Punch, Volume 32 (Google Books)

POPULATION OF THE ANIMATED KINGDOM.

WE read that “in Austria the Census has begun for animals as well as or human beings!”. This is an improvement, we fancy, upon the English

It is true, difficulties might occur, and if there is a Woys Bw ELL in the |Austrian dominions, he will have to send in a tolerably long list. We can imagine the case of an old maid being awfully puzzled with her Census-paper. If one antiquated Fraulein, who lives near the LustGarten, in Vienna, sends in all the particulars of her domestic menagerie, it will present some such miscellaneous collection as the following:— “5 canaries, of which 3 are hens and the other 2 draw up their own | water by means of little buckets: 1 dormouse that is always asleep; one hedgehog in the kitchen to eat up the filthy blackbeetles; 3 guinea-pigs, that feed out of your hand; 1 Italian j.” that is always shivering from the cold, though, he has a beautiful pardessus on, made of the finest pink merino, and trimmed with blue rosettes and ribbons; 1 Malay parrot, that talks five different languages, and imitates all the cries of the town, besides giving all the words of military command quite as loudly as RADETsky; 1 cockatoo; l spaniel (real Blenheim); 1 French poodle (very clever—beats a drum, rings the bell, rolls a wheelbarrow, and fires off a small cannon); 1 Angola cat; 1 Persian ditto: 12 tortoiseshell ditto; 1 tame s uirrel, (follows you all over the house, like a Jo: 7 white mice; 28 kittens, of various ages, colours, and sizes, more or less ” ” The above list would be exclusive of the Cochin-chinas, bantams, and other pets of the poultry yard. You may be sure, there is an equal amount of brute wealth in England. If a similar Census-paper for animals were circulated here, we have a strong suspicion that }. returns would prove that in tame squirrels accomplished canaries, polyglot parrots, and encylcopaedical dogs poodles, we were the richest country in the world. Why in cats alone, we should lick the rest of the universe!

The Phrenological Journal and Science of Health: Incorporated …, Volumes 50-51 (Google Books)

“WAS ST. PAUL A BACHELOR?

BY MRS. H. Y. REED.

IT seems to be a pretty general impression that Paul was a bachelor, and many ladies of the present day have formed an opinion of him which is decidedly unfavorable.

Those who are strongly interested in the suffrage movement appear to be greatly exercised by his advice to woman, and disposed to rebel against it; but it must be that they who condemn him so rashly have not read all that he has written on the ” Woman Question,” and we protest against his being condemned unheard.

This article has been suggested by the words of a recent writer, who pitches into Paul without a bit of mercy, calling him an old bachelor and blaming men and women for ever believing in his instructions. Now, I am in favor of universal justice, and we women must always be careful not to condemn our friends.

I believe, and propose to show, that Paul was actually a married man, and a strong advocate of ” Woman’s Rights.”

The Corinthian church had written to him for directions upon the subject of matrimony in a time of great persecution, and, under tlie circumstances, he seems to think that for the time being the unmarried had better remain so.

No candid mind can think for a moment that Paul intended tc disapprove of God’s or

dinance. He gives directions for the greatest faithfulness and affection on the part of the married; but he says, ” I say therefore to the unmarried and widows that it is good for them if they abide even as I.” This is his advice— not by commandment, but by permission.

The word unmarried in the above text is agamm, and applies to those who have lost their companions, and Belshaiu renders it “widowers.” In this sense it is properly joined with Weera (widow), hence the idea of the writer is plain.

Eusebius, Clement, and other historians speak of Paul as a married man, and according to the best historical evidence we can get, he was at the time of writing this epistle a widower.

And thus he remained true to his dead, and admonished other men who had lost their wives to pursue a similar course.

Is there anything very objectionable in this advice? If there is a woman in America who is particularly anxious for her husbaud to marry again after her death, we should like to see her.

The Apostle’s “advice to wives,” in the fifth chapter of Ephesians, seems to be very offensive to some because he admonishes them to obedience.

Husbands, however, are very fond of quoting it. If there is but one text in the Bible with which they are acquainted, it is that; but do you ever hear the twenty-fifth verse from masculine lips? Listen: “Husband*, lore your wines, even as Christ lored the churcfi, and gam himself for it.” There, gentlemen, is your rule of conduct—don’t forget, and, by the way, how do you like it? Oh, where is there a greater love than this? and what an exalted opinion Paul must have had of woman to deem her worthy of such affection! Rest assured that obedience will gladly follow a love like that.

When men are honest, loyal, and true—when they tenderly love and shield even at the sacrifice of self, then woman will “honor and obey” without any objections or regrets.

Don’t look incredulous; some of us are blessed with just such husbands, and think we know how to appreciate them. You never hear this class complaining of rebellious wives.

If all men were what they should be, ” Woman’s Rights Conventions” would pass away forever, and wives would be too happy at home to ever seek the platform. Let those who are annoyed by these “manifestations” seek to abolish them by a radical improvement of the male sex.

But in the face of such advice as the above a lady writer says: “Though he might have understood the management of the women of Macedonia, he wasn’t quite up to the womanly intellects of the nineteenth century.”

My own impression is that Paul’s method of domestic management is just what the “womanly intellects of the nineteenth century” would best appreciate and profit by, but what, alas, few of them are blessed with. Any woman would be satisfied with an affection like that, and if she wouldn’t, why, Bhe doesn’t deserve any.

Let those who are troubled with unappreciative wives try Paul’s recipe, and if this tender care and surpassing love does not win them back, they are made of very different material from the rest of womankind.

Again, the lady says: “In my opinion an old bachelor, whether he be saint, apostle, prophet, evangelist, pastor or teacher, hasn’t the slightest business to express an opinion in reference to other men’s wives.” Well, it is drawing the lines pretty close in these days of free speech if a man is not allowed to express an opinion because he isn’t fortunate enough to have a wife. Is that to be the rule of action, or rather inaction, when women are candidates for office? To be sure, we arc not willing for

bachelors (o criticise other men’s wives very freely, nor shall we permit sharp-nosed old maids to rind fault with our husbands, or prescribe rules lor the management of our children. They may feed their canaries and train their cats and poodles as they please (provided of course the cats and poodles can stand it), but they can’t manage our babies.

And if they haven’t any room for the milk of human kindness in their veins, they needn’t spend their time in whining about Paul’s ideas of matrimony. His admonitions faithfully followed lead to the highest and purest happiness that mankind is capable of. He represents the husband as being the head of the family, and every man ought to be worthy of that position; then he exhorts him to “Lore his wife.” Ah, yes, Paul, that is the keynote of true matrimony—this never-failing, never-changing love— that lives through storm and sunshine, through prosperity aud adversity, always growing stronger as the years go by. Love which is founded upon mutual respect and the admiration of moral worth, will live when beauty is lost and vanity dead. Again, he says: “So ought men to love their wives even as their oicn bodies.” There’s another test. How many can walk up to that without flinching?

Tobacco and whisky would be neglected sometimes if this advice were followed, for women do like to have their husbands clean and sober. How many men, think you, would tolerate a wife that chewed tobacco, or kiss a rosy mouth polluted with the filthy weed f No wonder men can’t kiss each other!

Again, in the last verse of the chapter, the Apostle repeats his charge, to render it if possible more emphatic: “Nevertheless let every one of you in particular so love his wile, even as himself, and the wife see that she reterence her husband.” We can’t object to that When man places himself upon the Bible pedestal, and shapes his conduct by the high standard that inspiration has given, woman will gladly reverence him.

No man who is truly worthy the affection of a noble woman is obliged to complain of a lack of respect on her part Woman will reverence man if he will allow her to do so. She clings to him even in his vices; and if ho filled the grand ideal of Paul, he would rejoice in a love and happiness of which very few of them have any conception.

Paul was one of the earliest advocates of “Woman’s Rights;” he says,” There is neither male nor female, but ye are all one in Christ” There’s equality for you—how can it be expressed more strongly? Because a woman is taught to respect her husband—because she was forbidden to habitually speak in public, or to interfere with matters which it was a man’s business to attend to, it does not follow that when God fitted her for any work she was denied the privilege of using her gifts. Anna was allowed to prophesy in the temple as well as Simeon, and Paul commends several women for their efficiency in teaching the Word.

His prohibition of a woman’s prophesying or praying with her head uncovered is certainly

an acknowledgment of her right to do so under proper regulations. He does not -claim that she is of less importance than man, but that she is and should be more modest, hen :e he desires her to be vailed, in accordance with the Oriental customs on appearing in public.

The Bible gives to woman a position of delicacy and also of dignity, while it admonishes her to act with becoming modesty and selfrespect. Surely she must be very far ” out of her sphere” who finds fault with its perfect consistency.

The Young Husband (Google Books)

CHAPTER XLIX, ‘Tis not the least disparagement To be defeated by th’ event. HUDIERs. NoTHING ever equaled the astonishment of

Lady Graham on receiving the announcement that Admiral and Mrs. Grey and suite had arrived in Connaught-place; and as she had intended that London should be a little preserve of her own, in which to hunt for great acquaint. ances and to pursue a career of amusement.* well as of triumph in the most fashionable circles it may be doubted whether all the pleasures” expressed on this occasion were perfectly genu. ine. It was rather an awkward prospect also” meet with Lord Edenthorpe, after havingsg” a certificate that she considered him derangel,

but Lady Graham had audacity equal to any

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of higher enjoyment such as mine. My ambition in society shall always be, to illuminate my mind by the light of others, and to gather around me, if it be possible, all those who dignify human nature by their genius, their taste, their talents, and their principles. To assist me in such an object, and, I trust, to witness my success, you will not regret leaving for a time your rural happiness at Rockingham, forgetting your love of nature, your habits of retirement, your objects of benevolence, and your love of useful activity, for the sake of one already so much indebted to your friendship.” When the nature of Lord Edenthorpe’s request was fully explained to Admiral Grey, he unhesitatingly acceded to the unexpected proposal that he should spend some weeks in London immediately. Admiral Grey then expressed to the young peer, in a few short but warm-hearted words of kindness and sincerity, how gladly he coincided in any proposition which continued their intercourse, especially in one that promised so much pleasure to his family, and that did him so much honor. The worthy admiral at this moment saw a vision before his mind’s eye, which was by no means disagreeable to him, of the very arm-chair near the window of the Senior United Service Club, in which he had formerly spent some not very unhappy hours in grumbling over the state of the nation; and he rapidly called over a muster-roll of what friends he had still surviving there, with whom to discuss the Navigation Laws and the introduction of steam in the royal navy, which he persisted in considering an odious innovation, not to be tolerated or countenanced. Lord Edenthorpe took an early opportunity of explaining, in a very few words, to Charlotte, and with a look of diffittent pleasure, the plan to which he had got Mrs. Grey’s consent—that the present party should be immediately transferred to London; and ended by saying, “May I hope, then, Miss Grey, that what promises so much happiness to me will give you some pleasure ?” “The very greatest” replied Charlotte, frankly, and then added, fearing she had expressed herself too warmly, while she vailed with her eyelids the happy light in her eyes—“We shall see my brother again there before he sails; and I have always wished, like Hannah More, that I could visit London to see the bishops and booksellers. Never having yet been in the great metropolis, you may imagine, Lord Edenthorpe, how very glad I shall be to go there, and under such very great advantages.” “Then I am fortunate indeed,” observed Lord Edenthorpe, his handsome young countenance breaking suddenly into a smile of anticipated happiness. “I feel within me now a promise of success in life. In your family, Mrs. Grey, there is a sufficient motive to exertion, and a more than sufficient reward, should all my future wishes be as favorably granted. From this hour let me date the beginning of my actual existence; for now I shall run the race of life with others, and endeavor to win myself a place in their esteem.” “The greatest felicity of life is to pursue some great an good object, therefore ‘ is well chosen,” observed the admiral, looking over the edge of his newspaper. “Of all the wretched beings I know, the most so are those lying on a of roses, who have nothing for which to

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emergency. She soon ascertained that for Anna
“erceval’s sake the story was all to be hushed
up, therefore she could keep it from Sir Edward;
and having written to Mrs. Grey what she called
a thorough explanation of the whole affair, lay-
ing immeasurable blame on Sir Fitzroy, who
had tricked her into unconsciously countenancing
flis schemes, Lady Graham summoned up cour-
age to call at Connaught-place as soon as she
ascertained that her uncle’s family were domes-
ticated there, and to give them all, including
Lord Edenthorpe, a rapturous reception. This
visit she ingeniously timed so as to arrive in the
midst of a grand review in Hyde Park, which
the party were all occupied in witnessing from
he window; so that in five minutes she con-
trived to conceal her confusion by uttering a
whirlwind of charming exclamations about the
firing and the maneuvers, the splendid uniforms,
the long lines of cavalry, the military bands, and
the loud roar of the artillery guns. The admiral
had too great a contempt for Lady Graham to
imagine her capable of any deep-laid plot; there-
fore, though his manner in £ her was
unusually dry, and he gave a growl of disappro-
bation to almost everything she said during this
her first visit, yet his anger was very apt to burn
itself out, and the whole of his ire became finally
concentrated on Sir Fitzroy, on whose account
he evidently thought that capital punishments
thould not yet be abolished. He several times
declared that hanging was only too good for Sir
Fitzroy, after planning so vile a conspiracy
against the liberty and reputation of his noble
young relative, who became every day and hour
more endeared to the friends of his adoption by
the candid, frank, and confiding disposition he
displayed, as well as by the yet brighter qualities
which gradually he exhibited, dawning like sun-
shine, brightly and warmly, through the mist in
which hitherto they had been shrouded.
If Charlotte, a “child of the heather,” such as
Ossian describes, and “a daughter of the mount-
ains,” had felt a momentary regret at bidding
adieu to all the tranquil pleasures of a country
life-the village school, the gay little garden,
crowded with birds and flowers, the hay fields,
and the very sunsets, which seemed brighter at
Rockingham than elsewhere—she, nevertheless,
gladly acknowledged that the untried resources
of the metropolis were a most ample recompense,
in the mean while, for all she had left. In the
very, spirit of merriment, almost resembling
her brother, Charlotte’s animated countenance
looked, when Lady Graham entered, like morn-
ing sunshine, as she stood under a tent, in a
large balcony, which very much resembled, as
the admiral observed, in external appearance a
four-post bed. While Charlotte remained there,
drinking in, for the first time, a real London fog,
admiring as much of the view as she could see,
and wondering at the endless stream of carriages
which, from day to day and year to year, wheels
slowly round the Park, she felt all the excitement
and surprise natural to a young mind, in behold-
ing, for the first time, the splendor of London,

on the great wilderness of bricks before her to flow out at random, for the amusement of those around, each of whom sympathized in her juvenile animation, except Lady Graham, who gazed superciliously round, as if she had been all her life accustomed to something much better, and as if the world in general were not certainly good enough for her. Before Charlotte had expressed half her interest or half her emotions on first beholding such a scene of strange confusion and multitudinous excitement, Lady Graham, whose own sensations were all that she thought worthy of any one’s attention, was giving her usual affected little shiver, and exclaiming, in her empty tone of childish annoyance—“It is cold! It is very cold! Charlotte, do you not find it cold?” “I have no time to be either cold or hot,” replied Charlotte, leaning forward to escape interruption, while her mind became crowded with thoughts and feelings too numerous almost to analyze—too rapid even to be expressed. “Lon don, you know, is as new to me as Rome, or Florence, or Hong Kong itself; and to-day I really feel as happy as if this were to be the only happy day of my life.” “Do you pretend to find it cold to-day, Lady Graham, when the glare on these windows this morning made every pane like a burning-glass? The trees are all fainting away with heat!” said Peter, fanning himself with the “Morning Post.” “You know what the poet says of such weather as this— ‘The sun, no trees the eye to shade, Glares full into the windows, And scorches you, I am afraid, Just as it does the Hindoos.” At this moment Sir Fitzroy, splendidly “got up,” and mounted on a prancing steed that looked as if it were borrowed from Astley’s, came past, followed by a very smart groom; and Lady Graham, turning pale, shrunk out of sight, with a glance of astonished consternation at this unwelcome apparition; but not before the baronet had time to kiss his hand toward the window, with a look of the most intimate cordiality, and then to take off his hat, with an air of burlesque respect, as if that were much too ceremonious a greeting to exchange between friends so very familiar. It was long before Lady Graham recovered the shock of so unexpected a recognition, and, during the rest of her visit, she continued absent, nervous, and irritable. While Charlotte frankly expressed, as well as words could do, all the curiosity, surprise, admiration, approbation, and disapprobation, which filled her mind to overflowing, she became gradually impressed with the feeling—so common on such occasions-a sense of her own utter insignificance in the center of such a multitude, to whose interests and affections she was unknown and to whose very names she was a stranger. Accustomed, as Charlotte had always been to live where every face among her humble neigh. bors became lighted up as soon as she appeared

