 Mrs. Creighton was a charming old lady 
 charming and handsome too with 
 bright, tender eyes undimmed by her 
 fifty years. It was touching to see her 
 reception of the blind girl. If she had 
 been her own daughter, she could not 
 have folded her in her arms with warmer 
 tokens of affection. And she was de 
 lighted when the sisters each setting 
 forth the rights of the other submitted 
 their difference to her son as referee. 
 
 " Wise girls !" she said. " You re 
 too romantic, both of you, to be trusted. 
 I haven t quite made up my mind which 
 of you two I like best ; and I m not 
 sure that Eliot has. So I think you 
 may trust him." 
 
 Ellinor thought she knew very well 
 which was the favorite, but she did not 
 say so. And it was on her lips to re 
 ply, " Mr. Creighton might be trusted to 
 arbitrate between his best friend and his 
 worst enemy," but neither did she make 
 that remark. She quietly awaited Creigh- 
 ton s answer. 
 
 "I dare say mother s right" he hes 
 itated a moment, just a little bit abashed, 
 then suddenly closed the sentence "in 
 what she says about romance. The mat 
 ter ought to be decided at once, and I m 
 afraid it can t be without help. You 
 honor me very highly, young ladies ; 
 and, since you wish it, I ll do my best." 
 
 He sent them his decision that even 
 ing. It read as follows : 
 
 "OPINION 
 
 in the Case of Ellirwr Ethelridge Tal- 
 
 bot and Celia Pembroke. 
 " Proof that Miss Talbot lives and 
 establishing her identity, sent to Sir 
 Charles Conynghame, will probably in- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 241 
 
 duce him to withdraw his suit. If not, 
 the identity can be established and he 
 will certainly be defeated. 
 
 "Then the law of Ohio will regulate 
 the case. I believe that, by that law, 
 Miss Talbot and Miss Pembroke are 
 equal heirs. But as there has been no 
 decision in point by the Supreme Court, 
 I may be mistaken. Miss Talbot might 
 possibly be declared sole heir. 
 
 " I do not doubt that the late Fred 
 erick Pembroke (or Talbot) left a will, 
 but it will probably never be found ; and 
 meanwhile the legal effect is the same 
 as if it did not exist. That will did 
 probably, but not certainly, make Miss 
 Pembroke sole heir of the American 
 property. 
 
 " Under these uncertainties, I think 
 the matter ought to be decided accord 
 ing to what we may reasonably conclude 
 to have been the wish of said Frederick 
 Pembroke (or Talbot). 
 
 " But it was evidently his intention to 
 leave half his property to each of his 
 daughters. My opinion is, therefore, 
 that each sister should take half of the 
 American property, and that if any por 
 tion of the property now held by Sir 
 Charles Conynghame as executor of the 
 late Mrs. Talbot and guardian of her 
 daughter should hereafter be recovered, 
 that also should be equally divided be 
 tween the sisters aforesaid. 
 
 (Signed) ELIOT CREIGHTON." 
 
 Sydenham, who had called to see El- 
 linor, was at Dr. Meyrac s when this 
 document arrived. It was submitted to 
 him as Celia s guardian, and he heartily 
 approved it. 
 
 So that affair, as such differences al 
 ways can be between reasonable people, 
 was settled at once. 
 
 And this opinion of Creighton helped 
 Ellinor to decide in another matter more 
 important than money. Ethan came for 
 his answer. Celia had half won his 
 cause in the course of the day. "We 
 frail mortals are never satisfied," she had 
 said to Ellinor : " prosperity spoils us 
 the more we get the niore we long for. 
 I found a sister : now I want a brother 
 too." 
 
 16 
 
 Ellinor had been arguing herself into 
 the conviction that to one of moderate 
 means like Ethan a blind wife would be 
 a pecuniary burden such as he ought 
 not to bear. That scruple was removed : 
 she would not come to him empty-hand 
 ed ; and whereas her lover s fate, till 
 then, had been trembling in the balance, 
 now the scale on which she had piled 
 her doubts and scruples kicked the 
 beam. 
 
 Thus in the course of twenty -four 
 hours Mary Ellinor Ethelridge Talbot 
 lost her sight, found a sister, acquired 
 twenty thousand dollars and became an 
 affianced bride. 
 
 Which may we fittingly do rejoice or 
 condole with her ? 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 GOING HOME. 
 
 " So Ann still lov d : it was her doom 
 
 To love in shame and sorrow : 
 Charles caire no more ; but, He will come, 
 
 She said, to-morrow. 
 Oh yet for her deep bliss remained ; 
 
 She dreamed he came and kissed her ; 
 And in that hour the angels gained 
 Another sister." 
 
 EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 SUMMER passed and part of autumn. 
 During that time two items of news only 
 broke the even tenor of events in our 
 quiet village. First : a report came that 
 an uncle of Mowbray, who had avoided 
 all intercourse with him and his mother, 
 was dead and had left Evelyn a fortune 
 which rumor estimated at a quarter of a 
 million of dollars. Second : Creighton 
 had started for London : gossipry said 
 to see about another fortune in the hands 
 of a rich English nobleman, who, as 
 Terence O Reilly had found out, was 
 Miss Ethelridge s cousin. 
 
 Up to the time when Mowbray went 
 on a five or six weeks visit to New 
 York, on the business alluded to, he and 
 Ellen had met every few days. It ex 
 cited no remark, for their engagement 
 had become public, and such was the 
 habit of the place. 
 
 When Mowbray returned, it was 
 known that he had been put in posses 
 sion of the uncle s legacy not quite as 
 
242 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 large as was reported, but a comfortable 
 fortune a hundred and eighty thousand 
 dollars, besides a handsome dwelling, 
 richly furnished, in Philadelphia. 
 
 Then village gossips alleged that the 
 meetings between the lovers became less 
 and less frequent ; but this might have 
 been because Movvbray was busy selling 
 their house, furniture and other posses 
 sions. Early in October his mother 
 and he left Chiskauga : it was said to 
 return no more. 
 
 The evening before they went an 
 incident happened which Mowbray was 
 never able to explain. He had been to 
 take leave of a friend who lived beyond 
 Mrs. Hartland s house, a mile out of 
 town, and he was returning about ten 
 o clock. There was a new moon, but 
 the sky was clouded. Just as he was 
 crossing a street running west, that had 
 been opened half a mile from town, but 
 was not yet built up, he heard what 
 seemed a rifle-shot close by, and for a 
 moment he thought he was hit. But, 
 removing his hat and touching himself 
 all over, he found he was mistaken. The 
 shot, he thought, had come from behind 
 a board fence to a grain-field on the right 
 of the cross street ; but when he went 
 up to it there was no one to be seen in 
 the field. He did imagine, for a moment, 
 that he could distinguish a figure gliding 
 along at some distance close to the fence, 
 but a second look dissipated that impres 
 sion : he could see nothing stirring. 
 
 When he reached home he went 
 straight to his room, having some pack 
 ing still to do. As he deposited his hat 
 on a table he started. Two holes, evi 
 dently from a good-sized rifle ball, right 
 through the hat, about two inches below 
 the crown ! He sank on a chair. " I 
 thought I felt something graze my hair," 
 he said, half aloud. Conscience sug- 
 .gested a name, but a little reflection 
 caused him to reject it. " She refused 
 him," was his thought; "and then these 
 country fellows might knock a man down 
 in open daylight, but they re not assas 
 sins." It was an hour before he resumed 
 his packing, and by that time he had re 
 solved not to say a word to any one 
 about it. 
 
 On the second morning after the de 
 parture of the Mowbrays, Hiram Goddart 
 called at Rosebank much excited. Ellen 
 Tyler, he said, who had seemed dread 
 fully depressed the day before, had not 
 spent the night at home. She had been 
 present at supper, though she scarcely 
 touched anything, and had put Willie 
 carefully to bed, but her own bed had 
 evidently been unoccupied : she must 
 have wandered out, no one knew whith 
 er. He had inquired at the village, and 
 she had not been heard of there. What 
 added to his alarm was that the night 
 had been pitch dark, and after midnight 
 there had been several hours of heavy 
 rain. This had now ceased, but the 
 morning was raw and gusty. 
 
 When Mr. Sydenham asked Goddart 
 whether Chewauna creek was high, the 
 poor fellow fairly broke clown : " Surely 
 you don t think, Mr. Sydenham " There 
 he stopped. 
 
 No, Hiram not that. But the 
 banks are steep and rocky, and she 
 might have lost her way in the rain and 
 darkness." 
 
 It was agreed that Hiram should fol 
 low the line of the creek, and that 
 Sydenham should explore the various 
 roads and by-paths leading from the 
 mill. At Leoline s earnest instance her 
 father permitted her to accompany him. 
 
 Two or three hours were spent in 
 fruitless search. At last Sydenham be 
 thought him that a few weeks before, 
 when following an obscure bridle-path, 
 he had caught sight, in the distance, of 
 Ellen and Mowbray seated under a 
 forest tree. Why it occurred to him 
 that she might have wandered to that 
 spot I cannot tell ; but there, in truth, 
 they found her. Insensible, it appeared, 
 stretched out on the wet grass ; her 
 clothing drenched, for she wore a light 
 cape only over her usual dress ; her face 
 deadly pale ; the eyes closed ; her hands 
 cold as ice. Outwearied with a struggle 
 she seemed, and sunk to rest at last. 
 Beautiful in their calm, innocent expres 
 sion were the sweet child-features, but 
 there were traces of tears on the wan 
 cheeks. 
 
 Leoline sprang from her saddle, knelt 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 243 
 
 down and chafed the cold hands, a gust 
 of mingled sorrow and indignation fill 
 ing her eyes the while. Movvbray was 
 one of the men whom she could not 
 endure. 
 
 Sydenham had taken the precaution 
 to bring with him a blanket and a small 
 flask of wine. He handed these to her: 
 "Are you afraid to stay here, my child, 
 till I ride home for the carriage ?" 
 
 Afraid, pupa? Don t think about 
 me. But how can you manage to get a 
 carriage here ?" 
 
 " We are only quarter of a mile from 
 the road : I ll bring two or three of the 
 men, and we ll rig up a litter. If she 
 revives, give her some of the wine." 
 
 Leoline took off a thick sack which 
 she wore, and contrived to substitute 
 it for the thin cape that was soaked 
 through. Then she wrapped Ellen up 
 as warmly as she could in the blanket. 
 But the poor girl seemed chilled through, 
 and it was a long time before any symp 
 toms of returning animation showed 
 themselves. Soon after that Sydenham 
 returned, and with him Mr. Harper. 
 Ellen was a favorite of the good man. 
 He had heard in the village vague 
 rumors about her disappearance, and 
 had come to Rosebank seeking more 
 certain tidings. 
 
 The movement of the litter seemed 
 gradually to revive the sufferer. When 
 they had lifted her into the carriage, Mr. 
 Harper, who had been walking with 
 Sydenham, came to the door. < Ellen, 
 my child," he said, " I promised your 
 father the day before he died that if you 
 ever needed help I would stand in his 
 stead. I m going to take you home to 
 my little place." 
 
 Ellen was very, very feeble, but she 
 contrived to take the kind old man s 
 hand : " Oh, Mr. Harper, not to your 
 house. I can t, indeed I can t I don t 
 deserve it." 
 
 " You felt, last night, as if you couldn t 
 trust in God. That was wrong. But 
 we can t always do right. We can t 
 always trust in God when there s not a 
 gleam of light in the darkness." Then 
 he entered the carriage, arranged her 
 pillows, sat down opposite to her and 
 
 bade them drive on. You need very 
 careful nursing, Ellen, and good old 
 Barbara is an excellent nurse." She 
 was about to remonstrate further, but he 
 stopped her: "When we get home: 
 you mustn t talk now." She obeyed 
 him as a little child might, but she wept 
 long and silently. 
 
 Barbara had been in Mr. Harper s 
 service fifteen years during the life of 
 his wife and twelve years since her death. 
 She was at heart a kind soul, though a 
 little stiff in some of her notions, and her 
 reverence for her master was unbounded. 
 She received the poor girl without ques 
 tion, and was unwearied in her endeavors 
 to counteract the chill and prostration 
 caused by that cruel night of storm. 
 
 In the course of the day Hannah 
 Clymer came to aid in nursing the in 
 valid. Dr. Meyrac, in his report to 
 Harper, spoke somewhat doubtfully : 
 "There is to fear fluxion de poitrinc 
 vat we call pneumonic but it may not 
 come : in two, tree days one shall know 
 for sure. She seems very triste. Is it 
 that the poor child grieves ? Has that 
 nothing-worth perhaps deserted her ?" 
 
 I fear that he has, doctor." 
 
 " It is pity that complicates the case : 
 visout it the pronostic would be favor 
 able. But if the heart sinks, who can 
 tell ? Seek to keep the heart up, Mon 
 sieur Harper. You may be better doc 
 tor than me." 
 
 In the evening Mr. Harper sat with 
 the patient while Barbara was preparing 
 tea, and Ellen said to him : I hope 
 you ll not be troubled with me long, Mr. 
 Harper." 
 
 " For your sake, Ellen, I do hope you 
 will speedily recover ; and if I could see 
 you more cheerful, I should feel sure 
 of it." 
 
 She lay quite still for some minutes ; 
 then, hesitatingly : Mr. Harper, is it 
 wicked to wish to die ?" 
 
 We must all die, but it is our duty 
 to wait God s good time." 
 
 " I think God wishes me to die. 
 When people are bad they kill them ; 
 and perhaps if I die, God will think that 
 was punishment enough and let me be 
 with father and mother. It would be so 
 
244 
 
 BETOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 good of Him if He would ! That s all 
 I care about now." 
 
 Harper took one of her hands in both 
 his : " Why do you wish to die, dear 
 child ?" 
 
 " I am such a great sinner. People 
 will never pardon me here. I don t think 
 there ever was a better man than you, 
 Mr. Harper, but I ve disgraced myself, 
 and even you can t forgive me : I know 
 that. But I think father will. Nobody 
 was ever so kind to me as father. I 
 would tell him everything. Mother too. 
 I was such a little girl when she left me 
 with father, and she won t expect much 
 from me, maybe." 
 
 In spite of his best efforts, the tears 
 were rising to the old man s eyes. Bar 
 bara came in with tea, and Harper, fear 
 ing over-excitement, pursued the subject 
 no farther at that time. 
 
 Harper pondered over Ellen s words, 
 wondering what their exact meaning 
 might be. When Meyrac called next 
 day, he told him what she had said. 
 "Ah what child!" was the doctor s 
 comment: "poor little simpleton ! That 
 has no self-esteem. One must sustain 
 it." And after a brief visit to his patient 
 he took a hasty leave. In the course of 
 the day, Celia, Leoline, Ellinor, Mrs. 
 Hartland and Mrs. Creighton came to 
 see Ellen. Harper wondered whether 
 Dr. Meyrac had begged them to call. 
 
 In the evening the patient asked to 
 sit up : she seemed to suffer much when 
 lying down. She had some fever and a 
 hacking cough. She was quiet, but it 
 was the quiet of resignation, Harper 
 thought, not of hope. He sought to en 
 courage her : " You see, Ellen, that the 
 people you esteem most all come to visit 
 you and interest themselves about you." 
 
 "Yes" it was said sadly, despond- 
 ingly "they are all kind and good ; and 
 I m very glad I shall not live to disgrace 
 them." Then, looking up earnestly in 
 that tender face : " Mr. Harper, I heard 
 that you can read Hebrew and Greek, 
 and know all about what the Bible says 
 and what God thinks." 
 
 " It is true, my child, that I have 
 spent most of my life in studying the 
 Scriptures in the original tongues ; but 
 
 God s thoughts are not as ours : His 
 ways are past finding out." 
 " I m very sorry for that." 
 " Why are you sorry for it, Ellen ?" 
 "I m so much afraid God won t let 
 me go to father by and by, when I die ; 
 and I wanted so much to know, and I 
 thought maybe you could tell me." 
 
 " Perhaps I can. There are some 
 things that God has told us. Why are 
 you afraid you will never be in heaven 
 with your father ?" 
 
