THE

MYSTERIES OF MONTREAL;

BEING

RECOLLECTIONS

OF A

FEMALE PHYSICIAN. 

BY CHARLOTTE FUHRER

Truth is Stranger than Fiction

MONTREAL

INTRODUCTION

During a long practice of over thirty years I have seen many thingsenacted here in this city of Montreal which, if told with the skillof a Dumas or a Collins, might not only astonish but startle thesedate residents of this Church-going community. I have often, whilewaiting for the advent of a little midnight visitor, beguiled theweary hours with a narrative of some of my experiences, and havebeen amused at the expression on the faces of my fair patients whentold that my memory, and not my imagination, had been drawn upon formaterials. Enquiry having frequently been made as to whether myrecollections were published, I have been induced to print thisvolume, changing only names of persons and localities, so as toavoid identification. Many persons will find it hard to believe someof the occurrences which are herein mentioned, but those who havebeen concerned (directly or indirectly) with any of the parties tomy narratives, will recognize, under the disguise of a false name, some person with whose history they are familiar. Should anydiscover his own actions here narrated, let him not think that I havewantonly endeavored to open old sores, but rather to warn othersfrom taking that first false step which so often leads to futuremisery and bitter remorse. 

MONTREAL, May, 1881

CHAPTER I. 

Early Life and Professional Struggles. 

My father, an officer in the Hanoverian Army, having died while Iwas almost a child, I found myself, at the age of 17, governess inthe family of the Baron Grovestein in Hamburg, Germany, where I metmy present husband, Gustav Schroeder, at that time one of the most"eligible" young gentlemen in that city. 

Though not particularly handsome, Gustav was all that could bedesired in other respects. He was young, well educated, and the sonof wealthy parents, and of an amiable disposition. Soon after myengagement at the Baron's, young Schroeder's visits (ostensibly tothe family) became so frequent, that his friends, who had divinedthe cause, forbade his having anything to say to me, more than coldcivility demanded; and insisted that his visits to the Grovesteinmansion should be discontinued. This, it may well be supposed, hadquite the opposite effect, and in a short time we were engaged to bemarried, with the formal, if not the hearty approval of Gustav'srelations, and in course of time the marriage ceremony took place, with all the paraphernalia of an _Alt-Deutsch Hochzeitsfest_. 

Now, however, came the question: How are we to live! for my husbandhad no settled profession, and his parents, though wealthy, couldnot deprive their more obedient children of their rights to benefitthe perverse Gustav. They gave him sufficient to start him inbusiness, with the understanding that he would emigrate to America, their idea being that a German gentleman with a little capital couldnot fail to make a fortune among the comparatively illiterateColumbians. To New York accordingly we came, and Gustav laboredassiduously to establish a business as importer of Germanmanufactures; he soon found, however, that men who did not knowHorace from Euripides could drive closer bargains, and make quickersales than he could, and, as he was too proud to compound with hiscorrespondents in the old country, and insisted on conscientiouslypaying a hundred cents for a dollar, we found ourselves in less thanthree years, with diminished capital in specie, and an increased oneas regards future candidates for the Presidency, on our way back toour common Fatherland. Through the influence of his friends, Gustavprocured a good situation in a merchant's office, but he wasaltogether unsuited both by temperament and education for such aposition, and I soon made up my mind that I must either prepare toenter the world's great battlefield in person, or live in helplessdependence on my husband's relations. 

I had often while in America wondered why the ladies of thatRepublic (so advanced and enlightened in everything else) shouldsubmit to a practice so revolting, so contrary to all ideas ofmorality and refinement as is the system of man-midwifery so widelypracticed in the United States. No German lady would think ofpermitting the attendance of a man at her bedside on such an occasion, and though custom in England seems generally to sanction the absurdpractice, yet Her Majesty Queen Victoria never allows her medicaladvisers to be in attendance in any other capacity than that of_consulting_ physicians. I had discussed the matter frequentlywith married ladies in New York, and they were generally agreed, that, could only competent ladies be found in the United States, man-midwifery would soon cease to be practiced in that Republic. Iaccordingly resolved to devote all my energies to the study of thatparticular branch of the medical profession, and my efforts werecrowned with success. In two years I obtained a diploma from theHamburg University, and soon after prepared to return to America. 