—where the birds, the flowers, and the animals

its wealth, and its gayety.

were her companions, and where she could trace

Charlotte did not partake in the nature of those the visible hand of God in all the glorious scenes country-bred girls, not very uncommon, who are of nature—this Was to her a new and strange above being astonished by the novelty and grand-species of solitude. Brought up with scarcely

£ur of a great metropolis on first beholding it, any associates but her own family,

to whose

but she allowed all her exclamations and remarks happiness her presence had always been essen” N

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and having only mingled for a brief season in the limited circle of Edinburgh, it was new and depressing now to be in so wide a world, and yet not of it—to have neither sympathy nor association with one among the thousands in sight —to feel conscious that, amid all this novelty and these wonders, an impassable barrier stood between herself and every animated countenance she saw. All around were unconscious of her presence, and indifferent to it; the busy scenes of life had been carried on from century to century on that wide field without her, and would continue for centuries, perhaps, hereafter, as busy, as gay, and as animated as now, when her brief span of life was over. Nothing that could ever occur to herself would make one atom of difference to any individual among the crowds she saw; and all were alike independent of her sympathy, her good opinion, or her good offices. “How different from dear old Rockingham!” thought Charlotte, as she listened to the busy hum of countless swarms, hurrying past to their innumerable avocations, and thought of her own pleasant home. “‘Tis a note of enchantment—what ails her? she sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.” When Charlotte, after a few days, had become accustomed to the gay, moving pageant—a perfect rout in the open air—continually in progress under the windows at Connaught-place, she began to consider the ring in Hyde Park, splen# as it was, a scene of exceedingly monotonous amusement, if it could be called amusement at all. The wealth and magnificence of England amazed her beyond conception, as she watched the perpetual stream, like a river, several miles long, of brilliant carriages, stately horses, showy hammer-cloths, and party-colored footmen, while the numerous gayly-dressed pedestrians looked, in the distance, like a field of anemones in a gale of wind, and reminded Charlotte of some pictures she had copied, by Watteau. Nothing surprised Charlotte, however, in this grand coup d’ail of fashion, half so much as to see the multitudes of well-mounted equestrian ladies, careering about like a seattered army of Amazons, with habits long as the dresses worn by the ladies of Troy, whose garments swept the ground, and who sat their horses with such inimitable grace. It seemed to Charlotte as if, in every family, there were three daughters, at least, all well mounted, and attended by a groom quite “regardless of expense;” and nothing impressed more upon her mind the great wealth of London; while Peter suggested that they should be drilled into a regiment of light cavalry, though he feared it would be a very difficult corps to command. • . Admiral Greymourned over a great decay of grandeur in the procession round Hyde Park since the times of Brummel and George the Fourth, when the state carriages really were a sight to behold; but now he complained that it was a mere string of incognito one-horse Broughams. To make up for that, however, one great improvement he could not but remark, of which her majesty was the first to set an ex3. that there is, on Sundays, literally “No is now actually a breach in the law the law of religion, for any car.

riage to be seen in the ring; and, except a few hired equipages, engaged for the day by persons whose only holiday is on a Sunday, few now frequent Hyde Park on what was once its most crowded day. Every body walks there, but nobody drives on Sunday; therefore Lady Gra. ham, having performed one round after church, hurried home, quite shocked at herself for such a breach, not of religion, but of fashionable decorum. She always afterward got up a tableau of domestic felicity for Sundays, by spending the time in Kensington Gardens, walking with Sir Edward, and followed by Harry and Laura, as well as, much to her own dissatisfaction, sometimes by Captain Grey, when he could es: cape for a day from Portsmouth. Mrs. Grey thought that most of those ladies in the gorgeous equipages, daily parading round the ring, wore on their countenances an expres. sion of weariness and discontent, satiated, prol. ably, to absolute disgust, with mere amusement, and with searching in vain for that happiness which can only be found in active exertion and useful duties, “How many schemes of ambi. tion, hopes of happiness, and fevered dreams of aggrandizement, are all fermenting and boiling amid that mass of brilliant-looking individuals now in sight!” thought Mrs. Grey, one mom. ing. “Each dissatisfied, probably, with his own lot, and envying that of others.” “What a scene of happiness and prosperity.” exclaimed Lady Graham, with very opps# feelings. “One would fancy that every indi. vidual there had doubled his income, at least, by railway successes; and, indeed, scripisatagreat premium now in many lines, especially the Isled Man preference shares. Every mortal seems to me more than mortal on a fine day in the Park. with all their cares and vexations left behind.” “On the contrary,” said Mrs. Grey; “every individual, you may depend upon it is planning and feverishly desiring, some complete change in his situation or circumstances. In that rain. bow of carriages, circling round at a hearse-like pace, and among all those gorgeously-dress’ people, there is not, probably, one in ten tr’ happy. Those even who seem the most splendid and who are surrounded by a cluster of serva’s in gaudy liveries, are, I have no doubt, com’: ing of poverty, and grumbling about the times, “Then if they would only take sharesinthels’ of Mam Atmospheric—” Lady Graham stop’ for she saw an explosion gathering in Sir E ward’s eye; and merely added, “But p’ take a pride now in complaining of poverty. “Especially when asked for any chari’ donation,” added Admiral Grey, slyly. “It” wonderful how poor we all become on these” casions. Look at old Lord Didcot, whose “. certs, the only expense he does not grudge,” to cost more than 200l. a night, given o’ singers; but when he, once every year, bes’ iói in blankets and flannels for the poor £ own extensive estates, I become weat: ” reading in every newspaper what Lord Didcot, “with his usual liberality,” has done—or rather, with his usual illiberality, has not done. It would be quite as much in proportion from ” with my atom of an income, to give the “‘ shillings! How would it read thus:-‘Admi: Grey, with his usual liberality, has forwar.'”

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uted, during this inclement season, among the poor on his extensive estates at Rockingham.’” “But,” observed Peter, “Lord Didcot’s soul is now so devoted to saving candle-ends and cheese-parings, that it is fit only for a mouse in a cupboard. He talks ostentatiously of giving ‘his mile; but as the widow’s mite was all that she possessed, his, in the same proportion, would amount to half a million at least.’ *… ” “Life is certainly difficult to comprehend,” whispered Charlotte, aside. “Why has not Lord Didcot my father’s large heart, or else his small means? What a cross-grained world this often seems; but we shall one day understand the why and the wherefore of all that appears now so perplexing.” “Nothing is more remarkable than the growing love of money in such men as Lord Didcot. It has increased since he lost his ouly son; and no one now remains to whom he can care for bequeathing his enormous accumulations. Bad health prevents his enjoying anything now, and

old age prevents the possibility of his enjoying”

any thing long. The whole goes, at his death, to Lord Leamington, a distant cousin, already only too rich, whom he actually detests, and yet he hoards with the most ferocious keenness, never relaxing his heart to do a generous action, or to bask in the sunshine of happy faces, caused by his own liberality,” observed the admiral. “I have seen a penurious housekeeper (not meaning you, Mrs. Grey) heard a box of apples till it became fit only to be thrown on a dunghill, or a box of game till it had to be buried; but these were not more useless to their owners than money hoarded until the avaricious possessor be himself cast into the grave. Certainl wealth is not his who merely holds it, but his who wisely enjoys it.” “Yes,” added” Peter; “the hoarded money never to be used contributes no more to real happiness than the contents of a gravel-pit; therefore, of all the lunacies in nature, Lord Didcot’s appears to me one of the greatest, for his very selfishness makes him the most selfdenying of mortals. He is like the ass that carried gold on his back, but fed on thistles. I feel myself often a perfect Cruesus beside him, throwing away half-a-crown with a sort of gentlemanlike indifference and chivalrous generosity that he never can know, and being actually extravagant in post-office stamps, while Lord Didcot, old as he is, would walk a mile to save one. It is amazing the shabby things rich people will do, by the way, to save a single stamp.” “A post-office stamp makes excellent paper currency for copper, and is quite the recognized coin of the realm now,” observed Harry. “Lord Leamington paid three at the Kensington turnpike yesterday, and the man scarcely looked surprised. I squander these little penny bank notes with the most extravagant liberality.” “Well, Harry, you and I are young and fool. ish now, with little to spend, and therefore spend it heartily,” said Peter, “but wait till we are nearly done with life, old and solitary, without heirs, relations, or friends, like Lord Didcot, and See how tenaciously we shall grasp the uttermost farthing, and watch that no one gains any pleasure or advantage by us.” “Not even by borrowing a book,” said Laura, laughing “During the few di’s we visited

lately at Lord Didcot’s, I took down a few old numbers of Blackwood’s Magazine from his immense library to beguile the time, and he said that it gave him a headache to see the gap, which looked to his eye like the loss of a front tooth; so I was actually obliged to replace the volume.” “There is nothing so foolish that a wise man has not said it or done it,” observed Sir Edward; “and we all lead a life of wondering at each other’s faults and follies; but my friend Didcot certainly is an eminent example that the less apparent motive people have for saving, the greater interest they seem to have in accumulation.” “But,” interrupted Lady Graham, eagerly, : forget that in the present day small sums which people used to squander without a grudge are now become doubly valuable. No one thought long ago of deliberately investing 20l., but now you may have a share in the Isle of Man Atmospheric Railway for it, which is, in fact, worth 50l., and will probably rise soon to 100l. It becomes a continual daily amusement, moreover, to watch in every newspaper the state of the share-market, which is like the rise and fall of the barometer, but much more interesting.” “To all whom it concerns!” interposed Sir Edward; “but if my lost arm could be restored to me, on condition of my taking a half-quarter share in one of these speculating concerns, I would rather cut off the other.” Lady Graham gave rather a frightened glance at Sir Edward, who spoke in a tone of more than . ordinary excitement; and she had, as usual, recourse, in her confusion, to Ditto, saying, “Well, my fat friend, what does Ditto say to that? Those who would catch fish must not mind the danger of getting, wet. You really are losing your looks, Ditto, darling-growing quite corpu. lent and unwieldy. I am ashamed of you. How I should like if I could bring my dear old horse into the drawing-room too! Nice old Ditto 1 Was it hungry? I wish you had seen Ditto when I gave him an ice at Gunter’s yesterday— he did so enjoy it.” “You asked him, I suppose, whether he preferred it cream or water?” “Now, darling Ditto! you have barked enough at those filthy beggars. You need not tear them in pieces. Poor wretches !—has any body got some copper? Those ragged children are too horrid. But look at this enchanting Italian boy —he is positively like Murillo’s picture that we saw yesterday in the National Gallery. Ah! but look what a smile he gives me for a shilling. It is worth double the money. He is too perfecti It is really quite a treat in this dull hum-drum world to see such a merry creature. English poverty only shocks one; but there is a grace and fun in the way that an Italian or an Irish beggar carries off his penury which makes it really a pleasure to relieve him.” “Just the remark I should have expected without meaning to be complimentary, from you, Emily,” growled the admiral. “You are exactly one of those ladies to encourage in yourself a capricious fancy for these wretched foreign boys-all entrapped here by designing men, to be enslaved, ill-used, and ruined in body and soul. You waste a great deal of time and money by talking bad Italian, to display your fluency their language, and throw away on the

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sympathy and aid due to the distresses of our own suffering countrymen. People never encourage rats to overrun their dwelling-houses; but how much greater is the evil, and actual danger, of encouraging idle, vicious, and dissolute foreigners to overrun our country!” ; “I am sure!” exclaimed Lady Graham, affectedly, “beggars of any kind are an intolerable bore, and receive very scanty encouragement from me! No sooner does my carriage stop in any sti’eet than I am instantly surrounded by a sort of impromptu bazar of miserable wretches, thrusting in at my windows and doors for sale, roses, pin-cushions, scissors, prints, oranges, and night-caps. I saw a sickly-looking woman, evidently just out of a typhus fever, blowing and breathing into a moss-rose, but yesterday, that she might pass it off upon me for a full-blown rose, and I had just time to pull up the glass, or she would have actually thrust it in at the very window! As my system is any thing for a quiet life, I have the pocket of my carriage filled with half-pence, and desire my servants, m general, to buy them all off at the cheapest rate ho can, but cn any terms, to send them away, because I live in constant terror that they might steal Ditto!”

“And you flatter yourself, Emily, that, by the selfish distribution in that way of a few coppers, you do a very praiseworthy act of benevolence.” interrupted Admiral Grey, with the slightest possible smile. “It would be much too great an effort of thought and of self-denial for you to

, sit down some day and consider, during ten minutes, whether the money so wasted could not do some possible good to somebody. As it is, what

. 5’ou g’ve’s of no more real use than a side-pocket to a dog.”

“By sending any trifle to the Mendicity Society, it would escape the clutches of those ablebodied persons who, being out of doors, are probably lit for work,” said Peter. “And your fund, however small, would then reach those deserving objects too ill and wretched to help themselves.