 " Because father was such a good 
 man and " she buried her face in her 
 hands and he saw the tears trickle over 
 her fingers : at last, in a low tone that 
 went to his heart, she sobbed out, "and 
 oh, Mr. Harper, I m not a good woman !" 
 Harper looked at her as Christ, when 
 he sojourned on earth, may have looked 
 on some humble Judean penitent. Ere 
 he could reply she interrupted him, 
 speaking hastily, as if fearing her courage 
 might give way : " I joined your church, 
 and I know I ought to tell you. I prom 
 ised father before he died that I wouldn t 
 marry Mr. Mowbray till I was twenty- 
 one not for a year yet : we ve been en 
 gaged five months. He wanted me to 
 marry him sooner this year. But I 
 couldn t lie to father and he just dead 
 too could I ?" 
 
 " No : you did quite right to refuse 
 him." 
 
 " Do you think so, Mr. Harper ?" 
 "Yes, and God thinks so too." 
 " Does He ?" with a pleased smile : 
 in a few moments it faded : " But Eve 
 lyn was angry : he thought I didn t love 
 him, and that made me very, very sorry, 
 for he had been as kind and good to me 
 as he could be. Then I thought what a 
 poor thing I was compared to him, and 
 what could I ever do for him ? And I 
 told him if he would only let me keep 
 my promise to father, there wasn t any 
 thing else in the world I would refuse 
 him ; but Mr. Harper " a feeling of 
 oppression had been gradually gaining 
 on the poor girl : she couldn t say an 
 other word. Harper was startled and 
 fearful of what was coming ; and, after 
 he had bathed her throbbing temples 
 and she had gradually revived, " Don t 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 245 
 
 talk any more," he said : it exhausts 
 you." 
 
 But though face and neck were flush 
 ing scarlet, and though her respiration 
 was becoming hurried and painful, she 
 went on : "I didn t mean I never in 
 tended maybe you won t believe me 
 and she looked up at him such an im 
 ploring look ! 
 
 He understood it all now ! The first 
 impulse was to reprove the offender to 
 show up before her the enormity of her 
 fault but that suppliant look ! His 
 heart was not proof against it ; and after 
 ward, when he thought it over, he took 
 himself to task for this ; but just then 
 he couldn t help saying, Say no more, 
 my child. I do most religiously believe 
 you. You have a right to be believed. 
 You wouldn t tell a lie and break your 
 promise to your dead father : if you had, 
 you might have been that bad man s 
 wife to-day." 
 
 " Oh, please, please, Mr. Harper, don t 
 call him a bad man. I m not a bit bet 
 ter than he is." 
 
 " What did he say to you before he 
 went?" 
 
 Ellen hesitated : " I haven t seen him 
 for three weeks." The sigh and the 
 ]ook so utterly hopeless both aroused 
 in Harper as much anger as that in 
 dulgent heart of his was capable of 
 feeling. 
 
 " He forsook you without a word !" he 
 broke forth, but seeing how much pain 
 he gave her, he checked his indignation, 
 saying gently : " Are you sorry for what 
 you have done, my child ?" 
 
 " I m very sorry for it when I think 
 of God: I m sure it must have made 
 Him angry, and I don t know as He ll 
 ever forgive me. Yes, I m very, very 
 sorry: it was so wrong; only I m afraid 
 that s wicked too I m not sorry Evelyn 
 found out that I told him the truth about 
 putting off the marriage. He knows 
 now that it wasn t, because I didn t care 
 for him. He knows that I do love him; 
 and I can t help being glad of that." 
 
 It was a new revelation to the warm 
 hearted, guileless minister. He looked at 
 the girl with dimmed eyes, wondering, the 
 while, whether that passage about Jona 
 
 than s love passing the love of woman" 
 was not a mistranslation. His voice had 
 a wonderful tenderness in its tones when 
 he said, You are glad you made him 
 know that you love him, even though he 
 deserts you without a single farewell ?" 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Harper, how can I help 
 forgiving him that ? He is so rich now. 
 He will have a great, fine house, with 
 carriages and horses and servants : then 
 fashionable people, that know so much, 
 will all come to see him. And I know 
 so little : I can scarcely speak French 
 even. He would be ashamed of me if I 
 was his wife." 
 
 "You have forgiven him everything, 
 then ?" 
 
 I love him. Oh yes : I couldn t go 
 and leave him for ever and not forgive 
 him. I should never be happy, even 
 with father, if I did that." 
 
 No complaint of death not a spark 
 of resentment toward the author of all 
 her sufferings : loving still. Ellen had 
 never read Goldsmith s two celebrated 
 stanzas : she only acted them out. Her 
 feeling was that she had " stooped to 
 folly," and that she had to die.* 
 
 The kind old man s heart yearned 
 toward her : he couldn t help it. My 
 poor child," he said, you asked me if I 
 could tell you whether God would forgive 
 you and suffer you to be with your father, 
 if you died " 
 
 " When I die. Don t be sorry for 
 that, Mr. Harper: I m glad. You know 
 I mustn t bring shame on your church 
 and Miss Celia s school ; and maybe 
 they won t think so hard of me when 
 I m dead. Then, if I can only get to go 
 to father, I ll be a great deal happier than 
 if I had to stay here. Do you really 
 think God will let me ?" 
 
 " Til tell you what Jesus Christ once 
 did and said, and then you can judge : 
 that s better than to take my word for it. 
 It was when he was preaching in a city 
 of Galilee, probably Nain. He was in 
 vited to dine with a man named Simon, 
 one of those called Pharisees, who 
 
 * The sentiment, as expressed in a German transla 
 tion (Lessing s, I believe) beginning 
 
 " Lasst sich ein liebes Kind bethb ren" 
 is more tender and delicate than the original. 
 
246 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 thought themselves saints or godly 
 men better than all others : the people 
 thought them so too. In those days 
 men did not sit at meals : they lay 
 on couches, with their feet uncovered. 
 While they were at table a woman came 
 in : most persons believe it was Mary 
 Magdalene, but I don t think that was 
 her name. This woman " he hesi 
 tated "you have done very wrong, 
 Ellen, but this woman was a far more 
 grievous sinner than you ve ever been. 
 All the city knew of her evil doings. 
 Decent people would not associate with 
 her. No doubt Simon thought she 
 would never be forgiven, and he was 
 shocked when he saw her come into the 
 house and stand behind the couch where 
 Jesus reclined. She wept, thinking of 
 her sins ; she kissed Jesus feet, and 
 anointed them with precious ointment 
 and wiped them with her long hair. It 
 was all she could do to show her love." 
 
 Ellen had been gazing at the narrator, 
 her soul in her eyes. She must, no 
 doubt, have read that chapter of Luke 
 before, but how little common iterances 
 set words repeated week by week 
 come home, especially to the young and 
 the happy ! The story was all new and 
 strange to her as Harper related it. 
 When he stopped, struck by her eager, 
 pleading look, she said, " Oh, go on, 
 Mr. Harper : please go on. Did Christ 
 forgive her ?" 
 
 "You shall hear the very words," 
 he said, taking a Bible from the table 
 beside him. Then he read to her how 
 Simon thought Jesus could not be the 
 Christ or he would have known what 
 sort of woman this was ; how Jesus, 
 divining Simon s thought, told him the 
 parable of the two debtors ; and how 
 Simon had to admit the likelihood that 
 when both these men were frankly for 
 given their debts, he to whom most was 
 forgiven would love the most. Then 
 came the comparison between the cold 
 reception given to his guest by the self- 
 installed saint and the humble, tender 
 regard of the self-accusing sinner. And 
 finally the words how few how simple! 
 yet embodying the very essence of all 
 that Jesus came to teach and to die for 
 
 " I say unto thee, her sins, which are 
 many, are forgiven ; for she loved much." 
 To the last that look of eager, doubt 
 ful inquiry ! Then, when the gracious 
 words came, such a deep sigh of relief! 
 Her head drooped, her eyes filled with 
 tears of joy and gratitude : her lips 
 moved 
 
 " The voiceless prayer, 
 Unheard by all save Mercy s ear ; 
 And which, if Mercy did not hear, 
 Oh God would not be what this bright 
 
 And glorious universe of His 
 This world of wisdom, goodness, light, 
 
 And endless love proclaims He is !" 
 
 " And you forgive me, too ?" were the 
 first words Ellen was able to utter. 
 
 " I, dear child ! A sinner like me ! 
 I forgive you with all my heart and soul. 
 Dare I condemn when my Saviour pro 
 claims forgiveness ?" 
 
 Ellen never directly reverted to the 
 subject afterward, but from that time her 
 quiet wish for death was unmixed with 
 despondency. The words of consolation 
 had allayed grief and fear. Herself for 
 giving, she readily believed in forgive 
 ness. Her sufferings thenceforth were 
 physical only. 
 
 But these were great. At times, next 
 day, she seemed unable to endure a re 
 cumbent position. Fever and cough had 
 both increased, so had the feeling of op 
 pression : there were great thirst, much 
 lassitude, and no appetite whatever a 
 settled, stinging pain also on the chest. 
 Meyrac employed the test of ausculta 
 tion. It was, he then told Harper, a 
 severe attack of pneumonia, caused by 
 exposure. He bled Ellen with some 
 misgivings indeed, for he had lost, under 
 similar treatment, one or two patients 
 lately by this disease, and his professional 
 faith in the theory about the congested 
 lung that must needs be unloaded by use 
 of the lancet was beginning to be shaken. 
 
 Hannah Clymer, relieved on alternate 
 nights by Norah, spent most of her time 
 by Ellen s bedside, and ere many days 
 had passed she came to feel as if the 
 life of some dear child of her own was 
 at stake. So gentle and uncomplaining 
 such a calm cheerfulness even. Entire 
 oblivion of her wrongs, utter forgetful- 
 ness of self; no "See how a Christian 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 247 
 
 can die !" about her. Yet, if the graces 
 of our religion give title, a Christian in 
 deed, in whom was neither bitterness 
 nor guile. There was, no doubt, scant 
 cultivation of the intellect, small scope 
 of thought, little knowledge of the world 
 and its wondrous economy : lack of 
 strength, too, to hold firm, and of pru 
 dence or stern principle to restrain. For 
 all her twenty summers, there was much 
 of the child about her. Yet of such is 
 the kingdom of heaven. There was 
 faith, hope above all, love. She had 
 given up this world, the heart failing in 
 the struggle through it : her thoughts 
 and wishes were already in the next 
 to her not a shadowy object of belief, 
 but an assured reality, close at hand. 
 To Mrs. Clymer she loved to speak, as 
 any child might, of going to see her 
 father and mother, just as if she were 
 from home for the time, but was soon 
 to return to the shelter of the dear fa 
 miliar arms. 
 
 On one occasion only her thoughts 
 seemed to revert vividly to the past. 
 As the disease ran its course the tor 
 
 turing pain diminished, giving those 
 around her hopes of her recovery false 
 hopes, for next day there was very high 
 fever, running at last into delirium. 
 Then the sufferer appeared to be greatly 
 excited, addressing her lover as if pres 
 ent ; now reasoning with him about the 
 sacred promise made to her father ; anon 
 showing wild joy and conversing as if he 
 had returned to leave her no more. But 
 when the delirium passed off, though 
 she was weak to utter helplessness, yet 
 she was quite calm ; and then all her 
 allusions, breathing a sweet, trustful ten 
 derness, were to her parents and to the 
 welcome that was coming. It was her 
 last thought, if one might judge from 
 the smile that spoke from the quiet lips 
 after the soul that gave it birth was 
 gone after the spiritual body, emerg 
 ing to higher life, and awaking from the 
 brief transition-slumber among rejoicing 
 friends, had been ushered into its new 
 home there where there is " no more 
 death nor sorrow nor crying, neither any 
 more pain ; for the former things have 
 passed away." 
 
PART XIII. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 MR. HARPER SPEAKS HIS MIND. 
 
 Indignant scorn confest I feel, to see 
 That sovereign sin, that hag Hypocrisy, 
 So dupe the witless world and simple thee." 
 
 ONE evening, three days before El 
 len s death, Barbara had come to 
 Mr. Harper, alarmed : "There s a man 
 been prowling around the house, even 
 ings, a most ever since that poor girl 
 came here, Mr. Harper. I don t like 
 his looks nor his ways. Just afore I 
 closed the shutters to-night there was 
 his face at the window." 
 
 "Of Ellen s room?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "You know, Barbara, that I ve never 
 locked an outside door, nor fastened 
 down a window, in the fifteen years I ve 
 been here ; and what harm has come 
 of it?" 
 
 " I know, sir. But then the pitcher 
 may go to the well ninety-nine times, 
 and get broken at last." 
 
 "Is he about still?" 
 
 " In the front yard he was, sir, a min 
 ute ago." 
 
 " Bring me my hat and cane." 
 
 Under a shady kolreuteria,* with its 
 masses of bright brown seed-vessels 
 sheen in the silver moonlight, leaning 
 with his back against the front gate, 
 and looking, it seemed, intently at the 
 house, Mr. Harper found a man in 
 working jacket of fustian, with a slouch 
 ed hat. As he approached him, the 
 other took off his hat, saying : " I ask 
 your pardon, Mr. Harper, but I wanted 
 to know how Miss Ellen is to-night." 
 
 Harper could not remember where he 
 had seen the speaker before, but the 
 
 * One of the handsomest and most meritorious of 
 ornamental shade trees, growing to the height of thirty 
 or forty feet, introduced into England from China a 
 century ago, and less in use among us than it deserves. 
 In summer its long blossoms cover it like a yellow 
 cloud. Then succeeds a profusion of large seed- 
 vessels at first red, then yellow, and lastly of a rich 
 brown. It blooms at three or four years old. The 
 villagers, because they had a habit of planting it at 
 their front gates, usually called it the gate tree. 
 248 
 
 tone was civil, and he replied : " I am 
 sorry to say she is no better worse in 
 deed : I m afraid we shall lose her." 
 
 The moonlight fell distinctly on a 
 handsome face, with something of a 
 dissolute look over it. The face dark 
 ened with anger, Harper thought, as 
 much as sorrow and the fellow mutter 
 ed what sounded very like a curse. 
 But if it was a curse, he restrained him 
 self instantly, and said with emotion, 
 for his voice trembled : " I worked for 
 her father, and they always treated me 
 well. There never was a better girl." 
 Then, abruptly, "Do you believe in 
 hell?" 
 
 Harper looked at him in astonish 
 ment ; and the man, as if he felt there 
 needed apology, added, " I hope you ll 
 excuse me, Mr. Harper. I didn t mean 
 to ask an uncivil question of a good 
 man like you, that took poor Miss El 
 len in and cared for her. But they say 
 you ve no end of learnin , and I thought 
 you d be likely to know whether there is 
 hell-fire or not." 
 
 He spoke like a man in earnest, and 
 he had touched on Mr. Harper s vul 
 nerable point. The latter replied : "It 
 is an important question. I m very 
 sorry all of us cannot read the Word of 
 God in the Hebrew and Greek. The 
 translators were men, and some of them 
 indifferent scholars. In our Authorized 
 Version the Hebrew word sheol is usu 
 ally translated hell ; but the Hebrews 
 really meant by it a vast pit, a common 
 grave underground nothing more. 
 The Jews seemed to have thought that 
 our rewards and punishments were on 
 earth, not hereafter." 
 
 "But you don t think that s so, Mr. 
 Harper, do you ?" 
 
 " No : I only tell you what the Jews 
 believed. In the New Testament hades 
 means the state of the dead in general 
 a sort of intermediate existence : we do 
 wrong to translate it hell. There is 
 another Greek word, gchenna, that was 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 249 
 
 used in Christ s day, and sometimes by 
 Christ himself, to typify a place or state 
 of punishment. Yet it was, in fact, the 
 name of a deep valley or gorge near 
 Jerusalem, into which the dead bodies 
 of criminals and the carcases of animals 
 were cast." 
 
 "Then you don t believe there s a 
 lake of fire that bad men are thrown 
 into when they die ?" 
 
 " In God s Word, correctly translated, 
 I find nothing to prove that." 
 
 "I m sorry for it : there are some of 
 us that need hell-fire. But you think 
 bad men will be punished in the next 
 world, don t you, Mr. Harper?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly: the Bible declares 
 that they will, and nothing can be more 
 certain ; yet in regard to the actual con 
 dition of the dead, either before or after 
 the resurrection, the Scriptures teach us 
 very little. But why are you sorry there 
 is no proof that there is a hell of burn 
 ing flames ?" 
 
 The man it was our old acquaint 
 ance, Cassiday hesitated: "I won t 
 tell you a lie. I was thinking of John 
 Mowbray. There ought to be just such 
 a place for him." 
 
 "You mustn t talk so. God alone 
 sees what ought to be. But what do 
 you know about John Mowbray ?" 
 