[Footnote: Dr. Playfair, President of the Obstetrical Society ofLondon, in his address delivered in February, 1879, said:--"Iconfess that it is with a feeling of regret, something akin to shame, when I reflect that I am supposed to teach a class of young men theentire subject of midwifery, and the diseases of women and children, in a short summer course of something under forty lectures. Thething is a manifest and ridiculous absurdity, hence we have, ofnecessity, to omit, year by year, _at least half of midwifery proper_. "

The Principal of Calcutta Medical College writes Dr. Playfair thus:--"To what a hideous extent is the practice of midwifery carried on inEngland, by utterly unqualified men, whom the unhappy women andtheir friends believe to be qualified, and the system in yourhospitals sadly favors this. "

"Yet there are some women who will smother every feeling of modestyand morality, and trust their lives to one of these licentiatesrather than commit themselves to the care of a thoroughly trainedmidwife of their own sex. Surely nothing can be more absurd andirrational. "]

About this time a friend of my husbands' informed us that theclimate of Canada was very much superior to that of the EasternStates, and much more like that of Germany, and that in Montreal Iwould be likely to find, not only a pleasant city, but a people moreEuropean in style and custom, also a capital field for the exerciseof my profession. For Montreal then we sailed with hearts full ofhope, and, being fifty-four days at sea, I was summoned by theCaptain to attend a lady on board (which I did with the successwhich has since invariably attended my efforts), and this was mydebut as a professional accoucheur. 

On our arrival at Montreal we presented letters of introduction tothe German Consul, and the leading members of the German Society, and I soon became fully occupied in the exercise of my profession. Dr. X---- (now one of our most distinguished physicians) not onlytolerated my vocation, but, with a magnanimity worthy of his geniusand ability, gave me counsel and advice, and recommended me ashighly as possible to his confrères and the public. Some fewresident doctors threw cold water on my enterprise, but, to theircredit be it spoken, the profession at large treated me invariablywith the greatest kindness and courtesy, shewing thereby aliberality and largeness of heart which is ever the outcome of realability. 

I was not long installed in my new home when, as we were sittingcosily round the fire, the door bell was rung furiously, and on mygoing down to receive my visitor, I was astonished to find agentleman with a newborn baby wrapped in the tail of his broadclothcoat. He said he was its father, and that the mother had takensuddenly ill before any provision could be made for its reception, and he implored me to take it, as he would otherwise feel impelledto throw it in the river. I thought my heart would break to see thepoor infant so ruthlessly treated, so I took it from him, promisingto see it safely to some charitable institution. He told me his namewas Ferguson, that he was in business in Montreal, and that if Iwould deposit the child in some charitable institution and call andsee its mother during her recovery, he would pay all necessaryexpenses. It was too late that night to go out with the child, so Iprepared some food for its nourishment and kept it till the next day, resolved to go after dusk and see the Lady Superior at one of thenunneries, but to my chagrin I discovered that the nunnery was closed, and I was obliged to return home with the babe, which, by-the-by, continued to roar lustily all the way, and so attracted publicattention to me (its presumptive mother) that I wept as bitterly asthe child itself, and was heartily sorry that I had undertaken anysuch mission. 

Next day I set out again in good time, but now a new difficultyawaited me. The good Sister who received me informed me that onlythose who were baptized and received into the Catholic Faith wereeligible for admission. On hearing this I burst into tears; I toldher my story, that the child was not mine, but that I wascommissioned by its father to deliver it to her, and I besought herso earnestly to take it from me that she very considerately did so, and on my handing her the necessary fee, she undertook to have itregularly baptized and admitted. 