“I mean,” continued Admiral Grey, “to establish, immediately, a society for the suppression of selfishness—vice-president, Lady Graham! The fundamental principle shall be that human beings take the precedence of dogs in our good offices, and our own countrymen to come before foreigners, while each member shall ask himself every morning, ‘what can I do for the,cood of others ?’ and again ask himself every nigfif,’what have I done?’ Certainly the most beautiful ornament of any woman is what, in general, naturally belongs to them—a principle of unselfishness; and, as far as my observation has yet extended, there really are, to do every body justice, very few women who live for themselves.”

“And, least of all, single ladies of limited income,” added Peter, good-humoredly. “Such persons are constantly putting promising prodigies of nephews to Oxford, or fitting out superfluous nieces for India. Who does not remember all his life, as I remember, aunt Susan, some dear old lady, the benefactress of his childhood, whose tca-drinkings during the holidays, and presents when he returned to school, were among the earliest and most delightful pleasures of his infancy, and whose image, probably odd and fantastic enough, is yet indelibly engraved on his memory, and perhaps cherished in his heart forever?”

“Yes, Peter,” replied Mrs. Grey, warmly; “you arc right not to forget my good old aunt, whose purse was like the widow:s cruise, equal to every demand.

‘Site still wns the kindest
When Fortune wns blindest,
And brightest in love mid the darkness of fate.’

There are more generously disinterested actions done by the little estimated class of old maids in moderate circumstances, unloved and unknown as they often are, than by any race of people you could name. Their generous plans and kind affections must, of course, however, be tamed down within their very narrow means; and one can scarcely wonder that, sometimes, when their kind schemes of usefulness are frustrated, as a last resource of desponding solitude they take to any solitary refuge from the thoughtless ridicule and satirical observation of those they would have most desired to serve. The young should never make a jest at the growing infirmities of a respectable and undisguised old .age, or even laugh at those who beguile their lonely hours in the only companionship which they can sometimes find—with their cats, poodles, parrots, or canary-birds. We are all the creatures of circumstance; and when wondering, sometimes, at the strange eccentric resources of many well-meaning, solitary persons, I have , reminded myself of what was said by a captive, when liberated from prison, to the friend who expressed astonishment at his having occupied much time and attention in taming a spider, ‘Only wait till you are the inmate of a dungeon !'”

“Well! we need not fear solitude here, as I could slate my house with the visiting cards left for me this morning,” said Lady Graham pompously. “The Duchess of Ascot, Lady Balmoral, Lady Newmarket, and a perfect load of old friends.” •

“People fit to fill your house, but not your heart,” said the admiral. “You know, Lady Graham, a pound of feathers is as heavy as a pound of lead; but as it takes a great many to make up the same amount, so a very few real friends would outweigh a million with such trumpery minds as these you speak of. To be deserving of the name, friendship should be built on a rock of adamant, but the mere cobweb ties of fashion are broken at every breeze. It is the utmost exertion of my fortitude to sit in the room with soi-disant friends, who measure every body’s merits as if they were before a jury at Almack’s. and have not an atom of nature left in their feelings and opinions. Positively the whole conversation of ladies in London seems to me made up of boasting what leaders in fashion have called upon them or invited them—how not merely exclusive, but inaccessible, they are themselves— and how very sorry they were not to be able for attending above three parties on the previous night, so that they were obliged to disappoint a foreign embassador and two or three duchesses of their presence, at different parties where they were probably never missed!”

“Well, admiral! we are not all like you. charged to the muzzle with wit I” replied Lady Graham, rising to take leave. “Why do you not go to sleep till we grow more entertaining? But somebody, in his turn, seems very tired of your society now, for look how impatient dear Ditto is to escape!”

“Poor dog!” exclaimed Peter. “He never committed a fault in his life, but when he does, how piteously he looks in your face, as much as to say, ‘Lady Graham! I’m afraid you’re ashamed of me!’ ‘Dear Ditto !’ he is like bad luck—every where at once; but do not leave him behind here, poor fellow, or he might say, like the poet—

‘All that hate me only left,
And all thai loved me gone!'”

Peterson’s Magazine, Volume 90 (Google Books)

CHAPTER II.
Another week 1 Guy’s heart sank within

acter of a respondent, to the advertisement in strange a fashion? for, by the terms bbe offer”,

the ” Figaro.” He had heard, it is true, of the \ she must be wealthy.”

financial catastrophe which had hurled the! “She possesses a fortune of two millions tf

brilliant and accomplished young society-hero • dollars. Ten millions of francs, as we would Mlt

into the outer darkness of poverty and obscurity; j here.”

but he had had no idea of the completeness of j “Then she is an American?”

the disaster; and it was some time before he j “Vcs. Now I have told you all that I Cm

could realize that it was the Count de Noriolis j impart to you, for the present. 1 must take time

himself, and no impostor, that stood before him. ‘ for the necessary inquiry about you; and, whei

But, in a few minutes — that is to say, after a [ we next meet, should you decide to accept Bit

series of questions — M. Durand became quite J client’s offer, I shall go more fully into deuil.

genial and confidential. j Call again this dny week, at three o’clock, and,

“I will not disguise from you, Count,” he j if all that I learn respecting you be satisfactory. remarked in a low tone, drawing his hearer into • we may enter into serious negotiation.” a small inner room and closing the door as he spoke, “that the affair which we have now on hand is ft difficult one to manage. We have had n good many applicants since that advertisement, him, as he thought of another seven days of was inserted, three days ago. One was even a < privation and hunger. Accept the offer T flhy, duke— but then there was a flaw in the title. ‘ what else could he do, poor fellow, but clutch at Also a marquis; but he had once been in prison anything, which was not dishonorable, that would for swindling. There is no condemnation — no > save him from the ooze of the river-bed, the nets legal complication — in your case, I hope?” j of the corpse-hunters, the dripping slabs of tie

“None. I made a fool of myself, and I am ; Morgue? But he merely said, with the high ruined; but my past is spotless.” De Noriolis j courage he had inherited from his Ousadicg flushed scarlet as he spoke. !ancestors:

“No offense meant — none whatever, my dear; “This day week, then — at three o’clock,” and sir. Only, you see, we are bound to protect our > he turned to leave the office.

client’s interest, in every respect, and to make; The little notary had marked the haggard line* our investigation as thorough as possible. And, ; of his countenance, and the despondent look tin;: as there is question of a marriage, every prccan- j crept over his features when told of the week * lion becomes doubly necessary. Now, before I j delay.

enter into further detail, pray answer me one j “Stop a moment, Count,” he said, pleasantly: question: Are yon prepared, in case all the i ” perhaps a litlle loan would be an accommodiiinformation we shall obtain respecting you is :’ tion to you just now; a small advance on your fully satisfactory, to bestow your name and your ; future income — don’t you sec?” hand upon a lady, to whom you shall pledge’ He drew out his pocket-book as he spoke, »nd yourself to remain thereafter a mere acquaint- ‘; laid notes for a hundred francs upon the t.nblc. ance, and nothing more? Also, will you consent \ It was then that the old blood of the pennilesto adopt, as your own, her son, born of a previous j noble showed itself. De Noriolis put aside, with and unfortunate union?” > a wan smile, the money he needed so much.

“These are strange stipulations,” said De j “No,” he said; “for, should your client foil to approve of me, M. Durand, I could never i Roincy uufaslencd her heavy veil mid flung i! repay your loan. I will not run the risk. But j aside. The Count could not resist n slight start. I thank you moat heartily all the same.” J lie had expected to see an ordinary lace, perhaps

As the door closed behind Guy’s retreating even a vulgar^ one. But it was a woman of no figure, M. Durand gave a nod of approval. common type that confronted him. There was

“Ah, Madame Alice de Roiucy,” he said to ; intellect in the broad low brow, the blue earnest himself, while folding and replacing the notes in i eyes, the firm yet delicately-outlined mouth. It his shabby little pocket-book, “you will make a was the face of a young woman, but also that of great mistake if you fail to become the Countess one who had deeply suffered. Despite the bloom de Noriolis. He has principles, has that young of the complexion, the soft azure of the eyes, the man. This is a queer affair altogether—the j golden lustre of the hair, the first impression oddest that has come before my notice in these ; made upon the spectator was not that of beauty, forty years. But I must hurry up my invcstiga- J but of endurance. Though almost a girl in tiou, or else the future bridegroom will die of / years, one felt instinctively that some great sorhunger before the wedding-day.” | row had swept, like a tidal wave, over that

How Guy de Noriulis contrived to exist, during bright young head, submerging it for a time, but the time which elapsed between the day on happily not forever.

which he had his fu>t interview with M. Durand Guy, on his part, though still handsome and and that on which he received his summons to high-bred-looking, also bore on cheek and brow present himself again at the office on the Rue de the traces of the terrible months through which Hollande, must ever remain a mystery. Perhaps ^ he had lately passed. The olive complexion was that noblest of 1’arisian charities, that of “The colorless—-almost livid in line, indeed—the dark Mouthful of Bread,” so called, which consists in j eyes were hollow and encircled with bistre-tinted bestowing upon every applicant half a pound of i shadow, and the whole countenance bore the good bread and a gluss of water tinged with i stamp of a pain endured till despair had wellcommon wine, might have assisted in solving the : nigh replaced endurance.

riddle. Be that as it may, he looked even paler; There they stood, this pair so strangely brought and more haggard, when he again stood before (together by misfortune. On either side, a vast M. Dur.ind, than, on the occasion of his first visit. ; calamity, an abyss of ruin, which the clasping

“Do me the favor of taking a chair, Count,’1 hand of the one could alone enable the other to said the notary, iu something of a more cere- overleap.

monious and deferential manner than that The lady was the first to speak which he had assumed on their previous inter- “We may as well be seated, Count,” she said, view. i for both had risen at first, “and discuss this

The Count s.it down in silence. j matter at our leisure.” She resumed her place

“Our inquiry respecting you,” said the j upon the sofa, as she spoke, and motioned him notary, after a pause, rubbing his fat hands, j to an armchair that stood near. “I have heard “has been perfectly satisfactory. Title, char- your story, arid 1 have perused the record of actcr, pedigree, arc all indisputable. Our client the investigation made by order of my lawyer, is willing to accept you, as fulfilling her coiuli- , You meet niy requirement iu all respects. But, tions, but she desires to have nn interview with .’ before we proceed further in this matter—before you before anything is positively decided. Step ; you consent to give your hand and your name to this way, if you please.” > the person who has sought your alliance in so

As he spoke, ho ushered Guy into the inner j strange a fashion, I desire that yon—gentleman room, of which we have before made mention, j and honorable man as I have learned you to be A lady, deeply veiled, was seated on the little , —should hear from my own lips certain details sofa covered with slippery green leather, which – respecting my past life, and a full explanation of was placed beside the window. She rose as the | my present conduct.” door was thrown open. ] The Count bowed, but did not speak.

“Count Guy de Noriolis—Madame de Roincy,”; “I am, as I believe M. Durand has told you.” said M. Durand, with a wave of his hand. Then, ; she said, “an American by birth. My father— after they had mutually bowed to each other, he [ George Severne—was the inventor of the famous added: “Now I shall go back to my business, ‘ ‘Severne Safety-Valve.’ There is no need for and leave you, monsieur and madame, to settle ; me to describe to you the use and the application yours.” ;of his invention. It was simple and practical,

As the door closed behind the retreating form : and so came at once into general use wherever of the notary, the lady he hud called Madame de ‘ steam was employed in connection with ma

chinery; and he realize’] a large fortune from it. I was an only child, my niolbor having died when I was three days old. My father never married again. His maiden sister, who Whs his Henior by sonic years, took charge of bis housebold for him. As for me, 1 wns sent to Paris to be educated. I was placed in a good school. There were kind friends of our family in Europe. who looked after me. Very often, I passed my vacation in traveling with these friends, or in Tisiting them at their summer country-seats. 1 grew up, therefore, with far fewer ties to home and to my one surviving parent than would otherwise have been the cose.

“But, in truth,” she went on, after a pause, “my father cared comparatively little about me. He had literally idolized my mother. She was a delicate exquisite little creature—a societybeauty, far younger (ban himself, lie had loved her in secret for some years, when his sudden accession to wealth made it possible for him to hope to win her. He did win her; and, after a wedded life of barely a year, he lost her. I do not think that he ever found any real pleasure in life afterward. At all events, he always had a vague feeling of repulsion toward me, since my birth had caused my mother’s death.

“It was arranged that, nftur my education had been completed, my father and my aunt should cime to Paris to join me, and that we should thereafter spend a year in foreign travel. I was somewhat precocious in respect to my study, and I had completed my allotted school-course by the time I was seventeen. My father arrived in Paris in time lo be present at my graduation. A few days later, ho fell ill, though not at first alarmingly so. He was subject to attacks of gout, and his malady was merely a return of this old complaint But he suffered terribly, and all my aunt’s thought and time were absorbed in waiting upon him. Our projected journey was perforce postponed.

“In this emergency,” uhe continued, “a highly-recommended governess—a Hungarian lady of rank, wbo had lost her fortune in some political crisis—was hastily engaged to act as my chaperonc: at least, as long iu> my father’s illness should last. Accordingly, under lier guidance, I studied, practiced my accomplishments, and went out to walk or drive. One day, my governess—Madame d’Elida—proposed that we should go to Versailles, to visit the palace and to take a stroll in the park. I assented gladly; for the weather was lovely, and I was very weary of the dull life that I led at the hotel. While we were walking in the park, my companion was accosted by a handsome young officer,

whom she presented to me as ‘Captain de Koine; the son of one of her moat intimate friends.'” She paused a moment again, and then resumed: “Madame d’Elida’s next proceeding was !• persuade me to obtain permission from my falbe. and aunt to go down to Versailles 10 speti a fortnight, saying that I looked ill, thnt cbinct of air would do me good, and that Versailk*. with its historical associations and its pictor<grilleries, was just the place in which to complete my study. Permission was readily {fronted, an’. we were soon installed in a handsome suite t: rooms in the Hotel des Reservoirs. Jladiru’ d’Elida bad many acquaintances in the old town and we received frequent invitations to aflernopnreccptions, afternoon-teas, soir^es-niusicnles, an! other such mildly-exciting forms of dissipation To me, a girl fresh from the closely -guarded precinct of a Parisian school, it was all delightful And the more so, from the fact thnt. wherever we went, we were sure to meet Captain de Roincv His regiment was stationed in Versailles, and If was a general favorite in society. He cnine very often, too, to the hotel, ostensibly to call upon Madame d’Elida. But it was not very long before, taking advantage of my youth and inexperience, and with the full connivance of tinunprincipled woman who had been engaged to watch over me, he became an avowed suitor for my hand.”

CHAPTER III.