 "That he s an infernal scoundrel. I 
 oughtn t to talk so before you, Mr. Har 
 per, and I didn t intend to. But I ll tell 
 you what I do know about him : The 
 evening before he left, when I was out 
 in the country a mile beyond the Wid 
 ow Hartland s, I passed a house where 
 a young man lives that Mowbray was 
 intimate with. The window was open, 
 and the two were laughin and talkin . 
 I thought one of them used Miss Ellen s 
 name, and I couldn t help stoppin a 
 moment. I m not over-particular, Mr. 
 Harper, but when I heard that boastful 
 liar speaking of a virtuous young lady 
 that he had been engaged to as if she 
 was well, as no man that s a gentle 
 man, or a gentleman s son, has a right 
 to talk if I had had him just then by 
 the throat, may-happen he d have found 
 out, by this, whether you re right about 
 a burnin hell or not." 
 
 "That would have been murder." 
 
 " I know that s an ugly word ; and I 
 suppose it would be hard to get such a 
 thing out of a man s head afterward : 
 maybe it s best when a fellow misses 
 his chance and can t do all he s a mind 
 to. But I wonder what God takes care 
 of a blackguard like that for, and sends 
 him cartloads of money, as if he were 
 the pick of the earth ?" 
 
 Before Harper could reply to a diffi 
 culty that millions have tried in vain to 
 solve, Cassiday had swung the gate vio 
 lently open : then, recollecting himself, 
 he closed it gently, again took off his 
 hat to Mr. Harper, and strode down the 
 sidewalk toward the village, as if the 
 avenger of blood were behind him. 
 
 "A strange man !" thought Harper 
 "not altogether evil." Then his thoughts 
 reverted to Mowbray. The good man 
 didn t like to feel as he felt just then to 
 ward him. 
 
 Ellen s funeral was numerously at 
 tended. The body was laid, as she had 
 earnestly requested, beside her father s. 
 The services were simple, and affected 
 many to tears : there were two mourn 
 ers who seemed unable to restrain them 
 selves Hiram Goddart, good, kind- 
 hearted young fellow, and Willie, who 
 had been a special favorite of Ellen s. 
 He felt, poor little stray ! as if he had 
 lost a second mother. 
 
 Ellen, who had no near relatives, had 
 not, in her last days, forgotten these 
 two who now so bitterly wept her loss. 
 In the will which, at Harper s instance, 
 she had executed, she left all the mill 
 property, burdened only with a few small 
 legacies, to Hiram Goddart, on condi 
 tion that he should adopt the little or 
 phan and care for him, in all respects, 
 as though he were his own son. Re 
 ligiously, as if it had been a behest from 
 Heaven, did Goddart carry out the last 
 wishes of the girl he had so hopelessly 
 loved. 
 
 During the day of the funeral, and for 
 several days thereafter, all Chiskauga 
 was busy talking about Ellen and Mow 
 bray. While some spoke kindly of the 
 unfortunate and forsaken orphan, much 
 was said that was uncharitable and un- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 just ; and of this a good deal came to 
 Barbara s ears. She repeated it to Mr. 
 Harper, and he was greatly moved 
 thereby. 
 
 The funeral was on a Monday, and 
 in the course of the week it became gen 
 erally bruited about that on the next 
 Sunday Mr. Harper would preach Ellen 
 Tyler s funeral sermon. That was not 
 strictly true, yet the spirit had moved 
 him, and he did resolve to speak on a 
 topic which had been strongly brought 
 to his mind by Ellen s fate and the vil 
 lage comments thereon. 
 
 Harper s church, built in the simplest 
 Early English Gothic, of warm gray 
 freestone, had a quaint old air about it, 
 not common in Western villages. When 
 the hour came, curiosity had attracted 
 an overflowing audience. Seats, aisles 
 were all filled every foot of standing- 
 room occupied. 
 
 The preacher took a brief survey 
 of the difference in spirit between the 
 Christian system of ethics and the mo 
 rality of all preceding creeds. He re 
 viewed the gradual advance from stern 
 severity and the retaliating code to a 
 rule under which mercy tempers justice, 
 and love is the fulfilling of the law. 
 And he proceeded to show that the 
 master-principles of that gentle religion 
 which was promulgated in Judea at a 
 period so remote that fifty generations 
 have since risen and perished, are still 
 far in advance not of the practice only, 
 but of the laws and the avowed senti 
 ment, of the present age. Then he went 
 on as follows : 
 
 "We are, to this day, in many of our 
 common feelings, far more heathen or 
 Jewish than Christian. Draco s thought 
 was of avenging justice ; Judaism spoke 
 of the offended dignity of the law; 
 Christianity tells us of the joy in heaven 
 over one sinner that repenteth, greater 
 than over ninety-and-nine just persons. 
 Little of that virtuous indignation against 
 evil-doers, so easily put on, do we hear 
 from the lips of Jesus ; and when he did 
 express it, it was chiefly directed against 
 the Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, 
 who devoured widows houses, and then, 
 standing up in the same temple as a 
 
 humble, repentant brother, were wont 
 to say : God, I thank Thee that I am 
 not as other men are, or even as this 
 Publican. 
 
 "What a world will this be, dear 
 friends, when we shall judge not, lest 
 we in turn be judged; when we shall 
 estimate at its actual wickedness that 
 besetting tempter of the social circle, 
 scarcely second in mischief to the de 
 mon of intemperance ; hydra of many 
 names : now, as mere tittle-tattle, in 
 dulged in to enliven the inanity of some 
 dull tea-table ; now, as street-corner 
 scandal, raked forth to relish the twad 
 dle of loafing idleness ; and anon reach 
 ing the grade of serpent-tongued slan 
 der, deliberately employed to blast and 
 to destroy. 
 
 "Against calumny, in its avowed 
 shape, both law and public opinion are 
 arrayed, but as to the petty species of 
 backbiting, no whit less heinous, the 
 sinners against charity and truth are 
 often found in Society s most respected 
 circles. They meant no harm ; they 
 were only talking : it was but a jest. 
 Ay ! miserable jest, paltry small-talk to 
 the idle tale-bearers ; but bitter earnest, 
 often deadly defamation, to the down 
 trodden victim ! How many of earth s 
 best and purest have been hunted to 
 death by ribald tongues ! 
 
 "There is another consideration wor 
 thy of remark in connection with this 
 meanest among human vices. The cruel 
 are cowardly, and the defamer is no ex 
 ception to the rule. In dealing with 
 one class of offences especially he is 
 wont to pass by arrogant trespass, while 
 he breaks the bruised reed and crushes 
 the weary soul, already brought nigh 
 to perishing." 
 
 He paused. The tall, spare form was 
 drawn up to its full height, the mild 
 eyes lit up, and he "spoke as one hav 
 ing authority :" 
 
 " There is a terrible wrong daily per 
 petrated in society ; often veiled under 
 a garb of light ; usually sustained by 
 public opinion, vaunting itself as the 
 argus-eyed ; seldom exposed, because 
 it needs courage to expose it, yet not 
 the less a wrong, cruel, flagrant, das- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKER^. 
 
 35* 
 
 tardly, iniquitous in principle, demoral 
 izing in result. 
 
 "The iniquity consists in this. There 
 are two culprits arraigned before the bar 
 of Public Opinion their offence mutual, 
 their culpability unequal ; still more un 
 equal their power to endure the world s 
 condemnation. The one, by nature the 
 stronger and hardier, in most cases the 
 tempter and the hypocrite, ofttimes the 
 forsworn : the other, of a sex sensitively 
 alive to public reproach, usually more 
 sinned against than sinning ; too often 
 deceived by a loyal, unsuspicious na 
 ture ; sometimes betrayed by a warm 
 and a lonely heart. 
 
 "And now, how deals the world as 
 between these two offenders ? In what 
 measure do we apportion to each re 
 spectively the anathemas of our resent 
 ment ? If the stronger animal, in the 
 face of deceit detected or perjury laid 
 bare, brave it out, do we indignantly 
 spurn from our presence the shameless 
 transgressor ? And if the deceived one, 
 rudely awakened from a feverish dream, 
 return, contrite and in misery, to the 
 home whence she strayed, does Society, 
 rejoicing over her repentance, receive 
 her with glad jubilee, saying: This, 
 my daughter, was dead and is alive 
 again : she was lost and is found ? 
 
 " Must I give the answer ? A true- 
 hearted poet, Bryan Procter, shall give 
 it for me, in some of the noblest lines 
 the present century has produced. Two 
 pictures he places before us : 
 
 WITHOUT. 
 
 The winds are bitter, the skies are wild, 
 
 From the roof conies plunging the drowning rain : 
 
 Without, in tatters, the world s poor child 
 Sobbeth aloud her grief, her pain. 
 
 No one heareth her, no one heedeth her ; 
 But Hunger, her friend, with his bony hand, 
 
 Grasps her throat, whispering huskily, 
 4 What dost thou in a Christian land ? 
 
 WITHIN. 
 
 The skies are wild and the blast is cold, 
 
 Yet riot and luxury brawl within : 
 Slaves are waiting, in silver and gold, 
 
 Waiting the nod of a child of sin. 
 The fire is crackling, wine is bubbling 
 
 Up in each glass, to its beaded brim : 
 The jesters are laughing, the parasites quaffing, 
 Happiness ! Honor ! and all for him ! 
 
 WITHOUT. 
 
 She who is. slain in the winter weather, 
 Ah ! she once had a village fame 
 
 Listened to love on the moonlit heather ; 
 
 Had gentleness, vanity, maiden shame. 
 Now her allies are the tempest howling; 
 
 Prodigals curses, self-disdain ; 
 Poverty, misery. Well, no matter : 
 
 There is an end unto every pain. 
 The harlot s fame is her doom to-day, 
 
 Disdain, despair : by to-morrow s light 
 The rugged boards and the pauper s pall ; 
 
 And so she ll be given to dusky night. 
 Without a tear or a human sigh 
 
 She s gone, poor life and its fever o er I 
 So let her in calm oblivion lie, 
 
 While the world runs merry, as heretofore. 
 
 WITHIN. 
 
 He who yon lordly feast enjoyeth, 
 
 He who doth rest on his couch of down 
 He it was who threw the forsaken 
 
 Under the feet of the trampling town. 
 Liar, betrayer, false as cruel ; 
 
 What is the doom for his dastard sin ? 
 His peers they scorn, high dames they shun him ? 
 
 Unbar yon palace and gaze within ! 
 
 There yet his deeds are all trumpet-sounded 
 
 There upon silken seats recline 
 Maidens as fair as the summer morning, 
 
 Waiting him rise from the rosy wine. 
 Mothers all proffer their stainless daughters ; 
 
 Men of high honor salute him friend ! 
 Skies ! oh where are your cleansing waters ? 
 
 World ! oh where do thy wonders end ? 
 
 " Is this justice ? Is it morality ? Is 
 it Christianity ?" 
 
 The congregation sat in breathless 
 silence. Harper himself felt as Moses 
 may have done on Mount Horeb when 
 he was bidden to put his sh<jes from off 
 his feet, for the place whereon he stood 
 was holy ground. His voice had a 
 touching solemnity as he continued : 
 
 "Once, in the olden time and on a 
 memorable occasion, a question of 
 somewhat similar import was asked. 
 
 " It was in the temple at Jerusalem. 
 She whose recent offence, proved be 
 yond denial, was doubtless then the 
 common talk of the day she was there, 
 in the midst. And there also were the 
 notables of the nation, who walked in 
 long robes and loved greetings in the 
 markets ; to whom were assigned the 
 highest seats in synagogues and the 
 chief rooms at feasts ; representatives 
 of the rank and respectability of the 
 Jewish metropolis ; the Scribes, men of 
 learning, doctors in the law ; the Phari 
 sees, exclusives of their day, conform 
 ists in every outward observance, de 
 votees to every formal ceremonial. 
 They were all there to tempt Him of 
 
2 5 2 
 
 ^BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 whom their officers (sent to take Him, 
 but returning overawed) had declared : 
 Never man spake like this man. They 
 set out their case, and they asked Him : 
 What sayest Thou ? 
 
 " They were there to tempt Him. He 
 had preached to them the novel doc 
 trine of mercy, unknown to Jewish law. 
 He had inculcated forgiveness of a 
 brother s sin, even to seventy times 
 seven. He had spoken to them the 
 parable of the lost sheep, of the missing 
 piece of silver, and, more forcible yet, 
 of the prodigal son. And they were 
 there tempting Him to deny, in prac 
 tice, the great lessons He had taught in 
 theory. 
 
 " Cunningly was the case selected and 
 the question put. They knew well that 
 the transgression of her who stood be 
 fore them, shrinking from every eye, 
 was punishable, by a code unchanged 
 through fifteen hundred years, with a 
 terrible death by stoning; nay, that 
 its very suspicion entailed social excom 
 munication. Would He adhere to His 
 integrity against venerable law against 
 united public opinion? Shrewdly had, 
 they calculated the dilemma and the 
 risk. 
 
 " For a $m.e, Jesus, as if He heard 
 them not, withheld His reply ; and His 
 questioners, now secure of victory one 
 can imagine their triumphant tones 
 asked Him again : What sayest Thou ? 
 
 " They spoke to One who knew, in all 
 its mysteries, the human heart ; and 
 from its inmost recesses He summoned 
 an ally against legal cruelty and social 
 wrong. They who tempted Him looked, 
 perhaps, for evasion : they may have 
 expected to extort a condemnation of 
 the trembling culprit. But that glance, 
 those soul-searching words, are not ad 
 dressed to her. The lightning falls upon 
 them HE THAT is WITHOUT SIN AMONG 
 
 YOU, LET HIM FIRST CAST A STONE AT 
 HER. 
 
 " The discomfiture is complete. Con 
 science-routed, these goodly exemplars 
 of learning and virtue slink away, one 
 by one, even to the last. The woman 
 and her Christian Judge are left togeth 
 er, alone. 
 
 "How changed, now, the voice that 
 carried dismay to the self-righteous 
 heart ! Woman, where are those thine 
 accusers ? Hath no man condemned 
 thee ? No man, Lord. Neither do I 
 condemn thee. Go and sin no more. " 
 
 Again the speaker paused. When he 
 resumed, there was, in the simple dig 
 nity of his manner, a touch of generous 
 indignation which awed his congrega 
 tion the more because, in the good man 5 
 teaching, it was so rare. They felt that 
 he was speaking under the sense of a 
 holy mission : 
 
 " Ye who lay on others shoulders bur 
 dens grievous to be borne, and take 
 measure of your own purity according 
 to the fiery zeal with which you crusade 
 against frailty in your neighbors ye 
 who, for a pretence, make long prayers 
 and pay frequent tithes, yet neglect the 
 weightier matters of the law, justice and 
 mercy Scribes and Pharisees of our 
 modern day, stand forth and answer ! 
 Have you ever read that story ? Has 
 its holy lesson ever come home to your 
 hearts ? Never ! never ! Else had you 
 read therein the rebuke of your own 
 barbarity the conviction of your own 
 heathenism. Inflexible judges you may 
 be, unflinching censors CHRISTIANS 
 you are not ! Christ spake comfort where 
 you persecute : Christ rescued where you 
 destroy. 
 
 "Say, if you can, why judgment 
 should not be pronounced against you. 
 Is the voice of immaculate virtue so 
 clamorous that it will be heard ? Do 
 you feel that you are subjects of an 
 especial mission champions, your 
 selves free from all stain, and called 
 upon by Heaven itself to vindicate the 
 cause of offended purity ? Then show 
 the chivalry of champions the bravery 
 of virtue. Let not your coward blows 
 fall ostentatiously on the weak, incapable 
 of defence. Assault the strong : strike 
 at him who, in return, can defy and re 
 sent. Make war not on unresisting re 
 pentance, but on brazen-browed guilt : 
 on the liar who deceived on the per 
 jurer, repaying trust with treachery, 
 who first swears fidelity and protection, 
 and then, recreant to his oath, apostate 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 2 53 
 
 to his manhood, flings aside his victim 
 to misery and to scorn. 
 