In the evening I called to see the mother; she was lying on amiserable couch in a low lodging-house in the Quebec suburbs, yetshe had about her the air of a lady, and on her finger glittered aring set with brilliants. She wept when I told her how her child wasdisposed of, but said that she had no other alternative, as if herfather, who was a lawyer of eminence, had any idea of her predicament, he would cast her off in shame; that when she first discovered hercondition she persuaded her paramour to make a formal proposal forher hand, but her father was enraged beyond measure, and threatenedher so terribly that she, for a time at least, put away all thoughtsof Ferguson from her mind, and had not quite decided how to act, when the occurrence took place which led to the visit aforementioned, and caused the necessity for my attendance. Miss L---- had barelytime to call in a carriage at Ferguson's office, and apprise him ofher condition, when she was taken ill, and obliged to procure alodging with all speed. Ferguson selected the wretched hovel alludedto, as being away from all chance of discovery by his or her friends, and after my visit, empowered me to engage a nurse, and make whatother arrangements I could for Miss L----'s comfort. She managed toget a confidential friend to telegraph her father from Quebec thatshe had arrived in that city, and then sent on a letter and had itmailed there, stating that she had gone on the steamboat theprevious evening to see some friends off, and, remaining too long onboard, was taken away eastward, but would return on receiving thepassage money from Montreal. 

With this story she managed to deceive her otherwise astute father, and in four days she actually got up and went to her own home in acarriage; insisting on retiring immediately to her room inconsequence of the nervous excitement and fatigue she had undergone. The nurse I had engaged to attend her, she on some pretence oranother smuggled into the house as a domestic servant, and so notonly managed to have an attendant, but to keep up a clandestinecommunication with Ferguson and the outer world. 

In the frantic hope of acquiring a rapid fortune, Ferguson migratedto New Orleans, but just then the American war broke out, and he waspressed into the service. Whether he was killed or not Miss L----never found out; his letters became gradually less frequent, tillfinally she lost all trace of him whatever, and she eventuallymarried a wholesale merchant of this city, who is to this dayprobably unaware of this little episode in his wife's former career. Sometimes I see her in her carriage driving with liveried servantsalong St. James street, and I cannot refrain from thinking of theinnocent babe as it lay in poor Ferguson's coat-tail. 

CHAPTER II. 

A Just Retribution. 

One evening, about the middle of June, 18--, a gentleman called tosee me, accompanied by a lady closely veiled. He said he wished meto procure suitable lodging for her, and to attend her on heraccouchement, which was now close at hand, stating that no moneywould be spared to furnish everything necessary either to hercomfort or convenience. As I did not know of any lodging suitable toa person of her station, I was puzzled how to act; I did not want tolose a patient, and yet could not, even if so disposed, make roomfor her in my own house. I knew that my next door neighbor (anelderly French-Canadian lady) was accustomed to take in lodgers; so, leaving the lady and gentleman for a while in my parlor, I went tosee if I could make arrangements for the reception of the former. Madame Charbonneau, my neighbor, had all her rooms occupied, butsaid she was willing for a consideration to give up herdrawing-rooms for a time to the fair patient. This was eminentlysatisfactory to me, as, in the event of an emergency, I would beclose at hand; I accordingly arranged for Mrs. Trotter'saccommodation, and on reporting to Mr. Dombey, the gentlemanaforementioned, he seemed to be perfectly satisfied. From, what Iafterwards learned, I am able to inform the reader that Mr. Dombeywas junior partner in the house of Dombey & Son, dry goods merchants, in this city, his father, Jacob Dombey, sen. , being considered one ofthe wealthiest importers in Canada. In his youth Jacob Dombey, jun. , had been pampered and petted beyond measure, his every whim beingcarried out even at great expense; arrived at the age of twenty-onehe became enamored of a young lady whose father kept a smalltoy-shop on Notre Dame street, and nothing would content him but amarriage with the "Goddess, " as his innamorata was called. At firsthe was quite proud of his pretty wife, and was to be seen daily inSherbrooke street, driving her behind a splendid span of spiritedbay horses, but after a few months he grew tired of this routine, and with his bosom friend, Richard Fairfax, might be seen, nightlyat the theatres and other places of amusement, while his poor wifesat in patient loneliness awaiting his return. 