“To understand what followed. Count de Noriolis,” she now said, and with some hesitation, ” I want you to bear in mind my extreme youth, my total ignorance of the usage of French society as regards matrimonial engagement, and. above all, my utter lack of knowledge respecting the formality necessary to constitute a legal marriage in France. I was an infatuated foouV-i child, in the hands of a fascinating unscrupulous adventuress, and of a handsome, heartless, penniless adventurer. Let me pass briefly and quickly over this dark page in niy history. Our stay .11 Versailles was prolonged, from time to time, at my own solicitation, prompted by my ardent wooer and by Madame d’Elida. Permission for my continued absence was readily obtained; for my father’s health did not rally, as we hnJ expected, after the first violent symptom of his malady had subsided; and he continued in so weak and suffering a condition that my presence •would only have annoyed him and added to irv aunt’s cnro and embarrassment. So we remained at Versailles; and, when the final summons for our return to Paris arrived, I had been for nearly a fortnight the wife of Captain dc Roincy.

“1 cannot pretend to describe tha wiles, the’ arguments, (he persuasions, that were used to hurry me into taking this momentous step. I was a mere cbild, as ignorant as a baby of the ways of tlie world, and I was, or fancied myseif to be, very much in love with M. de Roincy. I .’ can comprehend now the nefarious plot of which ‘. I was the victim. The whole affair was managed by Madame d’Elida for a consideration: tbat is < to sny, for a percentage on my fortune when I; xhould receive it; for iny father’s great wealth j and my own prospective heiresship were well j known to the wicked creature who sold the poor; child confided to her care with as little scruple: as she would have felt in disposing of a pet j poodle or a canary-bird.”

All this while, the Count sat listening with ever-increasing interest.

“The marriage-ceremony was performed,” she j said, ” in a little country-church near Versailles;; the priest, a good old sleepy cure, being evidently convinced—if, indeed, he thought anything about; the matter—that there was nothing unusual! about the aft’uir. The witnesses were Madame! d’Elida and the maid she had engaged for me, in ( Versailles, to lake the place of the one provided [ for me by my aunt, and whom she had persuaded • me to dismiss on some trilling pretext. No idea; that there was any possibility of the validity of; my marriage being questioned ever crossed my; brain. I knew nothing of the law of your ‘. country about such matters. The ceremony had ‘, been performed in strict accordance with the ,’ rules of the Catholic Church, and there had been’ the usual accompaniment of witnesses, and a • register, and a certificate—and wlint more could’ be necessary? Nothing, that I knew of; but; the man that I had married, and the woman that’ had furthered his plan, were versed in all the; intricacy of French law, and knew well that; the marriage-ceremony, in the eyes of that law,: was but so much empty breath, and the marriage-; certificate a mere scrap of waste paper, since no; civil marriage, the only one that is recognized iu’ this country as legal, had ever taken place.”

By this time, the face of her hearer was full of; pity. He leaned forward, eagerly, as he listened, j She noticed it, and went on with emotion.

“I shall speak briefly of the events of the; next few days,” she said, with slightly faltering; voice. “I remained at the Hotel des Reservoirs,’ while Madame d’Elida and M. de Roincy went ( to Paris, to avow the fact of my marriage and to’ gain for me my father’s pardon. I little knew! what power they meant to bring to bear, in order j to bend that iron will and sway that resolute nature. But their purpose failed. The inter

Voi. XC.—29.

view took place. My father, in a furious outburst of passion, refused to forgive me, or to make any provision for my maintenance. Then M. de Roincy declared his intention of deserting me, and of disavowing his marriage, unless lie and I were at once received wilh open arms, full pardon, and a handsome settlement: in which case, he declared, he was ready to marry me according to the law. This blow was too n:uch for my father, in his enfeebled state of health. He sank bock insensible, the fatal visitors were dismissed, and he was carried to his bed. From that bed he never again arose. He lived for some days—long enough to execute a will, leaving all his vast fortune unconditionally to my Aunt Susan—and he died, I was told, without ever permitting my name to be mentioned in his presence.

“As for Captain de Roincy,” she said, after another momentary pause, “1 never saw him again. He lingered iu Paris, trying vainly to obtain an interview with my aunt, nnd, on finally ascertaining, with full certainty, the contents of my father’s will, he joined his regiment, then under orders for Algiers. He wrote me a brief letter, staling that he left me free to contract a new matrimonial engagement, sinee the old one was not in any shape binding upon either of us. And that wns the lost,” drawing a deep breath, “that I ever heard of my husband of a fortnight. As for Madame d’Elida, she disappeared without a word or sign, only sending a messenger to Versailles for her trunks. I think she had rendered herself amenable to the law, iu some way, for the part she had taken in bringing about my marriage, and was in a hurry to escape.

“I have tried to speak calmly nnd dispassionately. Count de Noriolis,” said the speaker, now. ‘• 1 have forced myself to confine my narrative to a bare recital of facts. But, as 1 look back to the days that succeeded my father’s death, my heart glows with an indignation and throbs with an anguish that I cannot express. Picture mo to yourself: a girl not yet eighteen, shtunclc.s.sly duped and heartlessly deserted, with a father’s curse weighing upon her soul, penniless, wretched, and abased—I, who had been the courted, pampered, prospective heiress of millions all my diiyi”. I had never been nn idolized child—my dcnd mother’s shadow hnd always interposed between me and my father’s love—but, in all other respects, I had been brought up as befitted George Severne:g only daughter. But Cute wns merciful to me at this juncture, for the typhoid fever had just made its appearance in an epidemic form in Versailles, and I was one of its

if to exclude every ray of liglit from the interior. ( of arrangement had finally completed the work But behind one of the closely-shaded windows ; of fascination. And there he was, dwelling stood Guy himself, gazing down into the court- \ beneath the same roof with her, the woman he yard. At the doorway opposite was a low open • now adored, linked to her by the strongest v! Victoria, with coachman and footman in dark-blue (legal ties, yet sundered from her as effectual!; livery. To the graceful carriage were harnessed \ as though the paved courtyard were nn un fat humtwo magnificent bays, that tossed their heads, i able abyss, or the slender fountain a sword of and champed their bits, and rattled the silver ; fire. Once, he had attempted to call upon her. mounting of their harness, in their impatience to , alter the fashion of an ordinary acquaintance; be off. Presently, there was a stir at the door- | but.the answer was returned, when he sent ia way. The footman descended nimbly from his ; his card, that ” the Countess de Noriolis was not perch, and Madame dc Noriolis, followed by her \ receiving,” and he had never repeated the little son, came slowly forth. She stood for a j experiment. Once a day, however, as on this moment on the doorstep, superintending the j afternoon, he gave himself the scant satisfaction proper disposal of cushions and carriage-rugs, i of seeing her step into her carriage, for her before taking her place in the vehicle. The jet j afternoon-drive; and the chill feeling of disembroidery on her black Ince costume sparkled i appointment that he experienced when the day in the sunlight, and her fair face showed in i proved stormy, or when some trifling childish added loveliness beneath her dainty little bonnet j indisposition of George’s detained her nt borne, of jet and lace, shaded with a cluster of pale- \ taught him but too conclusively how entirely his pink feathers. She took her place, at last, j new passion had taken possession of his being. George sprang in after her. The horses pranced; Since his restoration to wealth, he had led s and caracoled, for a moment, before consenting ; very quiet life. The gay companions of his to go out through the gateway, and then the J younger days looked in vain for the reappearance elegant equipage disappeared down the wide ! of the brilliant young Count de Noriolis amongst avenue, on its way to the Bois de Boulogne. ‘them. He had learned a lesson in those sad days The unseen watcher at the window overhead ‘ in the garret on the Rue de 1’Observatoirc, and drew back, with a knitted brow and sternly- ‘ had come forth from the iron prison of poverty curved lips, sighing deeply as she disappeared. | a graver and a wiser man. He devoted himself For this daily glimpse of his wife was all that had Ho his art, and, with the exception of a daily eyer been vouchsafed to him since she had parted ; ride in tlio Bois, rarely left their hotel. He was from him, on the afternoon of their wedding-day. > content and happy, on those rides, if he could She had done this just inside the iron gates of \ gain a smile and a bow from the fair-haired lady the courtyard, with the brief cold words: “Fare- } who had driven from his own door scarce half well, Count. Your rooms are prepared for you, ! an hour before. Occasionally, he would give » and I hope you will find your new homo pleasant.” i gentleman’s-dinner or a supper-party; but the Pleasant! Yes, it wns pleasant for him to fare < guests at these entertainments were not his daintily, to be lodged sumptuously, to have horse ; former society-friends, but noted artists or and carriage and servant once more at his disposal ; famous authors, prominent journalists or the —to be restored, in short, to all the elegance and i rising statesmen of the day. He was rnpidly luxury that he had once lost, as it then seemed, , gaining the reputation of being one of the forever. Had anyone, in his day of poverty, j seriously-intellectual men of Parisian society, predicted to him such a change, he would have j Yet even this highest and finest form of social faacied that the fulfillment of the prophecy i enjoyment failed, as did likewise his art, to

would bring him perfect happiness. But. there was a bitter ingredient mingled with his cup of daily blessing: a Tantalus longing for the happiness seen just beyond his reach and as unattainable as the stars. With all the strength nnd energy of a peculiarly concentrated and vigorous nature, Guy de Noriolis had come to love his wife. His heart had been deeply touched, nt the very first, by the recital of her woe and wrong. Her beauty had charmed him even then. The wit and brightness of intellect displayed in the few brief interviews she had accorded him whilst the preliminaries of the marriage were in process

wholly satisfy him, or to adequately fill his dnv«. His thoughts dwelt pertinaciously on the blue eyes and soft voice of the woman who bore his name, and whom he loved Ho hopelessly. On (Livery autumn day, he turned from the window, with a steadfast purpose Htirring at his heart.

“I can bear this no longer,” he said to himself, passionately, ns he paced the room. “I will not remain a pensioner on the bounty of the woman I love, while she denies me so much as the poor alms of a word or a look. I will leave Paris. I will go to America—anywhere where j absence and work may bring forgetfulness.”
He flung open the shutter, as he spoke, and the sunlight and sweet breath of the delicious day streamed into the room. The sudden brightness illuminated the armor, the tapestry, the antique carved tables and cabinets, laden with specimens of old Venetian glass, medieval ivory carving, bronze statuettes from Pompeii and Velletri, and other artistic curiosities. But these dainty treasures, the selection and arrangement of which had formed a favorite pastime for his leisure-hour, did not win from him so much as a glance. He turned from them, and sealing himself at his writing-table, began the following letter:

“MY Dear Wife:

Suffer me to call you so for the first time, and also assuredly for the last. When you receive this letter, I shall have left Paris forever.

When I agreed to accept wealth and luxury at your hands, I did not realize how speedily the pain of my position would surpass nil its advantages. An element unforeseen in our calculation has come to make me even more wretched than I was, iu the midst of poverty and privation: for I love you, Alice—fervently, sincerely, and unchangeably. And I am going away, content to know that I lecve with you the only advantage that our marriage could bestow upon you: the prestige of my name. I am proud and happy to think that you will still bear it.

You need feel no anxiety about my future: a small legacy, bequeathed to me within the last few months, will enable me to take the time necessary for the discovery of some position wherein my artistio acquirement will suffice for my support. Farewell. Forget that there exists in this world a man who has the right to call himself your husband. But remember always that, so long as I live, there is one being on this earth who tenderly and passionately loves you. Guy De Nohiolis.”

He placed this brief missive iu an envelope, sealed and directed it, and laid it in the blottingbook. He then passed into his bed room, and began a leisurely review of the articles of clothing contained in the spacious wardrobe.

Whilst still engaged in this occupation, a knock was heard at the door, and, in response to Guy’s call of “Come in,” Martha Ellis entered.

‘• If you please, sir,” she said, “the Countess would like to speak to you, for a moment.”

Considerably surprised, Guy laid aside the overcoat which he had just been considering with a view to its fitness for a sea-voyage: and found himself, in a few minutes, in Alice’s pretty boudoir.

She stood there, still in her out-door dress. A telegram lay open on the table before her. In a tone, broken and hurried by nervous agitation, she began:

“Count, 1 have a great favor to ask of you. I am summoned at once to my aunt. She is very ill—perhaps dying—and it is necessary that 1 should start immediately for the Isle of Wight, where she now is. The aid and companionship of Martha Ellis are indispensably necessary to me, both for the journey and in nursing my aunt, so I shall have no one to whom I can entrust my boy during the period of my absence. I cannot take him with me, as my aunt’s malady is not specified in the telegram, and it may be some contagious fever. Will you take charge of George till my return?”

“Willingly, gladly,” he answered, forcing himself to take, with undemonstrative calmness, the small gloved hand that she extended to him.

“And you will keep careful watch over him, will you not, remembering how anxious a mother I am, and that this is the first time I have ever been parted from him?”

“You forget, madame, that George is my adopted son,” he answered, with a tinge of bitterness iu his tone. ‘• I shall guard him with all a father’s care.”

Alice flushed scarlet, and seemed about to speak; but, at that moment, the door was thrown open, and George himself came racing into the room. He ran up to Guy with a joyful shout, remembering various gifts of toys and bonbons he had received at different times from De Noriolis, who was very fond of children, and who hod likewise a vague longing to win the affection of the noble-looking boy: who was not only Alice’s son, but Alice’s living image as well.

He raised George in his arms; and the little fellow, nothing loth, clung about his neck.

“Will you come with me, George,” he said, “and pay me a long visit, in my rooms across the courtyard?”

“Yes, yes,” cried the boy. “And you will show me pictures, and let me ride on the big dug —won’t you?”

“Of course I will.”

“Then come: let us go, right away.”

“Kiss mamma good-bye first,” said Guy. And, with George still in his arms, he advanced toward Alice.

The boy, with a merry shout, not in the least believing in the reality of the leavetaking, threw one arm about his mother’s neck—whilst, with the other, he mill clasped that of Guy. For one instant, the husband and wife stood thus united in that childish embrace. Alice was visibly

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embarrassed, and it was Guy tbat disentangled > You see, 1 aiu frank with you, Count. Goodthe clinging arms. He took her Laud once more > morniiig.” Aud the great physician hurried in his own. !away, with a shrug of his shoulders us b*

“A pleasant journey to you, Countess,” he ; thought of the youug man’s obstinacy in i: said; ‘• and I hope that you will find the invalid out of danger.”

He raised, with respectful gallantry, the hand, that he still held, to his lips, lu another moment, the door hud closed behind him and his merry romping charge, leaving Alice preoccupied and thoughtful as a mother should naturally be, who parts for the first time with her only child.