 "You will not? Then learn to know 
 yourselves. Claiming to be guardians 
 of virtue, you are but aiders and abet 
 tors of vice. Through you, tolerators 
 of perfidy ! the villain, whose betters 
 sleep in the penitentiary, walks the world 
 undenounced, scot-free. You acquit him 
 without a trial, and to his victim, con 
 demned in advance, all trial is refused. 
 I do not plead for the impenitent : re 
 pentance must come before forgiveness ; 
 but this I say : by your example the re 
 turning wanderer even if her heart be 
 chastened and purified by life s crudest 
 lesson, even though she pray, with tears, 
 to re-enter wisdom s pleasant paths, 
 sinning no more is thrust back, un- 
 pitied is shut out, unheard. In soul 
 and spirit, despite her errors, she may 
 be faithful-hearted as any of her sex 
 one who might yet be restored, a grace 
 and a blessing to society. Yet, without 
 quest or discrimination, you deny her 
 entrance at every door save that of the 
 abandoned : she is driven forth to per 
 dition. In league with her destroyer, it 
 is you who hunt her down, until at last 
 oh, the unspeakable secrets of that 
 prison-house ! there is left to the lost 
 one but the fearful choice between in 
 famy and starvation !" 
 
 As he ended a feeling seemed to cross 
 the speaker that he had been carried 
 away by the impulse of the moment be 
 yond the bounds of charity. For he 
 added quietly, in his usual gentle tone : 
 
 " If in denouncing the self-righteous 
 Phariseeism of the day I have been be 
 trayed into unseemly warmth, let me 
 stand excused. I assume to judge the of 
 fence, not the offenders. The men, like 
 the murderers of Jesus, should be for 
 given, for they know not what they do. " 
 
 When the congregation, dismissed, 
 were returning to their homes, most of 
 them conversed in low and hesitating 
 tones, as men are wont to do when they 
 have been listening, impressed by some 
 startling doctrine which they lack alike 
 argument to confute and courage to 
 accept and to act upon. 
 
 Ultimately, however, truth prevailed. 
 Ellen s offence was of rare occurrence 
 among these simple people, and public 
 opinion on the subject had not crystal 
 lized as rigidly as in older communities. 
 Harper s stirring appeal to that still, 
 small voice so often overborne by pre 
 judice had great effect : the sad fate of 
 the culprit, too, induced gentle judg 
 ment : so that, except by Mrs. Wolf 
 gang, Cranstoun and their incorrigible 
 set, the girl was seldom mentioned in 
 Chiskauga thenceforth, except kindly 
 and charitably, as "poor Ellen !" 
 
 One of Mr. Harper s congregation 
 went home heartsick heartsick ! Yet 
 in the end the sickness was unto heal 
 ing, not unto death. Celia had clung 
 to her love for Mowbray so long as that 
 love could frame excuse for his short 
 comings. But eyes and heart were both 
 opened, at last, to the enormity of his 
 offence. She saw, as if clouds had been 
 lifted from the future and the truth let 
 in, that, as Sydenham had expressed it, 
 her way had been barred in mercy. The 
 blow that threatened to deprive her of 
 fortune and reputable name had saved 
 her from marriage with an unprincipled 
 traitor. She was, indeed, very heart- 
 lonely : his image, all unworthy as he 
 was, haunted her still ; but she had 
 weathered the breakers on which a life s 
 happiness might have been wrecked. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 IN LONDON AND CHISKAUGA. 
 
 " Blind people that have eyes." 
 
 ISAIAH xliii. 8. 
 
 MR. WILLIAMS, intimately acquaint 
 ed with our minister to England, had 
 furnished his nephew with a letter of 
 introduction ; and the minister, who 
 happened to have met Sir Charles 
 Conynghame in society, gave Creighton 
 a note to that gentleman, endorsing the 
 bearer s character and standing. The 
 house whither the Directory led the 
 young lawyer was in a narrow street of 
 plain, small dwellings, situated, how 
 ever, in a fashionable neighborhood. 
 
2 54 
 
 BEYOXD THE BREAKERS. 
 
 The furniture of the parlor into which, 
 after giving a servant his card and the 
 minister s letter, Creighton was ushered, 
 had once been handsome, but was now 
 a good deal the worse for wear. 
 
 The hour was early for London, but 
 the master of the house, attired in a rich 
 dressing-gown, soon made his appear 
 ance. His manner was coldly polite. 
 
 " You are a lawyer from America, I 
 believe, sir ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "May I ask what procures me the 
 honor of this visit ?" 
 
 " More than eight years since a ward 
 of yours, Miss Mary Ellinor Ethelridge 
 Talbot, suddenly disappeared from 
 your house. She is now living in a vil 
 lage in one of our Western States the 
 State of Ohio and she has employed 
 me professionally to confer with you in 
 regard to her property in your hands." 
 
 "A very unlikely story, sir." 
 
 " True, Sir Charles ; but you are no 
 doubt familiar with the French proverb : 
 Le vrai n est pas toujours le vraisem- 
 blable Things that seem to us unlikely 
 are sometimes the exact truth." 
 
 " You expect me to believe that Miss 
 Talbot, after withholding from me, for 
 eight or nine years, all knowledge of 
 her existence, has suddenly turned up 
 in the wilds of America?" 
 
 " Precisely, except that you are slight 
 ly in error on a point of geography. 
 The wilds of America are about a thou 
 sand miles west of Chiskauga, where 
 Miss Talbot resides." 
 
 " I can imagine but one motive for 
 such conduct, and that might invalidate 
 your client s testimony." 
 
 "What motive ?" 
 
 "A disreputable life." 
 
 "Out again, Sir Charles. With this 
 very handsome little dagger" handing 
 him one with a smile "on the after 
 noon of the seventeenth of May, 1848, 
 Miss Talbot effectually defended her 
 honor against a very disreputable and 
 very constant guest of yours, Captain 
 Halloran of the Guards. You will ob 
 serve that the Halloran crest is on the 
 blade." 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. " referring to the 
 
 letter in his hand " Mr. Creighton ; but 
 Yankee ingenuity has never been dis 
 puted. The dirk is very nicely gotten 
 up, including the gilt H on the sheath 
 quite a capital piece of workmanship. 
 But I think an English court of law 
 would hardly believe that a young lady 
 who had voluntarily eloped with an 
 officer would defend herself, the same 
 afternoon, against him, using his own 
 dagger." 
 
 "We are losing time, Sir Charles, 
 fencing with blunt foils. It would no 
 doubt be tedious to you to go over with 
 me these documents," taking a package 
 from his pocket : " perhaps you will 
 kindly refer me to your lawyers ?" 
 
 "Messrs. Ashhurst & Morris, Old 
 Jewry." 
 
 " I shall have the honor of proving, 
 to the satisfaction of these gentlemen, 
 that Miss Talbot, deceived by shameful 
 artifice and promise of immediate mar 
 riage, was conducted to a house of 
 equivocal character was introduced, 
 by Captain Halloran, to the mistress of 
 that house as to his aunt ; that, after the 
 exhibition of what purported to be a 
 special license, an attempt was made to 
 perform the ceremony, the individual 
 who personated the clergyman being 
 the captain s valet ; that one of the 
 habitues of your house, Sir George Per- 
 cival, was present " 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " I think the two young gentlemen 
 afterward had a duel in consequence of 
 what passed. We shall prove that Miss 
 Talbot refused to let the ceremony pro 
 ceed, appealing to Sir George ; that, in 
 consequence of his remonstrance, Cap 
 tain Halloran promised to comply with 
 Miss Talbot s demand to be driven 
 home, instead of which he conveyed 
 her to his own private apartments ; that 
 when he attempted insult the young 
 lady, snatching from his parlor mantel 
 piece the dagger which I had the honor 
 of showing you " 
 
 "For which you have Miss Talbot s 
 testimony." 
 
 " I beg your pardon the deposition 
 of an honest, brisk young Irish fellow, 
 Halloran s groom." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 255 
 
 " The captain admitted his groom as 
 witness of such an interview ? Credat 
 Judtzus !" 
 
 " I do not ask you to believe that : the 
 captain supposed the interview to be 
 witnout witness. But I need not pro 
 ceed with details into the truth of which 
 your lawyers will inquire. Miss Talbot 
 escaped on the evening of her abduc 
 tion, supported herself for months by 
 needlework, and was rescued from pov 
 erty and approaching blindness by an 
 old Quaker gentleman, my uncle. He 
 procured her a passage to America, 
 where she remained for some time as 
 governess in my aunt s family. She is 
 now the principal of a successful sem 
 inary for young ladies in the same vil 
 lage in which I myself live, and is en 
 gaged to be married to a most respect 
 able young gentleman in good circum 
 stances." 
 
 Sir Charles, as his visitor proceeded 
 calmly with these details, had gradually 
 become very grave. Creighton s easy, 
 assured manner alarmed him. 
 
 " I can say nothing in regard to your 
 extraordinary story, Mr. Creighton, un 
 til my lawyers report to me." 
 
 " Of course not, Sir Charles. I wish 
 you good-morning." 
 
 The senior partner of the law-firm 
 proved to be an honest and judicious 
 man. Creighton liked him, and disclosed 
 to him frankly the extent of his powers. 
 Ellinor had authorized him to com 
 pound the matter with her guardian 
 on any terms he (Creighton) saw fit to 
 accept. 
 
 " I don t mind telling you, Mr. Ash- 
 hurst," he said, "that Miss Talbot is 
 extremely unwilling to institute legal 
 proceedings against Sir Charles. Lady 
 Conynghame was the dearest friend of 
 her youth a second mother to her. 
 She prefers to take a portion only of 
 what is due to her, if necessary to avoid 
 litigation." 
 
 " You honor me by such plain deal 
 ing, Mr. Creighton, and you shall have 
 no cause to repent it. I have begged 
 Sir Charles, again and again, to trans 
 fer his law business to some other firm 
 it is very unpleasant to act for so reck 
 
 less a spendthrift but his father was 
 very kind to me in early life, and the 
 son clings to me still. If he has, as I 
 fear, squandered Miss Talbot s proper 
 ty, his conduct is unpardonable. But 
 his affairs are in terrible disorder ; and 
 he has great difficulty in extracting from 
 the ruins of an excellent property a de 
 cent support. Leave these papers with 
 me ; and if, as I see no reason to doubt, 
 your case is satisfactorily made out, I 
 will tell you, on my honor, what I think 
 Sir Charles can do, and whether he is 
 willing to do it." 
 
 Creighton left with him Sir George 
 Percival s address (in London, as good 
 luck would have it) ; Terence s deposi 
 tion ; his own affidavit, detailing the at 
 tempt to commit suicide ; that of the wo 
 man with whom Ellinor had boarded as 
 seamstress ; that of Mr. Williams and 
 of his sister ; and finally Mr. Williams 
 letter recommending Miss Ethelridge to 
 Mr. Sydenham. 
 
 A week afterward, Mr. Ashhurst said 
 to him, on returning the documents : 
 " You have worked up your case most 
 creditably, Mr. Creighton. It is clear 
 as noonday. Ah ! I mustn t forget to 
 return you the dirk spolia opima that 
 brave young lady s property by right of 
 war. By the way, I sought out the 
 maker, Rodgers, and he showed me, on 
 his books for 1846, the order Halloran 
 gave for that very dagger, the Halloran 
 crest to be enameled on the blade." 
 
 "What will Sir Charles do ?" 
 
 "Withdraw at once the suit against 
 Miss Pembroke ; and as to your client, 
 I m really ashamed to tell you " 
 
 " I m sure you ve done your best, Mr. 
 Ashhurst." 
 
 " Indeed I have ; and that best is that 
 Sir Charles proposes to pay you, against 
 a receipt in full, three thousand pounds 
 little more than one-fourth of what he 
 legally owes Miss Talbot ; but to raise 
 it he will have to resort to the Jews and 
 submit to ruinously usuriour terms." 
 
 "Three thousand pounds only?" 
 
 " I believe, on my soul, it is the best 
 he can do." 
 
 " Your word suffices, Mr. Ashhurst. I 
 accept on behalf of my client." 
 
2 5 5 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 "The money shall be paid to you 
 within three days." 
 
 Creighton was greatly pleased. For 
 merly he had liked London as a resi 
 dence, but just at present he pined for 
 home. 
 
 Meanwhile, Celia and Ellinor con 
 tinued their school. The latter, not 
 withstanding her infirmity, could give 
 lessons, as usual, in English literature, 
 in history, mathematics, French and 
 other branches even in botany and 
 mineralogy. She continued what had 
 always been her habit to take the 
 senior class out once a week into the 
 forest. She could still distinguish most 
 of the wild flowers by their odor ; and 
 when at a loss she caused one or other 
 of her pupils minutely to describe the 
 specimen, which her accurate know 
 ledge of botany almost always enabled 
 her to classify. It was her wont also, 
 when they reached some eminence 
 commanding an extensive prospect, to 
 require of each in succession a word- 
 painting of some portion of the land 
 scape, or perhaps of a gorgeous sunset, 
 or of some picturesque effect of light 
 and shade from flitting clouds. 
 
 Two excellent results were thus ob 
 tained : the girls acquired a habit of 
 exact observation, and a facility in de 
 scribing what they observed. The prac 
 tice awoke artistic taste and a love of 
 natural beauty ; and as the pupils per 
 ceived the pleasure it gave their teacher, 
 their affection for her added zest to the 
 exercise ; so that it became at last one 
 of their favorite amusements. 
 
 After a time, too, Ellinor, greatly to 
 her surprise, found that, in some strange 
 manner for which she could never ac 
 count, new powers came to herself. 
 She could walk unattended throughout 
 the streets of the village, without risk 
 of injury or d-^ger of losing her way. 
 When some months had passed there 
 was developed a faculty even more 
 wonderful than this. 
 
 It happened, one afternoon, that a 
 letter arrived from Creighton, stating 
 the result of his negotiations with Sir 
 Charles Conynghame. Ethan, who had 
 
 been out all day, attending to some sur 
 veying for Mr. Sydenham, was return 
 ing about five o clock on horseback. 
 As he rode slowly down the main street 
 of the village, he observed Ellinor on 
 the sidewalk at a little distance. She 
 was approaching a ladder that had been 
 carelessly left standing against one of 
 the houses. Ethan instinctively check 
 ed his horse, and was about to call out 
 to her in warning, but, as she came 
 within three or four feet of the ladder, 
 she turned out so quietly and naturally 
 to avoid it that he was half tempted to 
 believe she had recovered her sight. 
 Nor was that all. There were two 
 horsemen a little in advance of him. 
 She suffered them to pass, and then de 
 liberately crossed to where her lover, 
 still fixed in astonishment, had remain 
 ed. Coming up close to his bridle-rein, 
 she laid a hand on his horse s neck and 
 said : " Have you heard the news, dear 
 Ethan ? A letter from Mr. Creighton : 
 he will be at home in a few days." 
 
 "Good God!" he exclaimed, startled 
 out of all self-possession, "is it possible 
 that you see, Ellie darling ?" 
 
 " No : I shall never see again ; but 
 God is very good to me. Without sight, 
 I can feel my way to you."* 
 
 Ellinor was on her way to fulfill an 
 engagement to tea at Mrs. Hartland s. 
 In the evening they all walked down to 
 the lake to visit Mrs. Creighton and 
 ascertain whether she too had a letter 
 from her son. 
 
 The genial old lady was in high spir 
 its, with a long letter on the table be 
 fore her. Ellinor expressed her entire 
 satisfaction with the settlement that had 
 been made, and asked if Creighton s 
 letter to his mother contained any fur 
 ther news. 
 
 * Ellinor s case is not an isolated one. A friend of 
 the author, a physician in good practice in Philadel 
 phia, has had two blind patients with similar powers. 
 Driving in his coupe one day in a crowded street of the 
 city, he saw one of these, an elderly man, after avoid 
 ing an obstacle on the pavement, step down into the 
 street and come up to the side of his carriage to ask a 
 question. When the doctor inquired how he knew it 
 was he, and how he could thus find his way, he could 
 give no explanation except that it "came to him." 
 This man had what have been called mediumistic pow 
 ers, but he had never exercised them professionally. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 257 
 
 "Yes, an article that may interest 
 Celia : he met, in London, her old friend 
 Miss Ballantyne, now Mrs. Stanhope, 
 on her bridal tour." 
 
 Elizabeth Ballantyne, a connexion of 
 Mr. Hartland, and formerly a resident 
 of Chiskauga, had left the village two 
 years before on a visit to Columbus, and 
 they had recently heard of her marriage 
 to a gentleman of wealth and position, 
 some twenty -five or thirty years her 
 senior. 
 
 " I should so much like to know how 
 Lizzie and her husband get on," said 
 Celia to Mrs. Creighton. 
 