Mrs. Trotter was the daughter of a Civic Official of high standing, and had married at a very early age a retired English Officer, who, being well advanced in years, left her at the age of twenty-four awidow with four children. Trotter was possessed of little besideshis pension, which died with him; so Mrs. T. Was obliged to eke outa miserable subsistence on the receipts from a little city propertyleft her by her father. Soon after her husband's demise Mrs. Trotterremoved to Lachine (a small village on the river side about ninemiles above Montreal), in order to live more economically, and soonbecame acquainted with Mr. And Mrs. Dombey, who had taken up theirabode there for the summer season. Mrs. Dombey took quite a fancy tothe fascinating widow, and they soon became inseparable. 

Every evening on the promenade might be seen Mrs. Trotter leaningon the arm of Mr. Dombey, his wife following accompanied by hisfriend Fairfax; or they were together on the river boating, orenjoying a picnic on "Dixie" Island. Occasionally, when the weatherwas unfavorable to out-door amusements, they would engage in arubber of whist, generally ending the evening with a little music. Dombey did not know one tune from another, but his wife praisedMrs. Trotter's singing so highly that he soon imagined that in thatart, as in others, she was nearly, if not altogether, perfect. Whenit became time for Mrs. Trotter to go home, Jacob used to escort herto her cottage on the river bank, about a mile distant from his ownresidence, and after a few weeks there sprang up an intimacy betweenthem which culminated in the incidents which gave rise to mynarrative. 

On the day following that on which I had engaged her apartmentsMrs. Trotter took up her abode at Madame Charbonneau's, and aboutsix weeks afterwards her baby, a beautiful girl, was born; she senta message to Mr. Dombey's office, and in the afternoon he called tosee her. He was greatly pleased with the baby, and took it up fondlyin his arms, and on leaving placed a roll of bank bills in my hand, telling me to get everything necessary for either the mother or herchild, also to get the latter whatever clothing it might require. After that he called almost daily, and when Mrs. Trotter wassufficiently recovered to return to her home, he pressed me sostrongly to keep the baby till it was a little older, and not toleave it to the tender mercies of an ignorant nurse, that Iconsented to keep it till it was two years old, and then to obtainfor it, if possible, adoption by some respectable married persons. 

Margery, the baby aforementioned, turned out one of the mostbeautiful children I had ever seen. Her father and mother visitedher frequently during the time she was at my house, and on my givingher for adoption to Mr. Walker (a respectable Vermont farmerwithout any children of his own) they were both deeply affected. Dombey was anxious that Mrs. Trotter should take it to her own home, but, as "Mrs. Grundy" had already been discussing her movements, shedare not, without fear of ruining her children, take the baby underthe roof. As there was no help for it the baby was allowed to go toVermont, and grew up a beautiful girl, passionately devoted to theonly parents she had ever known; Mrs. Walker dying during thechild's infancy, Mr. Walker had her educated as well as his meanswould permit, and they passed their time in the most perfect harmonyand sweet content. After the war, however, Walker found himselfalmost without a penny in the world, and, thinking to better hisfortunes removed to New York, where he managed to make a poor livingas a subordinate in the Custom House. Margery regretted this changeof circumstances very much, but, being thoroughly devoted to herfather, she did not repine, but did all in her power to make hishome as happy as could be under such conditions. She missed heraccustomed amusements very much, and although in New York she sawmany things and found many opportunities which would have beenaltogether unknown to her in the country, yet she was a long time inbecoming reconciled to the close and stifling atmosphere of a greatmetropolitan city. 