Peterson’s Magazine, Volume 90 (Google Books)

CHAPTER II.
Another week 1 Guy’s heart sank within

acter of a respondent, to the advertisement in strange a fashion? for, by the terms bbe offer”,

the ” Figaro.” He had heard, it is true, of the \ she must be wealthy.”

financial catastrophe which had hurled the! “She possesses a fortune of two millions tf

brilliant and accomplished young society-hero • dollars. Ten millions of francs, as we would Mlt

into the outer darkness of poverty and obscurity; j here.”

but he had had no idea of the completeness of j “Then she is an American?”

the disaster; and it was some time before he j “Vcs. Now I have told you all that I Cm

could realize that it was the Count de Noriolis j impart to you, for the present. 1 must take time

himself, and no impostor, that stood before him. ‘ for the necessary inquiry about you; and, whei

But, in a few minutes — that is to say, after a [ we next meet, should you decide to accept Bit

series of questions — M. Durand became quite J client’s offer, I shall go more fully into deuil.

genial and confidential. j Call again this dny week, at three o’clock, and,

“I will not disguise from you, Count,” he j if all that I learn respecting you be satisfactory. remarked in a low tone, drawing his hearer into • we may enter into serious negotiation.” a small inner room and closing the door as he spoke, “that the affair which we have now on hand is ft difficult one to manage. We have had n good many applicants since that advertisement, him, as he thought of another seven days of was inserted, three days ago. One was even a < privation and hunger. Accept the offer T flhy, duke— but then there was a flaw in the title. ‘ what else could he do, poor fellow, but clutch at Also a marquis; but he had once been in prison anything, which was not dishonorable, that would for swindling. There is no condemnation — no > save him from the ooze of the river-bed, the nets legal complication — in your case, I hope?” j of the corpse-hunters, the dripping slabs of tie

“None. I made a fool of myself, and I am ; Morgue? But he merely said, with the high ruined; but my past is spotless.” De Noriolis j courage he had inherited from his Ousadicg flushed scarlet as he spoke. !ancestors:

“No offense meant — none whatever, my dear; “This day week, then — at three o’clock,” and sir. Only, you see, we are bound to protect our > he turned to leave the office.

client’s interest, in every respect, and to make; The little notary had marked the haggard line* our investigation as thorough as possible. And, ; of his countenance, and the despondent look tin;: as there is question of a marriage, every prccan- j crept over his features when told of the week * lion becomes doubly necessary. Now, before I j delay.

enter into further detail, pray answer me one j “Stop a moment, Count,” he said, pleasantly: question: Are yon prepared, in case all the i ” perhaps a litlle loan would be an accommodiiinformation we shall obtain respecting you is :’ tion to you just now; a small advance on your fully satisfactory, to bestow your name and your ; future income — don’t you sec?” hand upon a lady, to whom you shall pledge’ He drew out his pocket-book as he spoke, »nd yourself to remain thereafter a mere acquaint- ‘; laid notes for a hundred francs upon the t.nblc. ance, and nothing more? Also, will you consent \ It was then that the old blood of the pennilesto adopt, as your own, her son, born of a previous j noble showed itself. De Noriolis put aside, with and unfortunate union?” > a wan smile, the money he needed so much.

“These are strange stipulations,” said De j “No,” he said; “for, should your client foil to approve of me, M. Durand, I could never i Roincy uufaslencd her heavy veil mid flung i! repay your loan. I will not run the risk. But j aside. The Count could not resist n slight start. I thank you moat heartily all the same.” J lie had expected to see an ordinary lace, perhaps

As the door closed behind Guy’s retreating even a vulgar^ one. But it was a woman of no figure, M. Durand gave a nod of approval. common type that confronted him. There was

“Ah, Madame Alice de Roiucy,” he said to ; intellect in the broad low brow, the blue earnest himself, while folding and replacing the notes in i eyes, the firm yet delicately-outlined mouth. It his shabby little pocket-book, “you will make a was the face of a young woman, but also that of great mistake if you fail to become the Countess one who had deeply suffered. Despite the bloom de Noriolis. He has principles, has that young of the complexion, the soft azure of the eyes, the man. This is a queer affair altogether—the j golden lustre of the hair, the first impression oddest that has come before my notice in these ; made upon the spectator was not that of beauty, forty years. But I must hurry up my invcstiga- J but of endurance. Though almost a girl in tiou, or else the future bridegroom will die of / years, one felt instinctively that some great sorhunger before the wedding-day.” | row had swept, like a tidal wave, over that

How Guy de Noriulis contrived to exist, during bright young head, submerging it for a time, but the time which elapsed between the day on happily not forever.

which he had his fu>t interview with M. Durand Guy, on his part, though still handsome and and that on which he received his summons to high-bred-looking, also bore on cheek and brow present himself again at the office on the Rue de the traces of the terrible months through which Hollande, must ever remain a mystery. Perhaps ^ he had lately passed. The olive complexion was that noblest of 1’arisian charities, that of “The colorless—-almost livid in line, indeed—the dark Mouthful of Bread,” so called, which consists in j eyes were hollow and encircled with bistre-tinted bestowing upon every applicant half a pound of i shadow, and the whole countenance bore the good bread and a gluss of water tinged with i stamp of a pain endured till despair had wellcommon wine, might have assisted in solving the : nigh replaced endurance.

riddle. Be that as it may, he looked even paler; There they stood, this pair so strangely brought and more haggard, when he again stood before (together by misfortune. On either side, a vast M. Dur.ind, than, on the occasion of his first visit. ; calamity, an abyss of ruin, which the clasping

“Do me the favor of taking a chair, Count,’1 hand of the one could alone enable the other to said the notary, iu something of a more cere- overleap.

monious and deferential manner than that The lady was the first to speak which he had assumed on their previous inter- “We may as well be seated, Count,” she said, view. i for both had risen at first, “and discuss this

The Count s.it down in silence. j matter at our leisure.” She resumed her place

“Our inquiry respecting you,” said the j upon the sofa, as she spoke, and motioned him notary, after a pause, rubbing his fat hands, j to an armchair that stood near. “I have heard “has been perfectly satisfactory. Title, char- your story, arid 1 have perused the record of actcr, pedigree, arc all indisputable. Our client the investigation made by order of my lawyer, is willing to accept you, as fulfilling her coiuli- , You meet niy requirement iu all respects. But, tions, but she desires to have nn interview with .’ before we proceed further in this matter—before you before anything is positively decided. Step ; you consent to give your hand and your name to this way, if you please.” > the person who has sought your alliance in so

As he spoke, ho ushered Guy into the inner j strange a fashion, I desire that yon—gentleman room, of which we have before made mention, j and honorable man as I have learned you to be A lady, deeply veiled, was seated on the little , —should hear from my own lips certain details sofa covered with slippery green leather, which – respecting my past life, and a full explanation of was placed beside the window. She rose as the | my present conduct.” door was thrown open. ] The Count bowed, but did not speak.

“Count Guy de Noriolis—Madame de Roincy,”; “I am, as I believe M. Durand has told you.” said M. Durand, with a wave of his hand. Then, ; she said, “an American by birth. My father— after they had mutually bowed to each other, he [ George Severne—was the inventor of the famous added: “Now I shall go back to my business, ‘ ‘Severne Safety-Valve.’ There is no need for and leave you, monsieur and madame, to settle ; me to describe to you the use and the application yours.” ;of his invention. It was simple and practical,

As the door closed behind the retreating form : and so came at once into general use wherever of the notary, the lady he hud called Madame de ‘ steam was employed in connection with ma

chinery; and he realize’] a large fortune from it. I was an only child, my niolbor having died when I was three days old. My father never married again. His maiden sister, who Whs his Henior by sonic years, took charge of bis housebold for him. As for me, 1 wns sent to Paris to be educated. I was placed in a good school. There were kind friends of our family in Europe. who looked after me. Very often, I passed my vacation in traveling with these friends, or in Tisiting them at their summer country-seats. 1 grew up, therefore, with far fewer ties to home and to my one surviving parent than would otherwise have been the cose.

“But, in truth,” she went on, after a pause, “my father cared comparatively little about me. He had literally idolized my mother. She was a delicate exquisite little creature—a societybeauty, far younger (ban himself, lie had loved her in secret for some years, when his sudden accession to wealth made it possible for him to hope to win her. He did win her; and, after a wedded life of barely a year, he lost her. I do not think that he ever found any real pleasure in life afterward. At all events, he always had a vague feeling of repulsion toward me, since my birth had caused my mother’s death.

“It was arranged that, nftur my education had been completed, my father and my aunt should cime to Paris to join me, and that we should thereafter spend a year in foreign travel. I was somewhat precocious in respect to my study, and I had completed my allotted school-course by the time I was seventeen. My father arrived in Paris in time lo be present at my graduation. A few days later, ho fell ill, though not at first alarmingly so. He was subject to attacks of gout, and his malady was merely a return of this old complaint But he suffered terribly, and all my aunt’s thought and time were absorbed in waiting upon him. Our projected journey was perforce postponed.

“In this emergency,” uhe continued, “a highly-recommended governess—a Hungarian lady of rank, wbo had lost her fortune in some political crisis—was hastily engaged to act as my chaperonc: at least, as long iu> my father’s illness should last. Accordingly, under lier guidance, I studied, practiced my accomplishments, and went out to walk or drive. One day, my governess—Madame d’Elida—proposed that we should go to Versailles, to visit the palace and to take a stroll in the park. I assented gladly; for the weather was lovely, and I was very weary of the dull life that I led at the hotel. While we were walking in the park, my companion was accosted by a handsome young officer,

whom she presented to me as ‘Captain de Koine; the son of one of her moat intimate friends.'” She paused a moment again, and then resumed: “Madame d’Elida’s next proceeding was !• persuade me to obtain permission from my falbe. and aunt to go down to Versailles 10 speti a fortnight, saying that I looked ill, thnt cbinct of air would do me good, and that Versailk*. with its historical associations and its pictor<grilleries, was just the place in which to complete my study. Permission was readily {fronted, an’. we were soon installed in a handsome suite t: rooms in the Hotel des Reservoirs. Jladiru’ d’Elida bad many acquaintances in the old town and we received frequent invitations to aflernopnreccptions, afternoon-teas, soir^es-niusicnles, an! other such mildly-exciting forms of dissipation To me, a girl fresh from the closely -guarded precinct of a Parisian school, it was all delightful And the more so, from the fact thnt. wherever we went, we were sure to meet Captain de Roincv His regiment was stationed in Versailles, and If was a general favorite in society. He cnine very often, too, to the hotel, ostensibly to call upon Madame d’Elida. But it was not very long before, taking advantage of my youth and inexperience, and with the full connivance of tinunprincipled woman who had been engaged to watch over me, he became an avowed suitor for my hand.”

CHAPTER III.

“To understand what followed. Count de Noriolis,” she now said, and with some hesitation, ” I want you to bear in mind my extreme youth, my total ignorance of the usage of French society as regards matrimonial engagement, and. above all, my utter lack of knowledge respecting the formality necessary to constitute a legal marriage in France. I was an infatuated foouV-i child, in the hands of a fascinating unscrupulous adventuress, and of a handsome, heartless, penniless adventurer. Let me pass briefly and quickly over this dark page in niy history. Our stay .11 Versailles was prolonged, from time to time, at my own solicitation, prompted by my ardent wooer and by Madame d’Elida. Permission for my continued absence was readily obtained; for my father’s health did not rally, as we hnJ expected, after the first violent symptom of his malady had subsided; and he continued in so weak and suffering a condition that my presence •would only have annoyed him and added to irv aunt’s cnro and embarrassment. So we remained at Versailles; and, when the final summons for our return to Paris arrived, I had been for nearly a fortnight the wife of Captain dc Roincy.

“1 cannot pretend to describe tha wiles, the’ arguments, (he persuasions, that were used to hurry me into taking this momentous step. I was a mere cbild, as ignorant as a baby of the ways of tlie world, and I was, or fancied myseif to be, very much in love with M. de Roincy. I .’ can comprehend now the nefarious plot of which ‘. I was the victim. The whole affair was managed by Madame d’Elida for a consideration: tbat is < to sny, for a percentage on my fortune when I; xhould receive it; for iny father’s great wealth j and my own prospective heiresship were well j known to the wicked creature who sold the poor; child confided to her care with as little scruple: as she would have felt in disposing of a pet j poodle or a canary-bird.”

All this while, the Count sat listening with ever-increasing interest.

“The marriage-ceremony was performed,” she j said, ” in a little country-church near Versailles;; the priest, a good old sleepy cure, being evidently convinced—if, indeed, he thought anything about; the matter—that there was nothing unusual! about the aft’uir. The witnesses were Madame! d’Elida and the maid she had engaged for me, in ( Versailles, to lake the place of the one provided [ for me by my aunt, and whom she had persuaded • me to dismiss on some trilling pretext. No idea; that there was any possibility of the validity of; my marriage being questioned ever crossed my; brain. I knew nothing of the law of your ‘. country about such matters. The ceremony had ‘, been performed in strict accordance with the ,’ rules of the Catholic Church, and there had been’ the usual accompaniment of witnesses, and a • register, and a certificate—and wlint more could’ be necessary? Nothing, that I knew of; but; the man that I had married, and the woman that’ had furthered his plan, were versed in all the; intricacy of French law, and knew well that; the marriage-ceremony, in the eyes of that law,: was but so much empty breath, and the marriage-; certificate a mere scrap of waste paper, since no; civil marriage, the only one that is recognized iu’ this country as legal, had ever taken place.”

By this time, the face of her hearer was full of; pity. He leaned forward, eagerly, as he listened, j She noticed it, and went on with emotion.

“I shall speak briefly of the events of the; next few days,” she said, with slightly faltering; voice. “I remained at the Hotel des Reservoirs,’ while Madame d’Elida and M. de Roincy went ( to Paris, to avow the fact of my marriage and to’ gain for me my father’s pardon. I little knew! what power they meant to bring to bear, in order j to bend that iron will and sway that resolute nature. But their purpose failed. The inter

Voi. XC.—29.

view took place. My father, in a furious outburst of passion, refused to forgive me, or to make any provision for my maintenance. Then M. de Roincy declared his intention of deserting me, and of disavowing his marriage, unless lie and I were at once received wilh open arms, full pardon, and a handsome settlement: in which case, he declared, he was ready to marry me according to the law. This blow was too n:uch for my father, in his enfeebled state of health. He sank bock insensible, the fatal visitors were dismissed, and he was carried to his bed. From that bed he never again arose. He lived for some days—long enough to execute a will, leaving all his vast fortune unconditionally to my Aunt Susan—and he died, I was told, without ever permitting my name to be mentioned in his presence.

“As for Captain de Roincy,” she said, after another momentary pause, “1 never saw him again. He lingered iu Paris, trying vainly to obtain an interview with my aunt, nnd, on finally ascertaining, with full certainty, the contents of my father’s will, he joined his regiment, then under orders for Algiers. He wrote me a brief letter, staling that he left me free to contract a new matrimonial engagement, sinee the old one was not in any shape binding upon either of us. And that wns the lost,” drawing a deep breath, “that I ever heard of my husband of a fortnight. As for Madame d’Elida, she disappeared without a word or sign, only sending a messenger to Versailles for her trunks. I think she had rendered herself amenable to the law, iu some way, for the part she had taken in bringing about my marriage, and was in a hurry to escape.