 "Quite as well as could be expected, 
 Eliot says, considering the disparity be 
 tween twenty-three years and fifty." 
 
 " That considering must be a terrible 
 drawback, I think," Ethan said. "I 
 have no faith in such matches. I m 
 sorry for Lizzie." 
 
 "Yet she may have married for love," 
 rejoined Mrs. Creighton. " I saw a news 
 paper paragraph the other day wheth 
 er true or not, of course one can t tell 
 about General Changarnier. I think it 
 was while he was commander-in-chief 
 of the army of Paris, under the Presi 
 dency of Louis Napoleon. He had been 
 invited (so the story ran) to a large din 
 ner-party, at which the subject of mar 
 riage between young girls and old men 
 so common in France came up. 
 The general, himself a bachelor of some 
 fifty-five winters, took strong ground 
 against the custom, saying he thought 
 it a scandalous thing for a man ad 
 vanced in life to seek in marriage an 
 inexperienced creature of less than half 
 his years, just entering the world. A 
 young lady, wealthy and well connect 
 ed, recently come out, and who had 
 been observed to listen with eager eyes 
 and changing color, suddenly complain 
 ed of illness and was compelled to leave 
 the dinner-table." 
 
 "She might," broke in Ethan, "have 
 been enamored of his rank or of his 
 African renown." 
 
 "Perhaps. Yet that was a remark 
 able mode of shoAving such a species of 
 affection. And she might have really 
 loved him if not exactly for himself, at 
 17 
 
 least, like Desdemona, for the dangers 
 he had passed. At all events, the cir 
 cumstance excited remarks which came 
 to the general s ears. Explanations fol 
 lowed which opened his eyes or his 
 heart. The young lady, who had fainted 
 after she left the room, revived, and is 
 now Mrs. General Changarnier." 
 
 " I haven t a bit of faith," said Ethan, 
 " in a man marrying for pity, or because 
 a young lady s secret has leaked out." 
 
 "Yet that will happen, sometimes; 
 and then the vanity of fifty-five is very 
 apt to be flattered by the love of twenty- 
 one." 
 
 "A vanity-prompted match is worst 
 of all." 
 
 "That s true enough, Mr. Hartland. 
 All I meant to say, as possibly applying 
 to Celia s friend, is, that young ladies 
 are wayward, and will sometimes fancy 
 old men." 
 
 Mrs. Hartland did not intend to look 
 at Celia, and very surely Celia did not 
 intend to blush. Yet both things hap 
 pened ; and though Mrs. Creighton was 
 too well bred to betray that she noticed 
 it, she certainly did. 
 
 There was a somewhat awkward 
 pause. To make matters worse, just at 
 that moment Sydenham entered, and 
 Celia, to her utter discomfiture, felt her 
 blush deepen. She could have pommel 
 ed herself from sheer mortification at 
 being so silly, and at feeling embar 
 rassed, as she did, in replying to Syd- 
 enham s greeting. Mrs. Hartland evi 
 dently shared her embarrassment, and 
 Mrs. Creighton looked so grave that 
 Sydenham said, involuntarily, "No bad 
 news, I hope, from your son ?" 
 
 The question seemed to recall her from 
 some uneasy train of thought. "Only 
 good news," ahe said, smiling. "He 
 has arranged the business of these young 
 ladies, and I trust we shall see him in 
 a few days." 
 
 This led to a business talk in connec 
 tion with the compromise Creighton had 
 effected, and with which Sydenham was 
 much pleased. As no further allusion 
 was made by any one to the Stanhopes 
 or to General Changarnier, the rest of 
 the evening passed off tranquilly. Syd- 
 
2 5 S 
 
 BE YOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 enham accompanied the Hartland par 
 ty home. 
 
 A week later, one chilly autumn even 
 ing, Mrs. Creighton s little parlor looked 
 cheerful by the bright firelight. Two 
 hours before, her son had arrived, bring 
 ing with him, on a visit from Philadel 
 phia, his sister Harriet Clifford, a young 
 widow without children ; but she was 
 up stairs, unpacking her trunk. 
 
 Eliot had wheeled a sofa toward the 
 fire, and was seated beside his mother, 
 his arm round her waist. 
 
 He passed a hand caressingly over the 
 soft, smooth bands of the gray-streaked 
 hair : " I wonder if you ll ever seem old 
 to me, mother ? It won t do for you to 
 be a grandmother till you get one or 
 two respectable wrinkles." 
 
 " If I thought that was the only ob 
 stacle, I d try to be grave and thought 
 ful, so as to qualify myself." 
 
 "But you think there may be other 
 obstacles?" 
 
 " Perhaps. Harry, poor child ! thinks 
 there never was such a man as her hus 
 band unless, maybe, her brother ; and 
 her brother " 
 
 "You don t think his chances of mar 
 rying are good, either ?" 
 
 The mother hesitated : " I wonder if 
 anybody s son, twenty-six years of age, 
 ever chose his old mother for confidante 
 before ?" 
 
 "Can t say. Everybody is not as 
 wise as your son, mother dear, nor as 
 lucky. They might not get the exact 
 truth in return for their confidence as 
 I shall." He tried to say it lightly, but 
 the mother detected his deep emotion. 
 How willingly she would have suffered 
 it all for him ! But each must bear his 
 own burden ; and then, after all, what 
 did she really know ? 
 
 " I feel sure she is not engaged, and, 
 for aught I can tell, there may be no 
 chance that she will be ; but you are 
 right about getting the exact truth from 
 me." And she told him the Changar- 
 nier episode. 
 
 Of the elements that make up the pas 
 sion of jealousy there was, in Creighton s 
 nature, but one if indeed it be one 
 its sorrow. Terribly grieved and dis 
 
 appointed he was. He felt, as thou 
 sands have felt in ages past, as thou 
 sands in ages to come will feel, that 
 there was no more cheering sunshine 
 for him in this life that his path hence 
 forth was in the cold gray twilight. 
 Then it came over him that he couldn t 
 give her up. Shakespeare, interpreter 
 of every human emotion, had truly 
 interpreted his : 
 
 " For where thou art, there is the world itself, 
 With every several pleasure in the world ; 
 And where thou art not, desolation." 
 
 He did not doubt his fate : bold and 
 self-reliant in worldly affairs, he was 
 diffident, as true love is till one blessed 
 word is spoken. But not for that was 
 his esteem, his friendship for Sydenham 
 one jot the less. "She could not have 
 made a worthier choice," he said to his 
 mother, sadly, not bitterly. 
 
 " I m not sure that she has " 
 
 Harriet, who came in at the moment, 
 overheard the words : " Done what, 
 mother? Gone and engaged herself? 
 In trouble, poor brother?" going up to 
 him and kissing him. Then, to her 
 mother: "Would she have done fora 
 daughter-in-law ?" 
 
 Eliot could hardly help smiling, de 
 spite his heavy heart. His looks ex 
 pressed his surprise. 
 
 "Eliot dear," she went on, "if any 
 one has a sister that he cares for, and 
 that he considers a good judge of her 
 sex, and if he wishes to keep her in the 
 dark, he shouldn t talk to her a dozen 
 times in the course of a three-days 
 journey about one particular young 
 lady that he hopes she will like. But 
 you haven t answered my question, 
 mother." 
 
 " Eliot and I seldom disagree in mat 
 ters of taste. Whether she will do for 
 a sister-in-law I can t tell. Have you 
 made up your mind that anything mor 
 tal is worthy of that brother of yours ? 
 I hope you ve kept up your music lately : 
 before Eliot marries you ought to have 
 St. Cecilia s power. You know 
 
 She drew an angel down. " 
 
 " But if the angels are all of one sex, 
 mother, that wouldn t help matters." 
 " I don t believe they are." 
 
BE YOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 259 
 
 "Neither does brother, I know. Is 
 she angelic ?" 
 
 "No," replied her mother. "She s a 
 good, lovable mortal, very pretty, too, 
 
 1 Not too fair and good 
 For human nature s daily food. 
 
 I used to think her somewhat weak of 
 purpose, and a little sentimental in her 
 ways, but when she believed her money 
 to be lost, and since, she has shown cha 
 racter and force." 
 
 " She has a noble spirit," Eliot put in : 
 "any man might be proud of such a 
 wife." 
 
 "I think St. Celia will do," said 
 Harriet. "May I hear how it stands, 
 brother ?" 
 
 "Tell her, mother." And Harriet 
 heard all about the telltale blush and 
 the French general. 
 
 "You did very well," she said to her 
 brother, "to admit me as a confidante. 
 I m little more than a girl yet" with a 
 s igh_" and girls get to learn each 
 other s secrets. Don t imagine I have 
 the least intention of prying into your 
 lady-love s. But I want to tell you 
 what happened to me a few weeks ago. 
 I have a very dear friend, some eighteen 
 years old, who has just such a trick of 
 blushing as your Celia has." 
 
 "My Celia!" 
 
 " Never mind : it was a slip of the 
 tongue ; and who knows but it may all 
 
 come right some day? Lucy that s 
 the young girl s name asked me one 
 day if I could give her any idea how 
 she might cure herself of a weakness so 
 annoying. 4 1 can t tell you, she said 
 to me, how often these foolish cheeks 
 of mine give false notions of my feel 
 ings : people will put silly things in 
 girls heads, and then if -I blush when 
 something recalls the idle nonsense, it s 
 set down to a serious fancy or a hidden 
 passion, when nothing is farther from 
 my thoughts. Now, Eliot, may not 
 Lucy s case be this young lady s also ?" 
 Creighton began to think that possi 
 bly it might. "Would you mind, moth 
 er," he said, "if I left you for half an 
 hour or so ? I hate to do it this first 
 night, but I suppose I ought to report 
 progress, just in a few words, to these 
 young ladies." 
 
 " Of course you ought. Take an hour 
 or more : Harry and I have hardly had 
 a chance for chat yet. And, Eliot, I 
 think you had better go first to Mrs. 
 Hartland s. Ellinor is very often there 
 in the evenings." 
 
 Ellinor was there, and Sydenham 
 was not ; yet it was an hour and a half 
 before Creighton returned home. And 
 though he lay awake that night for two 
 hours, thinking over his reception, he 
 could not make up his mind whethei 
 he ought to hope or despair. 
 
PART X IV. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 A FRUITLESS RIDE, AND OTHER MATTERS. 
 " Le bonheur tient aux affections plus qu aux evene- 
 mens." MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 WHO is Dr. Rowe?" said Ellinor: 
 they were speaking French, and 
 it was in Meyrac s parlor, after tea. 
 
 " I think Monsieur le Docteur must 
 have heard of him," Creighton replied. 
 
 "Is it the philanthropist," asked Mey- 
 rac, "who has done so much for the be 
 nevolent institutions of New England 
 and for the education of deaf-mutes and 
 of the blind ?" 
 
 . "The same. I made his acquaintance 
 a few days since, in passing through 
 Boston." 
 
 " I should have been enchanted to be 
 of the party." 
 
 " His conversation would have inte 
 rested you. I asked him which he 
 considered the greater loss sight or 
 hearing." 
 
 " That does interest me. Well ?" 
 
 " His reply surprised me. There is 
 no comparison, he said ; adding that 
 he had sometimes half doubted whether, 
 under favorable social conditions, loss 
 of sight was a misfortune at all. I knew 
 a lady, he went on to say, the head of 
 a family with several children, who be 
 came blind a good many years ago. 
 She was a somewhat nervous, anxious 
 creature before her loss : now she is 
 cheerful, tranquil. Dr. Rowe thought 
 her husband really loved her better, ad 
 mired her more, than he had ever done ; 
 and the relation between mother and 
 children was beautiful." 
 
 " Yet we must not generalize too has 
 tily," Ellinor put in. 
 
 " I do not think Dr. Rowe did. I 
 suggested that probably this was a 
 bright, lively, affectionate household. 
 He admitted that it was, and that with 
 other surroundings the result might 
 have been very different. The blind, 
 he said, live more in the world of the 
 affections than we do, and that is the 
 260 
 
 highest world, after all. Their pleas 
 ures are more strictly social than ours : 
 they miss love more, and they enjoy it 
 more. Blindness, to a convict in soli 
 tary confinement, might become an in 
 tolerable affliction, far heavier than loss 
 of hearing. But in cheerful society it 
 is natural that the deaf, daily witness 
 ing the outward signs of thoughts and 
 emotions that escape them, should be 
 fretful or impatient, for the tender voice, 
 the accent of affection, cannot be inter 
 preted through the fingers. The doctor 
 added that it was his firm belief, found 
 ed on years of daily observation, that 
 the inmates of a well-conducted blind 
 asylum were happier and better satis 
 fied with their lot than the average of 
 persons without its walls." 
 
 "As to that," said Meyrac, "I agree 
 with him. Yet if the regulations out 
 side of the asylum were as wise as those 
 within it, that might alter the case." 
 
 "And then," added Ellinor, "it can 
 not be denied that in losing sight we 
 lose much power of usefulness." 
 
 "That depends," said Creighton. "Are 
 you sure that children would not be 
 better taught if instruction came more 
 by conversation and less through books ? 
 By the way," he added, taking a volume 
 from his pocket. " I ve brought a little 
 book for your acceptance, Miss Ellinor. 
 You know of Francis Huber?" 
 
 "The naturalist, who wrote so much 
 on the domestic economy of the bees ?" 
 
 "The blind man who, fifty years ago, 
 dictated to his wife, Maria Aimee well 
 named ! a book that is still considered 
 the best authority on the subject. Some 
 of his eulogists assert but I dare say 
 that s exaggerated that nothing of im 
 portance has been added to the natural 
 history of the bee since his time." 
 
 "You were thinking of a blind friend, 
 Mr. Creighton : that s like you. Does 
 the volume contain the result of Huber s 
 observations ?" 
 
 " No the memoir of his life by his 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 261 
 
 friend, Monsieur de Candolle ; and with 
 such a pretty love-story in it !" 
 
 " May not one hear that ?" asked Lu 
 cille Meyrac. 
 
 "Certainly, mademoiselle. When Hu- 
 ber was little more than a boy, he and 
 the daughter of a Swiss magistrate, 
 named Lullin, fell in love with each 
 other. Even then he had commenced 
 his researches ; and blindness was 
 brought on, while he was still quite 
 young, from intenseness and minute 
 ness of observation. The prudent 
 father, thinking no doubt, like you, 
 Miss Ellinor, that the youth s usefulness 
 was hopelessly impaired, forbade the 
 match." 
 
 "Ah, what unhappiness !" said Lu 
 cille. 
 
 " The noble girl declared that she 
 would have submitted to her parents 
 will if the man of her choice could have 
 done without her. As it was, she re 
 fused many brilliant offers, waited till 
 she was her own mistress at twenty-five, 
 then married her first love, shared his 
 enthusiasm and his labors for forty 
 years, and aided to make her husband 
 one of the celebrated men of his day. 
 As long as she lived, he said in his 
 old age, I was not sensible of the mis 
 fortune of being blind. " 
 
 "But that is altogether charming," 
 exclaimed Lucille. "Shall I read it to 
 you when you have leisure, Mademoi 
 selle Eleonore ?" 
 
 " Dear child, yes : I shall be de 
 lighted." 
 
 Just then Ethan joined their party, 
 and Ellinor told him of Creighton s gift. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lucille, who had taken 
 up the book, smiled brightly at some 
 thing that met her eye. 
 
 " I m curious to know what that is," 
 said Creighton. 
 
 "May I read, mamma?" 
 
 " Certainly, my child, if Monsieur 
 Creighton desires it." So Lucille read: 
 
 " Huber was habitually cheerful. 
 When any one spoke to him on sub 
 jects which interested his heart, his 
 noble figure became strikingly ani 
 mated, and the vivacity of his counte 
 nance seemed, by a mysterious magic, 
 
 even to light up his eyes, which had 
 been so long condemned to blindness." 
 
 "I know who is just like him," the 
 girl added. 
 
 Ethan s looks showed that he knew it 
 too. How late he stayed that night I 
 don t know, nor did Dr. Meyrac : on 
 such occasions he always trusted Elli 
 nor to lock up the house. 
 
 Next morning, Ethan called on 
 Creighton to ask if he would act as 
 "groomsman" in a ceremony to be 
 performed that day three weeks. 
 
 " Most willingly ; but you take me by 
 surprise." 
 
 "We did not intend to marry till next 
 spring, when our cottage on the lake 
 will be ready ; but mother told us that 
 if we wished to make her happy, we 
 would have the marriage at once and 
 spend the winter with her. Last even 
 ing I got Ellinor s consent." 
 
 "An excellent arrangement, I think." 
 
 "I want your aid in settling all her 
 property upon her." 
 
 "Ah ? That is right : I ll attend to it 
 with pleasure. If we lived a dozen 
 miles farther west just over the Indi 
 ana line it would be unnecessary : the 
 State laws there anticipate such inten 
 tion as yours. Marriage in Indiana, 
 since the year 1853, conveys to the hus 
 band no property, either real or per 
 sonal, of the bride. But as to that 
 matter, we, this side of the line, are still, 
 like Simon the Sorcerer, in the gall of 
 bitterness or, which is pretty much 
 the same thing, in the bonds of the 
 common law." 
 
 " I thought that had been modified 
 some ten years ago." 
 
 "Slightly: so that the husband s in 
 terest in the real estate of the wife can 
 not be taken for his debts, nor conveyed 
 nor encumbered without the wife s con 
 currence ; and one or two other similar 
 items. But a husband in Ohio becomes 
 the absolute owner of his wife s personal 
 property, even so far that if both unite 
 in selling her land, the money received 
 for it is his, and if he buys other land 
 with it, that too is his, and descends to 
 his heirs. As to the wife s real estate, 
 he cannot, indeed, sell it without her 
 
262 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 concurrence ; but, except in. case of de 
 sertion or failure to provide for his fam 
 ily, he has the control of it, and the 
 rents and profits are his while the mar 
 riage lasts." 
 
 "Twelve miles of longitude make all 
 that difference !" 
 
 "Even so; yet an Indiana lawyer 
 told me, the other day, that he did not 
 believe one vote in twenty of their peo 
 ple could now be had to change the 
 law back again." 
 
 "Well, one Ohio wife shall have 
 the same rights as if she were an In- 
 dianian." 
 
 "The wonder is, Mr. Hartland, that 
 any man can omit such an act of com 
 mon justice without feeling self-con 
 demned as a tyrant." 
 
 After paying all law-expenses (includ 
 ing a fee of one thousand dollars, which 
 they had the greatest difficulty in get 
 ting Creighton to accept, his charge be 
 ing five hundred dollars only) each of 
 the sisters had about twenty-six thou 
 sand dollars, invested so as to bring in 
 nearly eighteen hundred a year. They 
 were rich ! far richer, they both felt, 
 than either had ever been in her life 
 before. They would not have been 
 poor if they had lost it all. 
 
 After Ethan had looked over the 
 statement of Ellinor s property, and 
 was about to go, Creighton felt tempted 
 to inquire who was to be bridemaid, 
 but he refrained : it would be the bride s 
 sister, of course. The thought made 
 him grave. 
 
 The marriage was quite private and 
 simple. The bridegroom was more 
 self-possessed than his groomsman, and 
 Celia showed evident emotion ; prob 
 ably because, as soon as breakfast was 
 over, she was to part with her sister on 
 a ten-days tour to Niagara and the 
 Canadas. Dr. Meyrac gave the bride 
 away. When the carriage which con 
 veyed the two to the station had driven 
 off, he said to his wife : "But it is aston 
 ishing ! One reads of such things" 
 
 " What things, my friend ?" 
 
 "That face of young Hartland s. I 
 wish I were sure that any of us will 
 have such moments by and by in 
 
 heaven as he is having now in that 
 fiacre." 
 
 " But, Alphonse, has not the good 
 God" 
 
 "Without doubt. It may be that it 
 is all well arranged. Yet one likes to 
 be certain, my dear. In waiting let us 
 hope." And he took his hat and cane 
 to visit a patient. 
 
 The next day was Saturday, with a 
 bright November sun cheating one into 
 the belief that winter was yet afar off. 
 Mrs. Creighton and her daughter sat in 
 the afternoon sewing. 
 
 The girl dropped her work on her 
 knee: "So Eliot s gone out riding with 
 Miss Pembroke ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How much does that mean in this 
 part of the country, mother ?" 
 
 " Not much if it happen but occasion 
 ally ; only that the girl thinks well of 
 her cavalier, and has no objections to 
 become better acquainted with him." 
 
 "That s something; but of course she 
 thinks well of brother, and who wouldn t 
 want to be better acquainted with him ? 
 Still, you think she might say yes to 
 somebody else next week ?" 
 
 "Certainly, and no one would think 
 strange of it." 
 
 "Well, that s sensible ; and she looks 
 like a sensible girl and a nice girl 
 enough : then twenty-six thousand dol 
 lars is a convenience for a young 
 lawyer " 
 
 "For Goodness sake, Harry, don t 
 say that before your brother : he s crazy 
 enough on that subject already." 
 
 "He s a noble fellow, and I won t 
 plague him. But I can t see why the 
 male animal, when he accepts without 
 scruple a maiden s priceless affec 
 tions with a life s devotion thrown 
 in should shy off at a little yellow 
 dross. Then she ought to be very 
 grateful to him for the skill and care he 
 has shown in recovering her property, to 
 say nothing of saving her sister s life." 
 
 "Worse and worse, Harry ! Do pray 
 be careful. If there s one thing Eliot 
 has a horror of, it s marrying a woman 
 who should accept him out of gratitude. 
 He s haunted by that idea." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 263 
 
 "Yet gratitude, like pity, is akin to 
 love." 
 
 "Or to friendship. Mr. Sydenham 
 is a charming man, very handsome, I 
 think, and doesn t look a day over 
 thirty-five years old hardly that. And 
 the girl may have no heart to give." 
 
 Harriet took up her work with a sigh. 
 "I won t think anything more about it," 
 she said, resolutely ; but I don t believe 
 she kept her word. It was a scarlet 
 sacque she was making, and thoughts 
 must have been worked in with the 
 stitches, for she never after took it out 
 to wear without thinking of Eliot and 
 Celia. 
 
 A little later the brother returned. 
 He said not a word beyond common 
 places till after tea. Then he asked 
 his sister: "You ll stay with us this 
 winter, Harry ? Or is somebody with 
 a heartache waiting for you in Phil 
 adelphia ?" 
 
 "Nothing of the sort." 
 
 "Then you can stay. I must work 
 hard now, and I will." 
 
 " I wonder if I could guess what put 
 it in your head to ask me, just this min 
 ute, about staying?" 
 
 " Don t you believe that I like to have 
 you with us?" 
 
 " Indeed I do : you re a jewel of a 
 brother. I wish I were a certain young 
 lady that I wot of, or else that she knew, 
 as well as I do, what a jewel of a hus 
 band you d make." 
 
 "A girl may think that a young fellow 
 would make a creditable husband, and 
 yet fancy some one else and marry him." 
 
 " No doubt. Will you give me a penny 
 for my thoughts ?" 
 
 "A. silver penny, if I had it copper s 
 too base : ah ! here s a tiny three-cent 
 piece." 
 
 "You were thinking that if a man s 
 ladye-love refuses him, what s best for 
 him, and what he ought to turn to, is 
 hard work ; and that s quite true. 
 Then you were thinking, besides, that 
 if a man works hard all day, and hasn t 
 a nice wife to come home to for comfort 
 in the evenings, the next most comfort 
 ing things are a nice mother and sister. 
 The mother might see that the tea was 
 
 warm and strong and the omelettes up 
 to the Paris notch ; and the sister, that 
 no button was off and no stocking un- 
 darned. I think I ll stay." 
 
 " You re a clairvoyante, Harry, and a 
 dear girl besides," with a kiss. 
 
 "Poor brother!" giving him two in 
 return. 
 
 "What did she say, Eliot dear?" 
 asked his mother in a low voice. 
 
 "I m ashamed to tell you. I think 
 it s the nature of women to think better 
 of us men than we deserve. She said : 
 You re as good as you can be, Mr. 
 Creighton. I honor you, and I feel the 
 honor you have done me. I owe you, 
 for saving Ellie from death, a debt of 
 gratitude that a lifetime couldn t pay. 
 But I think far too highly of you to offer 
 what you ought not to accept what I 
 know you would refuse a divided 
 heart. " 
 
 "She s a good child, brother. It s 
 hard for a girl that s not engaged to let 
 a man into such a secret. She does 
 honor and trust you, or she wouldn t 
 have done it. I ll stay and get better 
 acquainted with her." 
 
 "It s no business of ours," said Mrs. 
 Creighton, "and I ll try to put it out of 
 my head ; but I should like to know just 
 how Mr. Sydenham feels toward her." 
 
 "As if any one she cared for could 
 help loving her!" said poor Eliot, with 
 a deep sigh. 
 
 "So you ve made up your mmd," 
 said Harriet, "that it s Mr. Sydenham ?" 
 
 " If you had seen her blush when she 
 could hardly get that little mare of hers, 
 Bess, past the lane that turns off to Rose- 
 bank, you wouldn t ask that." 
 
 "Ah, well! it can t be helped. There s 
 a wide, wide gap between a wife and a 
 sister, or even between a wife and a 
 mother, Eliot; but yet " 
 
 " Don t, Harry. I must get such fan 
 cies out of my head. I must work, 
 work !" The mother s eyes filled with 
 tears, but she said nothing. He went 
 on : " Help me to think of that, mother. 
 And help me to remember how many 
 millions never dreamed of such love as 
 is mine already, here by this fireside." 
 
 Happy they who can turn from what 
 
264 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 they have lost to what they still enjoy ! 
 It was a bright, blithe fireside, and the 
 little group gathered around it loved 
 each other, in a quiet way, very dearly. 
 To any one who was himself of genial 
 temperament there was a charming 
 home-atmosphere, redolent of peace 
 and harmony, about that pretty cottage 
 and its inmates. Alas ! that such oases 
 are found but here and there amid the 
 social bleakness of this lower world ! 
 
 Early next morning Harriet Clifford 
 met Celia Pembroke on her way to the 
 Chiskauga Institute. She turned and 
 they walked on together. " Miss Pem 
 broke," she said, "I taught school for 
 eighteen months when I was a girl 
 younger than you. Let me help with 
 your sister s classes till she returns. I 
 want something to do." 
 
 "I shall be delighted. I was just 
 wondering how we should manage. 
 We have more pupils than ever before. 
 While Ellie and I were dependent for 
 support on our teaching, the numbers 
 fell off. Now that we are both thanks 
 to your brother in easy circumstances, 
 scholars pour in." 
 
 "The way of the world, Miss Pem 
 broke. By the way, since we re to 
 teach together, hadn t we better be Ce 
 lia and Harry to each other? You 
 needn t adopt the final j, if you don t 
 like it. I ve been thinking myself of 
 spelling it with an ie, like Mattie, so as 
 to avoid the imputation of trenching on 
 the masculine prerogative." 
 
 Celia laughed and assented. The 
 two took to each other from the first, 
 and Mrs. Clifford proved an excellent 
 teacher. 
 
 That afternoon Celia had a music- 
 lesson to give at Rosebank, but when 
 she rode up she found Leoline s pony, 
 Bucksfoot, saddled and bridled at the 
 door, and Leoline herself came out. 
 
 " Papa suggested that we might not 
 have many more such splendid after 
 noons before winter sets in, and that 
 we had better make the most of it." 
 
 " I believe your father has intuitions, 
 Lela: I did want a ride that s the 
 truth." 
 
 Leoline, as our readers may have ob 
 served, was sometimes troubled with a 
 restless desire to see her friends happy. 
 She called to mind her father s advice 
 not to interfere in Celia s love-matters, 
 but after they had chatted some time 
 about other things, she didn t think she 
 was disobeying his injunction by say 
 ing, somewhat abruptly, " I wonder, 
 Celia dear, if you ll ever marry ?" 
 
 " I do not think I ever shall." 
 
 "That s what I was afraid of. But 
 you won t do for an old maid. I d make 
 a much better one ?" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, I don t exactly know. I m 
 not a girl that s nearly so apt as you 
 to" 
 
 "To take a fancy to a handsome 
 face ?" 
 
 " I wasn t going to be so rude as to 
 say that, though maybe it s true enough : 
 falling in love isn t much in my way. 
 You d make such a good wife, Celia 
 far better than hard-hearted I. Papa 
 said so yesterday." 
 
 " He said I d make a better wife than 
 you ?" 
 
 " Not exactly : he s too polite a papa 
 for that. But he said you d make an 
 admirable wife, and of course he knows 
 I wouldn t." 
 
 "But I m not inclined to fall in love 
 with handsome faces, or any faces, 
 now." 
 
 Leoline looked grave ; then, after a 
 pause, "I m very sorry for that," she 
 said, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Sorry that I m getting to be a little 
 more like you ? You ought to be glad. 
 You would never have made such a 
 mistake as " 
 
 "Never mind about that, my dear. I 
 once heard papa say it was one of the 
 failings that lean to virtue s side to 
 think better of others than they deserve. 
 I like you all the better for it ; but I 
 can t be glad to think of you as an old 
 maid." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because, as I told you papa said, 
 you d make somebody such a good 
 wife. And then wife and mother 
 that s woman s vocation, you know." 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 265 
 
 "But if you don t take to that voca 
 tion, why should I ?" 
 
 "Oh, I m different. It s a pity I don t 
 take to it, but how can I help that ?" 
 
 " I think I know one who might get 
 you out of that difficulty, if you d let 
 him some one I once heard you 
 admire." 
 
 "Naughty creature! but you re mis 
 taken : that wouldn t work : I told you 
 it wouldn t, from the first. I m a hope 
 less subject in that line, Celia, but you re 
 not." 
 
 "Suppose nobody wants me." 
 
 " That s not a supposable case. I can 
 suppose that you don t want them, and 
 it makes me sorry to think of it." 
 
 "Lela darling" her eyes moistening 
 a little " let me tell you something. I 
 hope you ll never, never have such an 
 experience as I ve had. I know it was 
 sent in mercy. I feel oh so thank 
 fully ! all I ve escaped. I hope I shall 
 never see him as long as I live ; but 
 yet, for all that " 
 
 " It s I that have been a naughty girl, 
 Celia. Papa told me not to meddle 
 with your love-affairs, and I didn t in 
 tend to do it. But now I ve gone and 
 made you think of things that that it s 
 not the least worth while " 
 
 " It is not your doing, Lela, it s mine. 
 I can t help thinking about them : some 
 day I hope I shall be able to help it." 
 
 "And some day I hope you ll be 
 somebody s pet and make him chappy. 
 And till that time comes I ll let your 
 heart alone. It has been plagued 
 enough already, without my blundering. 
 Let s have a good gallop, Celia." 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 AS FAR AS THE STORY GOES. 
 
 WINTER passed. Of those in whom 
 our readers take interest no one died 
 no one had been married. Ethan and 
 Ellinor were established at Mrs. Hart- 
 land s. If Dr. Rowe had visited them, 
 his doubts as to whether, in a genial 
 home, blindness was always a misfor 
 tune, might have been strengthened. 
 
 Ellinor had intended to continue her 
 
 labors at the Chiskauga Institute, but a 
 conversation with Dr. Meyrac modified 
 her plans. 
 
 " You have done nobly, so far, Mad 
 ame Hartland," he said; "but a mar 
 ried woman, when she can afford it, 
 should husband her strength and her 
 thoughts for home necessities and home 
 duties : the next generation may benefit 
 thereby. Permit me to suggest that you 
 gradually withdraw from the school, 
 and let Madame Clifford, if she will, 
 take your place." 
 
 Much to Ethan s satisfaction, Ellinor 
 followed this advice ; only retaining, 
 for the present, the senior classes in 
 English and French literature, and, 
 when the weather permitted, continuing 
 those weekly excursions to the woods 
 which her pupils had come to regard as 
 a pleasure and a privilege. 
 