“I have tried to speak calmly nnd dispassionately. Count de Noriolis,” said the speaker, now. ‘• 1 have forced myself to confine my narrative to a bare recital of facts. But, as 1 look back to the days that succeeded my father’s death, my heart glows with an indignation and throbs with an anguish that I cannot express. Picture mo to yourself: a girl not yet eighteen, shtunclc.s.sly duped and heartlessly deserted, with a father’s curse weighing upon her soul, penniless, wretched, and abased—I, who had been the courted, pampered, prospective heiress of millions all my diiyi”. I had never been nn idolized child—my dcnd mother’s shadow hnd always interposed between me and my father’s love—but, in all other respects, I had been brought up as befitted George Severne:g only daughter. But Cute wns merciful to me at this juncture, for the typhoid fever had just made its appearance in an epidemic form in Versailles, and I was one of its

if to exclude every ray of liglit from the interior. ( of arrangement had finally completed the work But behind one of the closely-shaded windows ; of fascination. And there he was, dwelling stood Guy himself, gazing down into the court- \ beneath the same roof with her, the woman he yard. At the doorway opposite was a low open • now adored, linked to her by the strongest v! Victoria, with coachman and footman in dark-blue (legal ties, yet sundered from her as effectual!; livery. To the graceful carriage were harnessed \ as though the paved courtyard were nn un fat humtwo magnificent bays, that tossed their heads, i able abyss, or the slender fountain a sword of and champed their bits, and rattled the silver ; fire. Once, he had attempted to call upon her. mounting of their harness, in their impatience to , alter the fashion of an ordinary acquaintance; be off. Presently, there was a stir at the door- | but.the answer was returned, when he sent ia way. The footman descended nimbly from his ; his card, that ” the Countess de Noriolis was not perch, and Madame dc Noriolis, followed by her \ receiving,” and he had never repeated the little son, came slowly forth. She stood for a j experiment. Once a day, however, as on this moment on the doorstep, superintending the j afternoon, he gave himself the scant satisfaction proper disposal of cushions and carriage-rugs, i of seeing her step into her carriage, for her before taking her place in the vehicle. The jet j afternoon-drive; and the chill feeling of disembroidery on her black Ince costume sparkled i appointment that he experienced when the day in the sunlight, and her fair face showed in i proved stormy, or when some trifling childish added loveliness beneath her dainty little bonnet j indisposition of George’s detained her nt borne, of jet and lace, shaded with a cluster of pale- \ taught him but too conclusively how entirely his pink feathers. She took her place, at last, j new passion had taken possession of his being. George sprang in after her. The horses pranced; Since his restoration to wealth, he had led s and caracoled, for a moment, before consenting ; very quiet life. The gay companions of his to go out through the gateway, and then the J younger days looked in vain for the reappearance elegant equipage disappeared down the wide ! of the brilliant young Count de Noriolis amongst avenue, on its way to the Bois de Boulogne. ‘them. He had learned a lesson in those sad days The unseen watcher at the window overhead ‘ in the garret on the Rue de 1’Observatoirc, and drew back, with a knitted brow and sternly- ‘ had come forth from the iron prison of poverty curved lips, sighing deeply as she disappeared. | a graver and a wiser man. He devoted himself For this daily glimpse of his wife was all that had Ho his art, and, with the exception of a daily eyer been vouchsafed to him since she had parted ; ride in tlio Bois, rarely left their hotel. He was from him, on the afternoon of their wedding-day. > content and happy, on those rides, if he could She had done this just inside the iron gates of \ gain a smile and a bow from the fair-haired lady the courtyard, with the brief cold words: “Fare- } who had driven from his own door scarce half well, Count. Your rooms are prepared for you, ! an hour before. Occasionally, he would give » and I hope you will find your new homo pleasant.” i gentleman’s-dinner or a supper-party; but the Pleasant! Yes, it wns pleasant for him to fare < guests at these entertainments were not his daintily, to be lodged sumptuously, to have horse ; former society-friends, but noted artists or and carriage and servant once more at his disposal ; famous authors, prominent journalists or the —to be restored, in short, to all the elegance and i rising statesmen of the day. He was rnpidly luxury that he had once lost, as it then seemed, , gaining the reputation of being one of the forever. Had anyone, in his day of poverty, j seriously-intellectual men of Parisian society, predicted to him such a change, he would have j Yet even this highest and finest form of social faacied that the fulfillment of the prophecy i enjoyment failed, as did likewise his art, to

would bring him perfect happiness. But. there was a bitter ingredient mingled with his cup of daily blessing: a Tantalus longing for the happiness seen just beyond his reach and as unattainable as the stars. With all the strength nnd energy of a peculiarly concentrated and vigorous nature, Guy de Noriolis had come to love his wife. His heart had been deeply touched, nt the very first, by the recital of her woe and wrong. Her beauty had charmed him even then. The wit and brightness of intellect displayed in the few brief interviews she had accorded him whilst the preliminaries of the marriage were in process

wholly satisfy him, or to adequately fill his dnv«. His thoughts dwelt pertinaciously on the blue eyes and soft voice of the woman who bore his name, and whom he loved Ho hopelessly. On (Livery autumn day, he turned from the window, with a steadfast purpose Htirring at his heart.

“I can bear this no longer,” he said to himself, passionately, ns he paced the room. “I will not remain a pensioner on the bounty of the woman I love, while she denies me so much as the poor alms of a word or a look. I will leave Paris. I will go to America—anywhere where j absence and work may bring forgetfulness.”
He flung open the shutter, as he spoke, and the sunlight and sweet breath of the delicious day streamed into the room. The sudden brightness illuminated the armor, the tapestry, the antique carved tables and cabinets, laden with specimens of old Venetian glass, medieval ivory carving, bronze statuettes from Pompeii and Velletri, and other artistic curiosities. But these dainty treasures, the selection and arrangement of which had formed a favorite pastime for his leisure-hour, did not win from him so much as a glance. He turned from them, and sealing himself at his writing-table, began the following letter:

“MY Dear Wife:

Suffer me to call you so for the first time, and also assuredly for the last. When you receive this letter, I shall have left Paris forever.

When I agreed to accept wealth and luxury at your hands, I did not realize how speedily the pain of my position would surpass nil its advantages. An element unforeseen in our calculation has come to make me even more wretched than I was, iu the midst of poverty and privation: for I love you, Alice—fervently, sincerely, and unchangeably. And I am going away, content to know that I lecve with you the only advantage that our marriage could bestow upon you: the prestige of my name. I am proud and happy to think that you will still bear it.

You need feel no anxiety about my future: a small legacy, bequeathed to me within the last few months, will enable me to take the time necessary for the discovery of some position wherein my artistio acquirement will suffice for my support. Farewell. Forget that there exists in this world a man who has the right to call himself your husband. But remember always that, so long as I live, there is one being on this earth who tenderly and passionately loves you. Guy De Nohiolis.”

He placed this brief missive iu an envelope, sealed and directed it, and laid it in the blottingbook. He then passed into his bed room, and began a leisurely review of the articles of clothing contained in the spacious wardrobe.

Whilst still engaged in this occupation, a knock was heard at the door, and, in response to Guy’s call of “Come in,” Martha Ellis entered.

‘• If you please, sir,” she said, “the Countess would like to speak to you, for a moment.”

Considerably surprised, Guy laid aside the overcoat which he had just been considering with a view to its fitness for a sea-voyage: and found himself, in a few minutes, in Alice’s pretty boudoir.

She stood there, still in her out-door dress. A telegram lay open on the table before her. In a tone, broken and hurried by nervous agitation, she began:

“Count, 1 have a great favor to ask of you. I am summoned at once to my aunt. She is very ill—perhaps dying—and it is necessary that 1 should start immediately for the Isle of Wight, where she now is. The aid and companionship of Martha Ellis are indispensably necessary to me, both for the journey and in nursing my aunt, so I shall have no one to whom I can entrust my boy during the period of my absence. I cannot take him with me, as my aunt’s malady is not specified in the telegram, and it may be some contagious fever. Will you take charge of George till my return?”

“Willingly, gladly,” he answered, forcing himself to take, with undemonstrative calmness, the small gloved hand that she extended to him.

“And you will keep careful watch over him, will you not, remembering how anxious a mother I am, and that this is the first time I have ever been parted from him?”

“You forget, madame, that George is my adopted son,” he answered, with a tinge of bitterness iu his tone. ‘• I shall guard him with all a father’s care.”

Alice flushed scarlet, and seemed about to speak; but, at that moment, the door was thrown open, and George himself came racing into the room. He ran up to Guy with a joyful shout, remembering various gifts of toys and bonbons he had received at different times from De Noriolis, who was very fond of children, and who hod likewise a vague longing to win the affection of the noble-looking boy: who was not only Alice’s son, but Alice’s living image as well.

He raised George in his arms; and the little fellow, nothing loth, clung about his neck.

“Will you come with me, George,” he said, “and pay me a long visit, in my rooms across the courtyard?”

“Yes, yes,” cried the boy. “And you will show me pictures, and let me ride on the big dug —won’t you?”

“Of course I will.”

“Then come: let us go, right away.”

“Kiss mamma good-bye first,” said Guy. And, with George still in his arms, he advanced toward Alice.

The boy, with a merry shout, not in the least believing in the reality of the leavetaking, threw one arm about his mother’s neck—whilst, with the other, he mill clasped that of Guy. For one instant, the husband and wife stood thus united in that childish embrace. Alice was visibly

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embarrassed, and it was Guy tbat disentangled > You see, 1 aiu frank with you, Count. Goodthe clinging arms. He took her Laud once more > morniiig.” Aud the great physician hurried in his own. !away, with a shrug of his shoulders us b*

“A pleasant journey to you, Countess,” he ; thought of the youug man’s obstinacy in i: said; ‘• and I hope that you will find the invalid out of danger.”

He raised, with respectful gallantry, the hand, that he still held, to his lips, lu another moment, the door hud closed behind him and his merry romping charge, leaving Alice preoccupied and thoughtful as a mother should naturally be, who parts for the first time with her only child.

Peterson’s Magazine, Volume 90 (Google Books)

CHAPTER II.
Another week 1 Guy’s heart sank within

acter of a respondent, to the advertisement in strange a fashion? for, by the terms bbe offer”,

the ” Figaro.” He had heard, it is true, of the \ she must be wealthy.”

financial catastrophe which had hurled the! “She possesses a fortune of two millions tf

brilliant and accomplished young society-hero • dollars. Ten millions of francs, as we would Mlt

into the outer darkness of poverty and obscurity; j here.”

but he had had no idea of the completeness of j “Then she is an American?”

the disaster; and it was some time before he j “Vcs. Now I have told you all that I Cm

could realize that it was the Count de Noriolis j impart to you, for the present. 1 must take time

himself, and no impostor, that stood before him. ‘ for the necessary inquiry about you; and, whei

But, in a few minutes — that is to say, after a [ we next meet, should you decide to accept Bit

series of questions — M. Durand became quite J client’s offer, I shall go more fully into deuil.

genial and confidential. j Call again this dny week, at three o’clock, and,

“I will not disguise from you, Count,” he j if all that I learn respecting you be satisfactory. remarked in a low tone, drawing his hearer into • we may enter into serious negotiation.” a small inner room and closing the door as he spoke, “that the affair which we have now on hand is ft difficult one to manage. We have had n good many applicants since that advertisement, him, as he thought of another seven days of was inserted, three days ago. One was even a < privation and hunger. Accept the offer T flhy, duke— but then there was a flaw in the title. ‘ what else could he do, poor fellow, but clutch at Also a marquis; but he had once been in prison anything, which was not dishonorable, that would for swindling. There is no condemnation — no > save him from the ooze of the river-bed, the nets legal complication — in your case, I hope?” j of the corpse-hunters, the dripping slabs of tie

“None. I made a fool of myself, and I am ; Morgue? But he merely said, with the high ruined; but my past is spotless.” De Noriolis j courage he had inherited from his Ousadicg flushed scarlet as he spoke. !ancestors:

“No offense meant — none whatever, my dear; “This day week, then — at three o’clock,” and sir. Only, you see, we are bound to protect our > he turned to leave the office.

client’s interest, in every respect, and to make; The little notary had marked the haggard line* our investigation as thorough as possible. And, ; of his countenance, and the despondent look tin;: as there is question of a marriage, every prccan- j crept over his features when told of the week * lion becomes doubly necessary. Now, before I j delay.

enter into further detail, pray answer me one j “Stop a moment, Count,” he said, pleasantly: question: Are yon prepared, in case all the i ” perhaps a litlle loan would be an accommodiiinformation we shall obtain respecting you is :’ tion to you just now; a small advance on your fully satisfactory, to bestow your name and your ; future income — don’t you sec?” hand upon a lady, to whom you shall pledge’ He drew out his pocket-book as he spoke, »nd yourself to remain thereafter a mere acquaint- ‘; laid notes for a hundred francs upon the t.nblc. ance, and nothing more? Also, will you consent \ It was then that the old blood of the pennilesto adopt, as your own, her son, born of a previous j noble showed itself. De Noriolis put aside, with and unfortunate union?” > a wan smile, the money he needed so much.

“These are strange stipulations,” said De j “No,” he said; “for, should your client foil to approve of me, M. Durand, I could never i Roincy uufaslencd her heavy veil mid flung i! repay your loan. I will not run the risk. But j aside. The Count could not resist n slight start. I thank you moat heartily all the same.” J lie had expected to see an ordinary lace, perhaps

As the door closed behind Guy’s retreating even a vulgar^ one. But it was a woman of no figure, M. Durand gave a nod of approval. common type that confronted him. There was

“Ah, Madame Alice de Roiucy,” he said to ; intellect in the broad low brow, the blue earnest himself, while folding and replacing the notes in i eyes, the firm yet delicately-outlined mouth. It his shabby little pocket-book, “you will make a was the face of a young woman, but also that of great mistake if you fail to become the Countess one who had deeply suffered. Despite the bloom de Noriolis. He has principles, has that young of the complexion, the soft azure of the eyes, the man. This is a queer affair altogether—the j golden lustre of the hair, the first impression oddest that has come before my notice in these ; made upon the spectator was not that of beauty, forty years. But I must hurry up my invcstiga- J but of endurance. Though almost a girl in tiou, or else the future bridegroom will die of / years, one felt instinctively that some great sorhunger before the wedding-day.” | row had swept, like a tidal wave, over that

How Guy de Noriulis contrived to exist, during bright young head, submerging it for a time, but the time which elapsed between the day on happily not forever.

which he had his fu>t interview with M. Durand Guy, on his part, though still handsome and and that on which he received his summons to high-bred-looking, also bore on cheek and brow present himself again at the office on the Rue de the traces of the terrible months through which Hollande, must ever remain a mystery. Perhaps ^ he had lately passed. The olive complexion was that noblest of 1’arisian charities, that of “The colorless—-almost livid in line, indeed—the dark Mouthful of Bread,” so called, which consists in j eyes were hollow and encircled with bistre-tinted bestowing upon every applicant half a pound of i shadow, and the whole countenance bore the good bread and a gluss of water tinged with i stamp of a pain endured till despair had wellcommon wine, might have assisted in solving the : nigh replaced endurance.

riddle. Be that as it may, he looked even paler; There they stood, this pair so strangely brought and more haggard, when he again stood before (together by misfortune. On either side, a vast M. Dur.ind, than, on the occasion of his first visit. ; calamity, an abyss of ruin, which the clasping

“Do me the favor of taking a chair, Count,’1 hand of the one could alone enable the other to said the notary, iu something of a more cere- overleap.

monious and deferential manner than that The lady was the first to speak which he had assumed on their previous inter- “We may as well be seated, Count,” she said, view. i for both had risen at first, “and discuss this

The Count s.it down in silence. j matter at our leisure.” She resumed her place

“Our inquiry respecting you,” said the j upon the sofa, as she spoke, and motioned him notary, after a pause, rubbing his fat hands, j to an armchair that stood near. “I have heard “has been perfectly satisfactory. Title, char- your story, arid 1 have perused the record of actcr, pedigree, arc all indisputable. Our client the investigation made by order of my lawyer, is willing to accept you, as fulfilling her coiuli- , You meet niy requirement iu all respects. But, tions, but she desires to have nn interview with .’ before we proceed further in this matter—before you before anything is positively decided. Step ; you consent to give your hand and your name to this way, if you please.” > the person who has sought your alliance in so

As he spoke, ho ushered Guy into the inner j strange a fashion, I desire that yon—gentleman room, of which we have before made mention, j and honorable man as I have learned you to be A lady, deeply veiled, was seated on the little , —should hear from my own lips certain details sofa covered with slippery green leather, which – respecting my past life, and a full explanation of was placed beside the window. She rose as the | my present conduct.” door was thrown open. ] The Count bowed, but did not speak.