 Celia spent a good deal of her time at 
 Rosebank; sometimes remaining there, 
 at Leoline s urgent invitation, for the 
 night. She felt the less scruple in so 
 doing because her aunt had now a 
 daughter as well as a son to gladden 
 her fireside, and seemed contented and 
 happy beyond what her niece had ever 
 believed she could be. Those fancies 
 about Sydenham, of which Meyrac 
 (though of course he could not have 
 deciphered them) had detected the un 
 wholesome tendency, were gradually 
 fading out : a grandchild or two, Celia 
 felt convinced, would dissipate them 
 altogether. Now and then the widow 
 took herself to task for Alice was given 
 to self-accusation because she could 
 not help feeling the death of her hus 
 band to be a welcome relief. He was 
 so good a man, she thought, and she, 
 as his relict, ought to be mourning his 
 loss. He had been just, upright, a 
 faithful provider, a man who intended, 
 no doubt, to make his wife comfortable ; 
 but good? how about that simple, 
 homely virtue ? Musselmen buy birds 
 in the market and set them free, under 
 the beautiful superstition that the souls 
 of these liberated captives will one day 
 bear witness to their kindness before 
 the throne of God ; but if Hartland had 
 lived in Mecca, he would have regarded 
 
266 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 such ransom as money thrown away. 
 Like the Pharisees in Jesus day, he had 
 failed to "learn what that meaneth : I 
 will have mercy and not sacrifice. " 
 Can there be goodness without mercy ? 
 Is a domestic martinet a good man ? 
 Harshness, exaction of implicit obedi 
 ence, severity in household rule are 
 these the qualities that fit a human soul 
 for a high place in another world, where 
 love is supreme ? If in that world we 
 "know even as we are known," Thomas 
 Hirtland had already found out that 
 the widowed partner he had left behind 
 ought to rejoice, not to lament, that 
 Death had freed her from tyranny. 
 
 Celia was a frequent visitor also, 
 during the early part of winter, at Mrs. 
 Creighton s. Harriet Clifford and she 
 had become fast friends, and she in 
 tended her visits to the cottage on the 
 lake in pure kindness. When she re 
 fused Creighton she earnestly felt that 
 she valued no one more highly as a 
 friend. Besides, she was deeply grate 
 ful to him for all he had done for her 
 sister and herself; and, though she had 
 resolved never to marry him, yet on 
 every account she wished, as much as 
 possible, to take off the edge of her re 
 fusal, and to show him that she liked 
 his company. Must she make a stranger 
 of an excellent and agreeable man mere 
 ly because she could not give him her 
 hand ? 
 
 All this was very well intended, and 
 indeed generous, on Celia s part, yet I 
 don t think it was very wise. It is a 
 pretty theory enough that a young girl, 
 free in every respect but one namely, 
 that she has no heart to give in mar 
 riage should cultivate the friendship 
 of a man a few years older than herself, 
 and deeply in love with her, after she 
 had refused to be his wife. Yet in prac 
 tice, somehow, it doesn t work. Unless 
 she thinks that by and by she may 
 change her mind when Celia refused 
 Creighton she had no such idea she 
 may be doing a cruel thing. 
 
 That was the last thing the girl 
 dreamed of doing or meant to do. She 
 saw that when she entered Mrs. Creigh 
 ton s parlor the son s eyes lighted up. 
 
 The evenings were pleasant to her: 
 they seemed even more pleasant to him, 
 and Celia liked to give pleasure*. Then 
 they talked of Europe, of London and 
 its wonders, of Paris and its attractions, 
 of Eliot s student-life in Gottingen, of a 
 visit he had paid to Rome and to Na 
 ples. Sometimes they branched off to 
 other subjects, literary, artistic, scien 
 tific. Creighton was thoroughly well 
 read, of sprightly intellect and compre 
 hensive mind. He had been a shrewd 
 observer and he was an excellent talker : 
 Celia liked to listen to him. Surely 
 there was no harm in all that great 
 good, indeed. 
 
 And then it was not as if he could 
 mistake her motive. Forewarned, fore 
 armed. She had told him in plain 
 terms that she wished his friendship, 
 and that she did not wish, because she 
 could not return, his love. It was quite 
 safe. There was no inkling of flirtation 
 about it. Why couldn t he have her 
 for a friend and some one else for a 
 wife ? Leoline, perhaps : she wished 
 he would. 
 
 Ah, Celia! I think you couldn t have 
 helped knowing that you were not a dis 
 agreeable person. And you surely 
 didn t need to be told that Creighton 
 thought you particularly attractive. 
 These long talks the poor fellow had 
 with you about France and Germany 
 and Italy were they just the likely 
 thing, do you think, to turn his thoughts 
 to Leoline as a wife ? You didn t cal 
 culate all that matter well. 
 
 One good came of it, however. Creigh 
 ton threw himself, heart and soul, into 
 his profession. lie worked up his law 
 cases with untiring industry. One or 
 two important ones were thrown into his 
 hands. He electrified the court and his 
 brethren of the profession by several 
 brilliant efforts, resulting in unlooked- 
 for success. How much midnight oil 
 he burned for Chiskauga had no gas 
 I am not able to say ; but he grew ner 
 vous-looking and pale. Gradually he 
 attracted to himself the best half of 
 Cranstoun s practice. He was spoken 
 of as a rising man. 
 
 An unexpected event still further 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 267 
 
 brightened his business prospects. Amos 
 Cranstoun, disappointed on every side, 
 foiled alike in his plot against Celia and 
 in his intrigues against the Institute, see 
 ing a profitable practice melt from him 
 day by day, sold out his Chiskauga pos 
 sessions in disgust and emigrated to 
 Texas. 
 
 He persuaded Cassiday to join him. 
 Ever since Ellen Tyler s death the latter 
 had been restless and unsettled. Once 
 or twice he had relapsed into his old 
 habits of intemperance ; and Ethan, 
 highly though he prized him as groom, 
 had told him that the next time it hap 
 pened he should be dismissed. Cas 
 siday preferred, as others in higher 
 places and similar circumstances have 
 done, to resign his office. 
 
 "What did I tell ye, Teddy?" said 
 Norah to her husband when she heard 
 of their departure. " Didn t it answer 
 best to let the spalpeen go ?" 
 
 "But God hasn t drownded him, as 
 ye thought He would." 
 
 "An 1 hasn t He sint him off on wan 
 o them steamboats down the Missis 
 sippi, an isn t that the next thing to it ?" 
 
 The same evening Norah had a let 
 ter, out of which, when she opened it, 
 dropped a hundred-dollar note. When 
 she had recovered from her amazement 
 she and Terence read : 
 
 "MISTRESS NORAH O REILLY: 
 
 " It was very good in you to nurse 
 Miss Ellen Tyler when she lay sick. 
 She and the old man were both very 
 kind to me. I don t care about livin 
 here, now she s gone. I planted some 
 flowers on her grave, and I want you 
 to keep them in order and water them, 
 and to set out some more when they re 
 gone. The note that s in this letter will 
 help pay for your trouble. I ll send you 
 seventy dollars more from Texas just as 
 soon as I can spare it. B. C." 
 
 Terence was the first who spoke : " Ef 
 God gets him drownded on the way 
 down, ye ll lose yer seventy dollars, 
 Norah." 
 
 His wife did not answer: she was 
 fairly crying. "God forgi" me!" she 
 sobbed out at last. 
 
 "An is it cryin ye are, acushla ? He 
 was niver worth it. But I expec it s a 
 true sayin for all, that the Divil isn t not 
 half as black as he s painted. I m mighty 
 glad I didn t go after the fellow wi a 
 shillalah, any how." 
 
 One pleasant day early in March, 
 Ellinor being somewhat indisposed, Ce 
 lia had taken her place in the weekly 
 excursion to the forest. On the way 
 they met Leoline and Creighton on 
 horseback. She mentioned this to Har 
 riet Clifford on her return. 
 
 "Leoline is a charming girl," said 
 Harriet "bright, outspoken, and a 
 young person of much character, who 
 improves greatly on acquaintance. I 
 like her. Mamma told me of her speak 
 ing out in meeting. There isn t one 
 girl in a hundred would have had cour 
 age to do it." 
 
 This set Celia a-thinking. For sev 
 eral weeks past she had been visited 
 with qualms about the discretion of her 
 visits to the lake cottage, and she had 
 made these less frequent, usually timing 
 them when she thought Creighton was 
 likely to be absent. When he visited 
 her, which might be once a week on 
 the average, the symptoms made her 
 uneasy: he was getting thinner, and 
 she noticed a restless, nervous, unset 
 tled look that was anything but habitual 
 to him. 
 
 " You work too hard," she said to him 
 one day. 
 
 " Hard work is wholesome for me," 
 was the reply, but she did not like the 
 bitter smile with which he said it. 
 
 After the encounter above mentioned, 
 and Harriet s comments in connection 
 with it, Celia scarcely visited the Creigh- 
 tons for six or eight weeks. Then con 
 science upbraided her for treating good 
 friends so coldly. With all her love for 
 her sister, she missed their society, think 
 ing of them often and uneasily. She was 
 not satisfied with herself. 
 
 "You are working too hard, Celia 
 dear," Harriet said to her one day after 
 school was over. 
 
 Celia had it on the tip of her tongue 
 to say that hard work was good for her, 
 
268 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 but she remembered the spiritless smile 
 with which Creighton had made the 
 same reply, and merely said, "Not 
 harder than you, Harriet : one feels 
 languid the first warm days in spring. 
 I ll come and have some music with 
 you to-night : that will brighten me up." 
 
 She came. In the course of the even 
 ing Mrs. Creighton begged for the bal 
 lad, "When stars are in the quiet sky." 
 Celia had sung it once or twice in the 
 early days of their acquaintance ; and 
 now, for the first time, the request em 
 barrassed her. With self-chidings for 
 being so silly, she sat down to the piano 
 at once. There was some uncertainty 
 in her voice at first, but Mrs. Creighton 
 thought and said that she outdid her 
 self. Creighton said nothing, and his 
 conversation, that evening, was less in 
 teresting than usual. Celia was grave 
 and evidently out of spirits, though she 
 did her best to conceal it. After a time 
 Ethan dropped in, and she went home 
 with him. 
 
 Next day, on her return from school, 
 Celia found a letter on her table. She 
 knew the handwriting, and locked her 
 door before she opened the suspicious- 
 looking missive. Her color came and 
 went as she read : 
 
 "To Miss CELIA PEMBROKE: 
 
 " I write because I would not have a 
 hasty answer, and because I want to 
 say what I have to say, calmly. 
 
 "It can t go on, Miss Pembroke. As 
 God is my witness, I have done my best. 
 A hundred times I ve taken myself to 
 task. Heaven help me ! I think I ve 
 done little else (except what I ve been 
 driven to) than take myself to task all 
 this last winter. You can say nothing 
 to me in the way of reproach that I 
 have not said to myself. I know I 
 ought to be able to go on with my work 
 in peace, but I cannot : the doubts, the 
 uncertainties of my position thrust them 
 selves into my office-hours. I ought to 
 submit to the inevitable and when I 
 know it is the inevitable I suppose I 
 shall learn to submit to it but I need 
 not submit to the tortures of suspense : 
 they darken my life. 
 
 " I know that all you said about wish 
 ing me for a friend, and then all your 
 visits to mother s house, were as kindly 
 meant as they could be. I enjoyed 
 your visits far too much ; and when you 
 discontinued them lately I felt miser 
 able. But don t you see that there must 
 be an end of this ? I would be an un 
 grateful wretch if I did not value your 
 friendship : priceless it would be to me 
 if I cared for you less. But, Celia (let 
 me speak to you this once Eliot to 
 Celia), even if I could keep on working 
 near you, it would never do for me to 
 stay here and be only your friend. If 
 yoiixknew just how I feel toward you 
 how day by day and week by week the 
 yearning grows you would not wish 
 me to stay on such condition. If I did, 
 and you married here, how would you 
 like, each time you saw me, to feel that 
 I loved you as no man ought to love 
 another s wife ? Do you think I would 
 ever subject you to such an indignity ? 
 That s one of the things I can help 
 and I will. 
 
 " Don t vex yourself about it if I have 
 to go. It s not your fault that I had to 
 love you. It may be my fault, but it is 
 certainly not yours, if you have no heart 
 to give in return for mine. 
 
 "Have you none to give ? I thought 
 I could leave Chiskauga with the an 
 swer I had from you six months ago 
 about that. But I felt last night no 
 matter why that I couldn t go without 
 asking not the same question I asked 
 then not whether you would be my 
 wife now but only, just as I have put 
 it, whether you have a heart to give 
 that might, some day, when past re 
 grets shall have faded, possibly turn to 
 me. 
 
 " I cannot go without trying the sole 
 chance that remains. But if you have 
 to dismiss me, I ask only four words : 
 There is no hope* Absolve me, I en 
 treat, from the impertinence of desiring 
 to know why there is none. I want the 
 bare fact that which regards my own 
 fate only, not any one else s. 
 
 " If it must be, we shall leave Chis 
 kauga in three or four weeks. And if 
 I must hear, some day, of your marry- 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 269 
 
 ing a man worthier and happier than I 
 shall ever be, oh be sure, Celia be 
 sure that your sister herself will have 
 no good wishes for your welfare, heartier, 
 warmer, than mine. 
 
 "ELIOT CREIGHTON. 
 "CHISKAUGA, May 2, 1857. 
 
 "P. S. My present income from my 
 profession, if you care anything about 
 knowing, somewhat exceeds two thou 
 sand a year." 
 
 Abrupt enough : not much of a love- 
 letter not a fine sentence or impas 
 sioned period in it. Yet it awoke to 
 consciousness some fruitful thoughts 
 that had been lying, half dormant, in 
 the girl s heart. It was one of Celia s 
 idiosyncrasies that odd scraps of poetry, 
 floating like driftwood on the Missis 
 sippi, were apt to lodge and accumulate 
 in the nooks and corners of her brain ; 
 now sinking out of memory, anon com 
 ing to the surface when some strong in 
 fluence, as just now, stirred the depths. 
 The scrap which emerged on the pres 
 ent occasion was a stray stanza, trans 
 lated from some German sonnet or 
 other, the rest of which had been swept 
 down the Lethean stream. The waif 
 had haunted her several times, espe 
 cially during the latter part of the 
 winter : 
 
 " Now tell me how Love cometh? 
 
 It comes unsought, unsent. 
 And tell me how Love goeth? 
 That was not Love that went. " 
 
 Had that young dream of hers been of 
 something other than love ? Was it 
 but a fancy, built on the shifting sands 
 of Impulse, which, when the winds rose 
 and the waters beat against it, ought to 
 be overthrown ? 
 
 The dream was fading away no 
 mistake as to that. Nor did it seem 
 less certain to the girl s awakened sense 
 that the fancy had never been founded 
 on esteem. Could she ever have re 
 spected as husband a youth idle of habit, 
 infirm of purpose, selfish to the mother 
 who loved and indulged him ? And 
 then, if that terrible tragedy had hap 
 pened after their marriage, could she 
 have lived, as wife, with Ellen s betray 
 
 er ? She shrank appalled from the 
 thought. 
 
 If Love, once the heart s inmate, can 
 not go, this had been but its worthless 
 similitude. The sooner the thing was 
 out of her sight ten feet underground 
 the better. 
 
 In after time because the heart, if it 
 be genial, waxes charitable with years 
 there was a certain reaction : then 
 news of his well-being came to be grate 
 ful ; but not now. She wished no news 
 about him : she was sure of that after 
 she had read Creighton s letter. 
 
 That night she lay awake she knew 
 not how long. Next day her school- 
 hours were invaded, as Creighton s of 
 fice-hours had been, by vagrant doubts. 
 In the afternoon, after giving Leoline 
 her music-lesson, she had a long, sol 
 itary gallop in the woods : then she 
 slackened rein and let Bess walk lazily 
 back. By the time she reached home 
 she had decided that she must have a 
 talk with Creighton. Ere she went to 
 rest she wrote and burned up several 
 notes. Next morning, before break 
 fast, she indited and sent to one whose 
 heart was beginning to wax sick with 
 "hope deferred," the following: 
 
 "To ELIOT CREIGHTON, ESQ. : 
 
 " I have taken time, as you wished, 
 to think over your letter, and I am not 
 willing to dismiss you, as you phrase it, 
 with four words. Can you spare time 
 to ride out this fine morning ? 
 
 "CELIA PEMBROKE. 
 "Saturday" 
 
 Almost before breakfast was over 
 Creighton s horse was at the door. 
 While they traversed the village little 
 passed between them. As they rode by 
 Harper s modest dwelling, Celia said, 
 " I m sorry you missed that sermon after 
 Ellen s death." 
 
 "Good Mr. Harper wrote it out at my 
 suggestion ; and I have not read so 
 powerful an appeal for many a day. 
 Your sex is often adored, but seldom 
 fairly treated. Flattery, Courtesy, In 
 dulgence are gay courtiers, but grave, 
 sober-eyed Justice is worth them all." 
 
 Celia had concluded, the day before, 
 
270 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 that it was good for a wife to be proud 
 of her husband. The thought came to 
 her again. 
 
 "Which road do you prefer ?" Creigh- 
 ton asked. 
 