“Count Guy de Noriolis—Madame de Roincy,”; “I am, as I believe M. Durand has told you.” said M. Durand, with a wave of his hand. Then, ; she said, “an American by birth. My father— after they had mutually bowed to each other, he [ George Severne—was the inventor of the famous added: “Now I shall go back to my business, ‘ ‘Severne Safety-Valve.’ There is no need for and leave you, monsieur and madame, to settle ; me to describe to you the use and the application yours.” ;of his invention. It was simple and practical,

As the door closed behind the retreating form : and so came at once into general use wherever of the notary, the lady he hud called Madame de ‘ steam was employed in connection with ma

chinery; and he realize’] a large fortune from it. I was an only child, my niolbor having died when I was three days old. My father never married again. His maiden sister, who Whs his Henior by sonic years, took charge of bis housebold for him. As for me, 1 wns sent to Paris to be educated. I was placed in a good school. There were kind friends of our family in Europe. who looked after me. Very often, I passed my vacation in traveling with these friends, or in Tisiting them at their summer country-seats. 1 grew up, therefore, with far fewer ties to home and to my one surviving parent than would otherwise have been the cose.

“But, in truth,” she went on, after a pause, “my father cared comparatively little about me. He had literally idolized my mother. She was a delicate exquisite little creature—a societybeauty, far younger (ban himself, lie had loved her in secret for some years, when his sudden accession to wealth made it possible for him to hope to win her. He did win her; and, after a wedded life of barely a year, he lost her. I do not think that he ever found any real pleasure in life afterward. At all events, he always had a vague feeling of repulsion toward me, since my birth had caused my mother’s death.

“It was arranged that, nftur my education had been completed, my father and my aunt should cime to Paris to join me, and that we should thereafter spend a year in foreign travel. I was somewhat precocious in respect to my study, and I had completed my allotted school-course by the time I was seventeen. My father arrived in Paris in time lo be present at my graduation. A few days later, ho fell ill, though not at first alarmingly so. He was subject to attacks of gout, and his malady was merely a return of this old complaint But he suffered terribly, and all my aunt’s thought and time were absorbed in waiting upon him. Our projected journey was perforce postponed.

“In this emergency,” uhe continued, “a highly-recommended governess—a Hungarian lady of rank, wbo had lost her fortune in some political crisis—was hastily engaged to act as my chaperonc: at least, as long iu> my father’s illness should last. Accordingly, under lier guidance, I studied, practiced my accomplishments, and went out to walk or drive. One day, my governess—Madame d’Elida—proposed that we should go to Versailles, to visit the palace and to take a stroll in the park. I assented gladly; for the weather was lovely, and I was very weary of the dull life that I led at the hotel. While we were walking in the park, my companion was accosted by a handsome young officer,

whom she presented to me as ‘Captain de Koine; the son of one of her moat intimate friends.'” She paused a moment again, and then resumed: “Madame d’Elida’s next proceeding was !• persuade me to obtain permission from my falbe. and aunt to go down to Versailles 10 speti a fortnight, saying that I looked ill, thnt cbinct of air would do me good, and that Versailk*. with its historical associations and its pictor<grilleries, was just the place in which to complete my study. Permission was readily {fronted, an’. we were soon installed in a handsome suite t: rooms in the Hotel des Reservoirs. Jladiru’ d’Elida bad many acquaintances in the old town and we received frequent invitations to aflernopnreccptions, afternoon-teas, soir^es-niusicnles, an! other such mildly-exciting forms of dissipation To me, a girl fresh from the closely -guarded precinct of a Parisian school, it was all delightful And the more so, from the fact thnt. wherever we went, we were sure to meet Captain de Roincv His regiment was stationed in Versailles, and If was a general favorite in society. He cnine very often, too, to the hotel, ostensibly to call upon Madame d’Elida. But it was not very long before, taking advantage of my youth and inexperience, and with the full connivance of tinunprincipled woman who had been engaged to watch over me, he became an avowed suitor for my hand.”

CHAPTER III.

“To understand what followed. Count de Noriolis,” she now said, and with some hesitation, ” I want you to bear in mind my extreme youth, my total ignorance of the usage of French society as regards matrimonial engagement, and. above all, my utter lack of knowledge respecting the formality necessary to constitute a legal marriage in France. I was an infatuated foouV-i child, in the hands of a fascinating unscrupulous adventuress, and of a handsome, heartless, penniless adventurer. Let me pass briefly and quickly over this dark page in niy history. Our stay .11 Versailles was prolonged, from time to time, at my own solicitation, prompted by my ardent wooer and by Madame d’Elida. Permission for my continued absence was readily obtained; for my father’s health did not rally, as we hnJ expected, after the first violent symptom of his malady had subsided; and he continued in so weak and suffering a condition that my presence •would only have annoyed him and added to irv aunt’s cnro and embarrassment. So we remained at Versailles; and, when the final summons for our return to Paris arrived, I had been for nearly a fortnight the wife of Captain dc Roincy.

“1 cannot pretend to describe tha wiles, the’ arguments, (he persuasions, that were used to hurry me into taking this momentous step. I was a mere cbild, as ignorant as a baby of the ways of tlie world, and I was, or fancied myseif to be, very much in love with M. de Roincy. I .’ can comprehend now the nefarious plot of which ‘. I was the victim. The whole affair was managed by Madame d’Elida for a consideration: tbat is < to sny, for a percentage on my fortune when I; xhould receive it; for iny father’s great wealth j and my own prospective heiresship were well j known to the wicked creature who sold the poor; child confided to her care with as little scruple: as she would have felt in disposing of a pet j poodle or a canary-bird.”

All this while, the Count sat listening with ever-increasing interest.

“The marriage-ceremony was performed,” she j said, ” in a little country-church near Versailles;; the priest, a good old sleepy cure, being evidently convinced—if, indeed, he thought anything about; the matter—that there was nothing unusual! about the aft’uir. The witnesses were Madame! d’Elida and the maid she had engaged for me, in ( Versailles, to lake the place of the one provided [ for me by my aunt, and whom she had persuaded • me to dismiss on some trilling pretext. No idea; that there was any possibility of the validity of; my marriage being questioned ever crossed my; brain. I knew nothing of the law of your ‘. country about such matters. The ceremony had ‘, been performed in strict accordance with the ,’ rules of the Catholic Church, and there had been’ the usual accompaniment of witnesses, and a • register, and a certificate—and wlint more could’ be necessary? Nothing, that I knew of; but; the man that I had married, and the woman that’ had furthered his plan, were versed in all the; intricacy of French law, and knew well that; the marriage-ceremony, in the eyes of that law,: was but so much empty breath, and the marriage-; certificate a mere scrap of waste paper, since no; civil marriage, the only one that is recognized iu’ this country as legal, had ever taken place.”

By this time, the face of her hearer was full of; pity. He leaned forward, eagerly, as he listened, j She noticed it, and went on with emotion.

“I shall speak briefly of the events of the; next few days,” she said, with slightly faltering; voice. “I remained at the Hotel des Reservoirs,’ while Madame d’Elida and M. de Roincy went ( to Paris, to avow the fact of my marriage and to’ gain for me my father’s pardon. I little knew! what power they meant to bring to bear, in order j to bend that iron will and sway that resolute nature. But their purpose failed. The inter

Voi. XC.—29.

view took place. My father, in a furious outburst of passion, refused to forgive me, or to make any provision for my maintenance. Then M. de Roincy declared his intention of deserting me, and of disavowing his marriage, unless lie and I were at once received wilh open arms, full pardon, and a handsome settlement: in which case, he declared, he was ready to marry me according to the law. This blow was too n:uch for my father, in his enfeebled state of health. He sank bock insensible, the fatal visitors were dismissed, and he was carried to his bed. From that bed he never again arose. He lived for some days—long enough to execute a will, leaving all his vast fortune unconditionally to my Aunt Susan—and he died, I was told, without ever permitting my name to be mentioned in his presence.

“As for Captain de Roincy,” she said, after another momentary pause, “1 never saw him again. He lingered iu Paris, trying vainly to obtain an interview with my aunt, nnd, on finally ascertaining, with full certainty, the contents of my father’s will, he joined his regiment, then under orders for Algiers. He wrote me a brief letter, staling that he left me free to contract a new matrimonial engagement, sinee the old one was not in any shape binding upon either of us. And that wns the lost,” drawing a deep breath, “that I ever heard of my husband of a fortnight. As for Madame d’Elida, she disappeared without a word or sign, only sending a messenger to Versailles for her trunks. I think she had rendered herself amenable to the law, iu some way, for the part she had taken in bringing about my marriage, and was in a hurry to escape.

“I have tried to speak calmly nnd dispassionately. Count de Noriolis,” said the speaker, now. ‘• 1 have forced myself to confine my narrative to a bare recital of facts. But, as 1 look back to the days that succeeded my father’s death, my heart glows with an indignation and throbs with an anguish that I cannot express. Picture mo to yourself: a girl not yet eighteen, shtunclc.s.sly duped and heartlessly deserted, with a father’s curse weighing upon her soul, penniless, wretched, and abased—I, who had been the courted, pampered, prospective heiress of millions all my diiyi”. I had never been nn idolized child—my dcnd mother’s shadow hnd always interposed between me and my father’s love—but, in all other respects, I had been brought up as befitted George Severne:g only daughter. But Cute wns merciful to me at this juncture, for the typhoid fever had just made its appearance in an epidemic form in Versailles, and I was one of its

if to exclude every ray of liglit from the interior. ( of arrangement had finally completed the work But behind one of the closely-shaded windows ; of fascination. And there he was, dwelling stood Guy himself, gazing down into the court- \ beneath the same roof with her, the woman he yard. At the doorway opposite was a low open • now adored, linked to her by the strongest v! Victoria, with coachman and footman in dark-blue (legal ties, yet sundered from her as effectual!; livery. To the graceful carriage were harnessed \ as though the paved courtyard were nn un fat humtwo magnificent bays, that tossed their heads, i able abyss, or the slender fountain a sword of and champed their bits, and rattled the silver ; fire. Once, he had attempted to call upon her. mounting of their harness, in their impatience to , alter the fashion of an ordinary acquaintance; be off. Presently, there was a stir at the door- | but.the answer was returned, when he sent ia way. The footman descended nimbly from his ; his card, that ” the Countess de Noriolis was not perch, and Madame dc Noriolis, followed by her \ receiving,” and he had never repeated the little son, came slowly forth. She stood for a j experiment. Once a day, however, as on this moment on the doorstep, superintending the j afternoon, he gave himself the scant satisfaction proper disposal of cushions and carriage-rugs, i of seeing her step into her carriage, for her before taking her place in the vehicle. The jet j afternoon-drive; and the chill feeling of disembroidery on her black Ince costume sparkled i appointment that he experienced when the day in the sunlight, and her fair face showed in i proved stormy, or when some trifling childish added loveliness beneath her dainty little bonnet j indisposition of George’s detained her nt borne, of jet and lace, shaded with a cluster of pale- \ taught him but too conclusively how entirely his pink feathers. She took her place, at last, j new passion had taken possession of his being. George sprang in after her. The horses pranced; Since his restoration to wealth, he had led s and caracoled, for a moment, before consenting ; very quiet life. The gay companions of his to go out through the gateway, and then the J younger days looked in vain for the reappearance elegant equipage disappeared down the wide ! of the brilliant young Count de Noriolis amongst avenue, on its way to the Bois de Boulogne. ‘them. He had learned a lesson in those sad days The unseen watcher at the window overhead ‘ in the garret on the Rue de 1’Observatoirc, and drew back, with a knitted brow and sternly- ‘ had come forth from the iron prison of poverty curved lips, sighing deeply as she disappeared. | a graver and a wiser man. He devoted himself For this daily glimpse of his wife was all that had Ho his art, and, with the exception of a daily eyer been vouchsafed to him since she had parted ; ride in tlio Bois, rarely left their hotel. He was from him, on the afternoon of their wedding-day. > content and happy, on those rides, if he could She had done this just inside the iron gates of \ gain a smile and a bow from the fair-haired lady the courtyard, with the brief cold words: “Fare- } who had driven from his own door scarce half well, Count. Your rooms are prepared for you, ! an hour before. Occasionally, he would give » and I hope you will find your new homo pleasant.” i gentleman’s-dinner or a supper-party; but the Pleasant! Yes, it wns pleasant for him to fare < guests at these entertainments were not his daintily, to be lodged sumptuously, to have horse ; former society-friends, but noted artists or and carriage and servant once more at his disposal ; famous authors, prominent journalists or the —to be restored, in short, to all the elegance and i rising statesmen of the day. He was rnpidly luxury that he had once lost, as it then seemed, , gaining the reputation of being one of the forever. Had anyone, in his day of poverty, j seriously-intellectual men of Parisian society, predicted to him such a change, he would have j Yet even this highest and finest form of social faacied that the fulfillment of the prophecy i enjoyment failed, as did likewise his art, to

would bring him perfect happiness. But. there was a bitter ingredient mingled with his cup of daily blessing: a Tantalus longing for the happiness seen just beyond his reach and as unattainable as the stars. With all the strength nnd energy of a peculiarly concentrated and vigorous nature, Guy de Noriolis had come to love his wife. His heart had been deeply touched, nt the very first, by the recital of her woe and wrong. Her beauty had charmed him even then. The wit and brightness of intellect displayed in the few brief interviews she had accorded him whilst the preliminaries of the marriage were in process

wholly satisfy him, or to adequately fill his dnv«. His thoughts dwelt pertinaciously on the blue eyes and soft voice of the woman who bore his name, and whom he loved Ho hopelessly. On (Livery autumn day, he turned from the window, with a steadfast purpose Htirring at his heart.