 " Shall we ride to Grangula s Mount ?" 
 Then, with a smile, she added, " I have 
 pleasant associations with it." 
 
 Creighton ought, in common civility, 
 to have expressed his assent, but he did 
 not. Perhaps, too, it was his part to 
 allude the first to the letter he had writ 
 ten, but that also he neglected. He 
 spoke, instead, of Ellinor, saying how 
 much pleasure it gave him to see her so 
 bright and contented. " It was but the 
 other day," he added, "your sister said 
 to me that she had never known what 
 happiness was till she became blind." 
 
 "A sentiment I met with in Madame 
 Roland s autobiography may explain 
 that, I think." 
 
 "And the sentiment was ?" 
 
 " That happiness depends not so much 
 on events as on the affections." 
 
 " It is one of the foundation-truths of 
 the world. Every year stamps it more 
 and more on one s heart." 
 
 "On some hearts." 
 
 They were getting didactic. Conver 
 sation flagged till, arrived at the Mount, 
 Creighton, to use the language of the 
 country, had " hitched their horses to a 
 swinging limb" and they had seated 
 themselves in the shade. 
 
 "Mr. Creighton," Celia then said, her 
 voice somewhat unsteady, " I am per 
 fectly sure that if I married a worthy 
 man, no one would congratulate me 
 more sincerely than you. But when 
 you wrote that were you thinking of any 
 one in particular?" 
 
 The usually self-possessed Creighton 
 reddened with embarrassment, and Ce 
 lia, despite the guard she thought she 
 had set on that silly habit of hers, blush 
 ed over face and neck. 
 
 "I pained you, Miss Pembroke," he 
 broke forth when he saw her emotion : 
 "I had no right " 
 
 " I think you had a right," she tried 
 to say quietly. " I wished to tell you " 
 There she stopped, and, after a mo 
 ment s hesitation, abruptly and very 
 
 irrelevantly, it seemed, she added : 
 "Harriet tells me you ve been reading 
 Sir Charles Grandison lately." 
 
 He could not imagine what this was 
 leading to, but he answered, instinctive 
 ly, "Yes." 
 
 " Have you come to the episode about 
 Sir Charles ward ?" 
 
 "Emily Jervois ?" Then it flashed 
 on him her hopeless love for her 
 guardian ! 
 
 " Her case is not mine. I never was 
 in love" she said it with a nervous sort 
 of smile "I never was in love with 
 either of my guardians." 
 
 "Thank God!" He did not intend 
 to say it aloud. The tone of his voice 
 went to Celia s heart : it revealed to her 
 all he had been suffering, and she add 
 ed, very earnestly, 
 
 " I have been weak and foolish, Mr. 
 Creighton, but I solemnly assure you 
 that I never loved Mr. Sydenham ex 
 cept as his daughter might ; and he, as 
 surely, never dreamed of me as a wife. 
 When I spoke six months ago of a 
 divided heart " 
 
 " It was Mowbray !" 
 
 "It couldn t have been what we ought 
 to call love, yet it would come back for 
 months in spite of pride, in spite of 
 reason. Could I say yes to you while it 
 haunted me ?" 
 
 "And now, Celia, now?" 
 
 "Evelyn Mowbray would be less dead 
 to me if he were in his grave." 
 
 It was all told. And then Celia Pem 
 broke found out, for. the first time in her 
 life, what Love s words are like. All that 
 Creighton had garnered and guarded in 
 his heart for long months, that happy 
 heart poured out now a revelation of 
 which she had never even dreamed. 
 On the grass at her feet, both her hands 
 in his, those wonderful gray eyes on 
 hers, she felt that this was her first love. 
 It quenched all lingering recollections 
 of that other feeble counterfeit, as the 
 sun puts out the faintest star. She had 
 had visions, as girlhood will, of a fair 
 world, but this that was opening upon 
 her outshone her brightest dreams. 
 Grangula s Mount was hallowed in her 
 memory for evermore. 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 271 
 
 When the first wild waves of emotion 
 had subsided, and on the long swell of 
 satisfied affection that succeeded some 
 thing like conversation was possible, 
 Creighton said: "Celia darling, what 
 helped you to find out, at last, how it 
 stood in that dear heart of yours ?" 
 
 "There was a short sentence in your 
 letter about leaving us in three or four 
 weeks." 
 
 " I hated to write that. It seemed so 
 like an appeal to your pity." 
 
 " Did it ? Perhaps we might both have 
 been much to be pitied if you had gone : 
 at all events, I discovered when that 
 alternative came suddenly before me, 
 that / should be. I wanted to know if 
 I really, really loved you ; and when I 
 found out that I couldn t let you go " 
 
 A sudden interruption prevented the 
 conclusion of the sentence ; not that 
 any impertinent intruders showed them 
 selves : it would have been quite awk 
 ward if they had. 
 
 When Celia recovered herself all to 
 the bright bloom that would linger 
 she said : 
 
 "Now it is my turn, Eliot " 
 
 "Is it?" 
 
 "Don t be foolish my turn to ask 
 questions." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "The other evening, when you felt 
 that you couldn t go without interrogat 
 ing your fate no matter why you 
 wrote me " 
 
 "You want to know about the why?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Yesterday I should have been 
 ashamed to tell you. If there s one 
 creature I despise more than another, 
 it s a man who presumes on a woman s 
 favor. But that evening when you sung 
 to us, it was like Nourmahal s song in 
 Lalla "Rookh." 
 
 " The air with the deep magic * in it 
 that the dark sorceress taught her? 
 You must have a powerful imagina 
 tion." 
 
 " I wonder who taught you such an 
 expression of that exquisite fancy of 
 Bulwer s. There was sorcery in it, 
 I m certain. I never felt its beauty be 
 fore. Did you think of me, Celia ? 
 
 did you care for me a little while you 
 were singing?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I thought so. It was the first time I 
 had thought it." 
 
 "You did not use to care for me." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "When you first came here." 
 
 " I was drawn to you the very first 
 evening we sang together. But you 
 were an heiress then, and I was a poor, 
 briefless lawyer. You were engaged, 
 too, and I had no business to care for 
 you as I did. It provoked me." 
 
 " I thought there was something wrong 
 that I had displeased, disgusted you, 
 perhaps 
 
 "I was disgusted, but it was with my 
 self for my own folly : that was all." 
 
 " It seems to me so strange now that 
 there ever was a time 
 
 "The future, Celia ! the bright, hap 
 py future ! Let the past go." 
 
 " I thought my fate a cruel one. How 
 little I knew about it !" 
 
 I don t believe either of them ever 
 knew how long they sat there under 
 that magnificent elm. In after years 
 they made an annual pic-nic pilgrimage 
 to the spot on a certain anniversary. 
 
 As they mounted their horses at last 
 and turned toward home, Creighton 
 asked : " Celia, what made you say you 
 had pleasant associations with Gran- 
 gula s Mount ?" 
 
 f Because it was here I first got an 
 idea what sort of man Eliot Creighton 
 was. By the way, saucy Leoline, who 
 had been admiring you that day, told 
 me, as we were riding home, that you 
 would never fancy her, but that I was 
 just the sort of person you would be 
 sure to fall in love with." 
 
 " Sagacious girl !" 
 
 " I wish she could find somebody 
 worthy of her " 
 
 "No hurry, Celia. Far better she 
 should enjoy in that pleasant house of 
 her father s a few years of beautiful 
 girlhood, fancy free." 
 
 "She s only three years younger than 
 I." 
 
 "But three years of innocent gladness, 
 three years to lay in a stock of strength 
 
2 7 2 
 
 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 and health and spirit and experience 
 against the realities of life ! And then 
 I think you re more than three years 
 older than Miss Sydenham. You ve 
 crowded two or three years into the last 
 twelvemonth." 
 
 " I feel as if I had. I think I must 
 be about twenty-five only two years 
 younger than you. Lela seems to me a 
 mere girl in comparison, but such a 
 dear, brave, spirited darling." 
 
 " I like her so much," 
 
 "Hadn t you a nice time with her that 
 day we met you in the woods, lover- 
 like, on horseback together?" 
 
 "You can t make me believe you were 
 jealous." 
 
 "I think it rather opened my eyes. 
 But any one might love Lela. Don t 
 you wish, as somebody has it, that you 
 had another heart to shrine her in ?" 
 
 One God and one heart, Celia. 
 That s Nature s creed and Love s." 
 
 "Forgive me, Eliot." 
 
 " For an innocent pleasantry ? Soame 
 Jenyns believed that part of our happi 
 ness in heaven would spring from an 
 exquisite perception of the mirthful. I 
 dare say he s right." 
 
 "Shall you find excuse for every fool 
 ish thing I say or do ?" 
 
 " If anything you ever say or do needs 
 excuse yes." 
 
 "Now I think of it, there s one thing 
 I did that was rather shocking." 
 
 " Pray, what was that ?" 
 
 " I pretty much asked you to have 
 me and this is not leap year." 
 
 " You asked me to have you ?" 
 
 "Didn t I ? Your modest prayer was 
 don t you remember? not by any 
 means that I should agree to be" 
 she blushed a little "to be Mrs. Eliot 
 Creighton, but only that I should be so 
 good as to let you know whether I had 
 a heart to give which, some day or 
 other in five or six years, I suppose 
 that would be a reasonable time for the 
 fading of past regrets might possibly 
 turn to the humble suitor who would 
 wait just as long as my ladyship pleased. 
 And now, as the children say, I ve gone 
 and done it " 
 
 "That s shocking, is it? Don t I 
 
 know why you did it? From pity. You 
 saw I was getting ghostly quite lacka 
 daisical and hatchet-faced." 
 
 "You mustn t joke about that. You 
 are looking pale and thin, and it s my 
 fault : I knew it was that day you told 
 me hard work was wholesome for you. 
 I ve repented of that. The bad child 
 won t do so any more." 
 
 But lovers talk, unmatched in its 
 proper place, will seldom bear retailing. 
 
 The sixteenth of June was their wed 
 ding-day. Mr. Harper was asked to 
 officiate : a great pleasure it was to the 
 kind old man, for both Celia and Creigh 
 ton were favorites of his : he thought he 
 had half persuaded the latter to study 
 Hebrew. 
 
 The morning before the wedding 
 Celia. found, on her toilet-table, a deed 
 to herself of the Hartland dwelling- 
 house and its appurtenances, signed by 
 her aunt and cousin a very pretty mar 
 riage-gift : plenty of room for her new 
 mother and sister-in-law and then Bess 
 would remain in her old stall. She had 
 scarcely recovered from her surprise 
 when, descending to the parlor, she 
 espied, standing there, a semi-grand 
 Steinway, with a kind note from Syden 
 ham lying on it. She tried the tone 
 and could not restrain an exclamation 
 of delight. 
 
 "When you return from your wed 
 ding-trip you will find me at Ethan s," 
 her aunt said to her during breakfast. 
 
 For Ethan had found out that his 
 wife and her mother-in-law were unwill 
 ing to be separated. And like a good 
 fellow, as he was, he had modified his 
 building plan, interposing between the 
 ground floor and the French attic a 
 second story. 
 
 Mrs. Wolfgang was disgusted with 
 the arrangement, declined to visit her 
 sister-in-law, and changed her residence 
 to Mount Sharon : report said, because 
 she had matrimonial designs on a rich 
 old bachelor, clerk of the court there. 
 I have not heard that she succeeded. 
 If he finally escape the snare, the hus 
 band-market of California is still open ; 
 and Leoline may some day be gratified 
 
BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 
 
 273 
 
 by the intelligence that the Rocky 
 Mountains are interposed between her 
 self and the object of her special aver 
 sion. I don t think the widow will go 
 to Texas, as she once thought of doing; 
 for by the last accounts from thence 
 the Chiskauga public learned that Cran- 
 stoun had lost his property and Cassi- 
 day his life in the Great War. Some 
 time, however, before the Mississippi 
 was closed by Confederate batteries, a 
 letter reached Norah, postmarked Aus 
 tin, Texas : it contained seventy dollars, 
 but not a word of explanation. 
 
 If any reader of ours, traveling in 
 Western Ohio, should happen, some 
 summer day, to look in upon Chis 
 kauga, and if, as he ought, he visit its 
 picturesque cemetery, entering it by the 
 eastern gateway, he will find, on the left 
 as he passes up, a neatly-fenced burial- 
 spot, marked by a white marble slab 
 bearing a name not unfamiliar to him ; 
 and planted around it he will see choice 
 flowers fresh and carefully tended. 
 Which is happier now the young girl 
 whose earthly burial-place was beneath 
 these flowers, or a man, young and 
 handsome still, owner of a marble-front 
 ed, richly-appointed dwelling on Arch 
 street; prosperous, all the world says, 
 and envied by all who are struggling for 
 similar prosperity ? He married well 
 some time since this young man for 
 he was accepted in due form by a stylish- 
 looking person about his own age, 
 boasting good family connections, who 
 dresses becomingly, enters a drawing- 
 room gracefully, receives her guests 
 with ease and dignity, and is satisfied, 
 on the whole, that she married him ; 
 for she finds that twelve thousand a 
 year, carefully managed, does tolerably 
 well. The villa she got him to rent last 
 summer at Newport was rather small, 
 to be sure, and she has to be a little 
 careful about evening-parties they are 
 so frightfully expensive now -a- days. 
 Nor has she been to Europe yet ; but 
 they expect to rent their house in Phil 
 adelphia, furnished, next summer, and 
 then they can afford to go. Meanwhile, 
 she contrives, by well-ordered economy, 
 to keep a brougham and never to neglect 
 18 
 
 an evening at the opera. It s not amiss, 
 take it all together, she thinks. Her hus 
 band (though his poor mother knows 
 better) still inclines to believe that his 
 wife loves him, and it may be a year or 
 two before he is undeceived. 
 
 It is to be taken into account, how 
 ever, that if that fashionable husband 
 were to be brought face to face with an 
 evil deed of his that would not usually 
 be called murder if he stood beside 
 that village grave and read, cut on the 
 pure marble, a simple name his cheek 
 might blanch, and his heart, all selfish 
 as it is, might sink within him. But 
 then he is not obliged, that I know of, 
 to visit Chiskauga at all ; or even if 
 business should take him there, he need 
 not enter the village graveyard. The 
 world he lives in is another world, hav 
 ing no connection with that in which he 
 was once doomed to vegetate. Old 
 things have passed away : he has left 
 his youthful follies behind. 
 
 It would be an unheard-of thing yet 
 how often is truth unheard of, and how 
 infinitely, sometimes, does human con 
 ception of the strange fall short of the 
 truth ! it would be a strange, unheard- 
 of thing to say that Ellen Tyler is far, 
 far happier to-day than he, the falsely- 
 styled favorite of fortune, by whom she 
 was cheated and betrayed. 
 
 Yet, withal, the man is not worse than 
 hundreds of others on whom Society 
 smiles children of this world, who look 
 upon riches as little less than a passport 
 to heaven. Let him make the most of 
 the cumber and trouble he idolizes. Let 
 him smother, if he can, under glitter 
 and gauds, ugly recollections of lying 
 and cruelty. Let him robe conscience 
 in purple and fine linen. He has chosen 
 his part. Of all such it may be said, as 
 in the olden time it was of the self-seek 
 ers who "loved to pray standing in the 
 synagogues and in the corners of the 
 streets:" "Verily I say unto you, They 
 have their reward." 
 
 What of the humble, sequestered fu 
 ture of the two sisters and the husbands 
 of their choice ? They had escaped life s 
 worst perils, but they were still young 
 
274 
 
 BEYOXD THE BREAKERS. 
 
 and inexperienced. All earthly seas, 
 even beyond the breakers, are visited 
 by storms ; and Goethe has wisely said : 
 
 "All beginning is hard, but hardest is household 
 beginning."* 
 
 Yet, through error and trial, through 
 storm and sunshine, they have enjoyed 
 
 * The line here paraphrased occurs in that charm 
 ing pastoral, Herman and Dorothea, reading in the 
 original : 
 
 " Aller Anfang ist schwer, am schwersten der Anfang 
 der Wirthschaft." 
 
 a liberal portion of happiness. Many 
 hours they have spent when life was 
 "lovely and pleasant," and when hus 
 band and wife felt they had little left to 
 desire except that one day in death 
 undivided they might pass together to 
 those regions where skies are brighter 
 and pleasures are higher than are skies 
 and pleasures, at their best and bright 
 est, here below. 
 
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