“I can bear this no longer,” he said to himself, passionately, ns he paced the room. “I will not remain a pensioner on the bounty of the woman I love, while she denies me so much as the poor alms of a word or a look. I will leave Paris. I will go to America—anywhere where j absence and work may bring forgetfulness.”
He flung open the shutter, as he spoke, and the sunlight and sweet breath of the delicious day streamed into the room. The sudden brightness illuminated the armor, the tapestry, the antique carved tables and cabinets, laden with specimens of old Venetian glass, medieval ivory carving, bronze statuettes from Pompeii and Velletri, and other artistic curiosities. But these dainty treasures, the selection and arrangement of which had formed a favorite pastime for his leisure-hour, did not win from him so much as a glance. He turned from them, and sealing himself at his writing-table, began the following letter:

“MY Dear Wife:

Suffer me to call you so for the first time, and also assuredly for the last. When you receive this letter, I shall have left Paris forever.

When I agreed to accept wealth and luxury at your hands, I did not realize how speedily the pain of my position would surpass nil its advantages. An element unforeseen in our calculation has come to make me even more wretched than I was, iu the midst of poverty and privation: for I love you, Alice—fervently, sincerely, and unchangeably. And I am going away, content to know that I lecve with you the only advantage that our marriage could bestow upon you: the prestige of my name. I am proud and happy to think that you will still bear it.

You need feel no anxiety about my future: a small legacy, bequeathed to me within the last few months, will enable me to take the time necessary for the discovery of some position wherein my artistio acquirement will suffice for my support. Farewell. Forget that there exists in this world a man who has the right to call himself your husband. But remember always that, so long as I live, there is one being on this earth who tenderly and passionately loves you. Guy De Nohiolis.”

He placed this brief missive iu an envelope, sealed and directed it, and laid it in the blottingbook. He then passed into his bed room, and began a leisurely review of the articles of clothing contained in the spacious wardrobe.

Whilst still engaged in this occupation, a knock was heard at the door, and, in response to Guy’s call of “Come in,” Martha Ellis entered.

‘• If you please, sir,” she said, “the Countess would like to speak to you, for a moment.”

Considerably surprised, Guy laid aside the overcoat which he had just been considering with a view to its fitness for a sea-voyage: and found himself, in a few minutes, in Alice’s pretty boudoir.

She stood there, still in her out-door dress. A telegram lay open on the table before her. In a tone, broken and hurried by nervous agitation, she began:

“Count, 1 have a great favor to ask of you. I am summoned at once to my aunt. She is very ill—perhaps dying—and it is necessary that 1 should start immediately for the Isle of Wight, where she now is. The aid and companionship of Martha Ellis are indispensably necessary to me, both for the journey and in nursing my aunt, so I shall have no one to whom I can entrust my boy during the period of my absence. I cannot take him with me, as my aunt’s malady is not specified in the telegram, and it may be some contagious fever. Will you take charge of George till my return?”

“Willingly, gladly,” he answered, forcing himself to take, with undemonstrative calmness, the small gloved hand that she extended to him.

“And you will keep careful watch over him, will you not, remembering how anxious a mother I am, and that this is the first time I have ever been parted from him?”

“You forget, madame, that George is my adopted son,” he answered, with a tinge of bitterness iu his tone. ‘• I shall guard him with all a father’s care.”

Alice flushed scarlet, and seemed about to speak; but, at that moment, the door was thrown open, and George himself came racing into the room. He ran up to Guy with a joyful shout, remembering various gifts of toys and bonbons he had received at different times from De Noriolis, who was very fond of children, and who hod likewise a vague longing to win the affection of the noble-looking boy: who was not only Alice’s son, but Alice’s living image as well.

He raised George in his arms; and the little fellow, nothing loth, clung about his neck.

“Will you come with me, George,” he said, “and pay me a long visit, in my rooms across the courtyard?”

“Yes, yes,” cried the boy. “And you will show me pictures, and let me ride on the big dug —won’t you?”

“Of course I will.”

“Then come: let us go, right away.”

“Kiss mamma good-bye first,” said Guy. And, with George still in his arms, he advanced toward Alice.

The boy, with a merry shout, not in the least believing in the reality of the leavetaking, threw one arm about his mother’s neck—whilst, with the other, he mill clasped that of Guy. For one instant, the husband and wife stood thus united in that childish embrace. Alice was visibly

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embarrassed, and it was Guy tbat disentangled > You see, 1 aiu frank with you, Count. Goodthe clinging arms. He took her Laud once more > morniiig.” Aud the great physician hurried in his own. !away, with a shrug of his shoulders us b*

“A pleasant journey to you, Countess,” he ; thought of the youug man’s obstinacy in i: said; ‘• and I hope that you will find the invalid out of danger.”

He raised, with respectful gallantry, the hand, that he still held, to his lips, lu another moment, the door hud closed behind him and his merry romping charge, leaving Alice preoccupied and thoughtful as a mother should naturally be, who parts for the first time with her only child.

Blackwood’s Magazine, Volume 55 (Google Books)

Mb Editor!—You have a great name with our sex! Christopher North is, in our flowing cups—of Bohea—” freshly remembered.” To you, therefore, as to the Sir Philip Sidney of modern Arcadia, do I address the voice of my bewailment. Not from any miserable coveting after the publicities of printing. All I implore of you is, a punch of your crutch into the very heart of a matter involving the best interests of my sex!

You, dear Mr Editor, who have your eyes garnished with Solomon’s spectacles about yon, cannot but have perceived on the parlour-tables and book-shelves of your fair friends—by whose firesides you are courted even as the good knight, and the Spectator, by the Lady Lizards of the days of Anne —a sudden inundation of tabby-bound volumes, addressed, in supergilt letters, to the ” Wives of England”— the “Daughters of England”—the “Grandmothers of England.” A few, arrayed in modest calf or embossed linen, address themselves to the sober latitudes of the manse or parsonagehouse. Some treat, without permission, of ” Woman’s Mission”—some, m defiance of custom, of her ” Duties.” From exuberant 4to, down to the fid-fad concentration of 12mo—from crown demy to diamond editions— • no end to these chartered documentations of the sex! The women of this favoured kingdom of Queen Victoria, appear to have been unexpectedly weighed in the balance, and found wanting in morals and manners; or why this sudden emission of codes of morality?

No one denies, indeed, that woman has, of late, ris’ wonderfully in the market; or that the weaker sex is coming it amazingly strong. The sceptres of three of the first kingdoms in Europe are swayed by female hands. The first writer of young France is a woman. The first astronomer of young England, idem. Mrs Trollope played the Chesterfield and the deuce with the Yankees. Miss

Martmean turned the head of the mighty Brougham. Mademoiselle d’Angeville ascended Mont Blaric, and Mademoiselle Rachel has replaced Corneille and Racine on their crumbling pedestals. I might waste hours of your precious time, sir, in perusing a list of the eminent women now competing with the rougher sex for the laurels of renown. But you know it all better than I can tell you. You have done honour due, in your time, to Joanna Baillie and Mrs Jamieson, to Caroline Southey and Miss Ferrier. You praised Mrs Butler when she deserved it; and probably esteem Mary Howitt, and Mary Mitford, and all the other Maries, at their just value—• to say nothing of the Maria of Edgworthstown, so fairly worth them all. I make no doubt that yon were even one of the first to do homage to the Swedish Richardson, Frederika Bremer; though, having sown your wild oats, you keep your own counsel anent novel reading.

You will, therefore, probably sympathize in the general amazement, that, at a moment when the sex is signalizing itself from pole to pole—• when a Grace Darling obtains the palm for intrepidity—when the Honourable Miss Grimston’s Prayer-Book is read in churches—when Mrs Fry, like hunger, eats through stone walls to call felons to repentance—when a king has descended from his throne, and a prince from royal highnrsshood, to reward the virtues of the fair partners to whom they were unable to impart the rights of the blood-royal—when the fairest specimen of modern sculpture has been supplied by a female hand, and woman, in short, is at a preminm throughout the universe, all this waste of sermonizing should have been thrown, like a wet blanket, over her shoulders!

But this is not enough, dear Mr Editor. I wish to direct your attention towards an exclusive branch of the grievance. I have no doubt that, in your earlier years, instead of courting your fair friends, as Burns appears to have done, with copies of your own works, you used to present unto them the “Legacy of Dr Gregory to his Daughters” — or “Mrs Chapone’s Letters,” or Miss Bowdler’s, or Mrs Trimmer’s, appropriately bound and gilt; and thus apprized of the superabundance of prose provided for their edification, are prepared to feel, with me, that if they have not Mrs Barbauld and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded by the frippery tomes which load the counters of our bazars. This perception has come of itself. If I could only be fortunate enough to enlarge your scope of comprehension!

My dear Mr Editor, I am what is called a lone woman. Shakspeare, through whose recklessness originate half the commonplaces of our land’s language, thought proper to define such a condition as “single BlessedNess”—though he aptly enough engrafts it on a thorn! For my part, I cannot enough admire the theory of certain modern poets, that an angel is an ethereal being, composed by the interunion in heaven, of two mortals who have been faithfully attached on earth—and as to ” blessedness ” being ever ” single,” either in this world or the next, I do not believe a word about the matter !” Happiness,” Lord Byron assures us, ” was born a twin!”

I do not mean to complain of my condition—far from it. But I wish to say, that since, from the small care taken by English parents to double the condition of their daughters, it is clear the state of ” single blessedness” is of higher account in our own ” favoured country” than in any other in Europe; it certainly behoves the guardians of the public weal to afford due protection and encouragement to spinsters.

Every body knows that Great Britain is the very fatherland of old maids. In Catholic countries, the superfluous daughters of a family are disposed of in convents and beguinages, just as in Turkey and China they are, still more humanely, drowned. In certain provinces of the east, pigs are expressly kept, to be turned into the streets at daybreak, for the purpose of devouring the female infants exposed during

the night—thus benevolently securing them from the after torments of single “blessedness.” ,

But a far nobler arrangement was made by that greatest of modern legislators, Napoleon—whose code entitles the daughters of a house to share, equally with sons, in its property and bequeathmeuts; and in France, a woman with a dowery is as sure of courtship and marriage, as of death and burial. Nay, so much is marriage regarded among the French as the indispensable condition of the human species, that parents proceed as openly to the task of procuring a proper husband for their daughter, as of providing her with shoes and stockings. No false delicacy—no pitiful manoeuvres! The affair is treated like any other negotiation. It is a mere question of two and two making four, which enables two to make one. How far more honest than the angling and trickery of English match-making— which, by keeping men constantly on the defensive, predisposes them against attractions to which they might otherwise give way! However, as I said before, I do not wish to complain of my condition.

I only consider it hard that the interests of the wives of England are to be exclusively studied, when the unfortunate females who lack the consolations of matronhood are in so far greater want of sustainment; and that all the theories of the perfectionizement of the fair sex now issuing from the press, should purport to instruct young ladies how to qualify themselves for wives, and wives how to qualify themselves for heaven; and not a word addressed, either in the way of exhortation, remonstrance, or applause, to the highly respectable order of the female community whose cause I have taken on myself to advocate. Have not the wives of England husbands to whisper wisdom into their ears? Why, then, are they to be coaxed or lectured by tabby-bound volumes, while we are left neglected in a corner? Our earthly career, the Lord he knows, is far more trying—our temptations as much greater, as our pleasures are less; and it is mortifying indeed to find our behaviour a thing so little worth interference. We may conduct ourselves, it seems, as indecorously as we think proper, for any thing the united booksellers of the United Kingdom care to the contrary!

Not that I very much wonder at literary men regarding the education of wives as *& matter of moment. The worse halves of Socrates, Milton, Hooker, have been thorns in their sides, urging them into blasphemy against the sex. But is this a reason, I only ask you, for leaving, like an uncultivated waste, that holy army of martyrs, the spinsterhood of Great Britain?

Mr Editor, act like a man! Speak up for us! Write up for us! Tell these little writers of little books, that however they may think to secure dinners and suppers to themselves, by currying favour with the rulers of the roast, the greatest of all women have been Singl’e! Tell them of our Virgin Queen, Elizabeth—• the patroness of their calling, the protectress of learning and learned men. Tell them of Joan of Arc, the conqueror of even English chivalry. Tell them of all the tender mercies of the Seeurs de Charite! Tell them that, from the throne to the hospital, the spinster, unharassed by the cares of private life, has been found most fruitful in public virtue.

Then, perhaps, yon will persuade them that we are worth our schooling; and the “Old Maids of England” may look forward to receive a tabbybound manual of their duties, as well as its “Wives.” I have really no patience with the selfish conceit of these manned women, who fancy their well-doing of such importance. See how they were held by the ancients! —treated like beasts of burden, and denied the privilege of all mental accomplishment. When the Grecian matrons affected to weep over the slain, after some victory of Themistocles, the Athenian general bade them “dry their tears, and practise a single virtue in atonement of all their weaknesses.” It was to their single wo

men the philosophers of the portico addressed their lessons; not to the domestic drudges, whom they considered only worthy to inspect the distaffs of their slaves, and produce sons for the service of the country.

In Bath, Brighton, and other spinster colonies of this island, the demand for such a work would be prodigious. The sale of canary-birds and poodles might suffer a temporary depression in consequence; but this is comparatively unimportant. Perhaps—who knows—so positive a recognition of our estate as a definite class of the community, might lead to the long desiderated establishment of a lay convent, somewhat similar to the beguinages of Flanders, though less ostensibly subject to religious law—a convent where single gentlewomen might unite together in their meals and devotions, under the government of a code of laws set forth in their tabbybound Koran.

Methinks I see it—a modern temple of Vesta, without its tell-tale fires— square, rectangular, simple, airy, isolated—chaste as Diana and quiet as the grave—the frescoed walls commemorating the legend of Saint Ursula and her eleven thousand—the sacrifice of Jephtha’s daughter—Elizabeth Carter translating Epictetus— Harriet Martineau revising the criminal code. In the hall, dear Editor, should hang the portrait of Christopher North—in that locality, appropriately, a Kit-cat!

Ponder upon this! The distinction is worthy consideration. As the newspapers say, it is an “unprecedented opportunity for investment!” For the sole Helicon of the institution shall be “Blackwood’s Entire”—its lady abbess

Your humble servant to command, (for the old maids of England,)