One night her father promised her a great treat, they were to go toX----'s theatre to see Mademoiselle B---- in Romeo and Juliet. Margerysat with strained eyes gazing wistfully at the play, laughing andweeping by turns as the great master's power was exerted on theaudience by the artists engaged, and at the close she heaved a deepsigh, consequent upon having held her breath so long, and withoutthought exclaimed aloud:--"Oh, what would I not give to be able toact like that. " The manager who was close by, and who had beenwatching the attentive beauty for some time, overheard the remark, and intercepting the pair on their way out of the theatre said:--"I noticed that you were favorably impressed with the piece; wouldyou like an introduction to Miss B----, the principal actress?"Margery was overcome with delight, and besought her father soearnestly to allow her to go into the green room that he accompaniedher thither, and they obtained an introduction to the famous artiste. Miss B---- was quite taken with the innocent enthusiasm of the girl, and invited her to come to her benefit on the following evening, when she was to appear as Parthenia in "Ingomar;" Margery, havingobtained her father's permission, readily consented, and all the wayhome was full of praises for Juliet, Romeo, the manager, and allconcerned. On the following evening the manager drew her fatheraside and whispered in his ear:--"You have a fortune in that girl ofyours. " Walker, misunderstanding the purport of his words, replied:--"Yes, she is a good and affectionate child, as much so as if I wereher natural parent. " "You do not understand me, " said the other;"I mean she has immense emotional power, which, if artisticallycultivated, would, coupled with her personal appearance, make bothher fortune and yours. "

"Do you think so?" replied Walker; "well, if we had only the meansI would certainly have her trained, for, since she has seenMademoiselle B---- act, her great ambition seems to be to occupy asimilar position. " After further conversation it was agreed to placeMargery under the care of Mrs. L----, with a view of becoming aprofessional actress; for, although Walker did not at all care forthe stage or its concomitants, still he did not wish to throw anyobstacles in the way of his adopted child's prosperity. Margery, therefore, was allowed to pursue the bent of her inclinations, andsuch an apt pupil was she that in a little over eighteen months herdebut was announced in the papers, and a crowded house showeredfloral and other trophies on the beautiful debutante. Offers ofengagements from different cities came flowing in, and before longMiss Margery Montague was announced to appear in Montreal. Her famehad preceded her thither, and Fairfax was instructed to secure a boxfor the Dombey family. Dombey himself (who had followed the careerof his child) tried hard to excuse himself from going, but his wifewas not satisfied to leave him at home; he sat in the back of the box, and as the applause grew louder and louder, he showered costlybouquets, and other offerings on the stage, his breast meanwhilebeing torn by conflicting passions. How proud he would have been toclasp her to his heart and call her his own; but he had willfullyput her away from him, and now, even could he receive her into hisfamily, would her adopted father be willing to give her up again. With flushed face and beating heart he sought the manager, andbegged to be allowed to see the fair artiste, a favor which wasgranted; and, as he stood before his child, and poured forth theusual stereotyped compliments and congratulations, he bit his lipsas he thought that he dared not press her to his heart, but wasforced to speak to her in terms of cold politeness. 

On their return from the Theatre Mrs. Dombey announced her intentionof calling on the talented actress, and the following day she went, accompanied by her daughters, to the St. Lawrence Hall, at that timethe most fashionable hotel in the city, where she was cordiallyreceived; and the young actress made such a favorable impression onthe ladies that they invited her to dine at their house on thefollowing day, an invitation which was readily accepted. 

Dombey was greatly moved when he heard that Miss Montague hadaccepted an invitation to dinner, but there was no help for it, and, as though to make matters worse invitations were sent to a fewintimate friends, including Mrs. Trotter. Here, then, was a painfulposition for the two guilty ones: they were forced to sit and seethe child whom they had cast off fêted and honored by the woman bothof them had injured. It seemed as if a wet blanket were placed overthe whole assembly: Dombey sat moodily biting his finger-nails, andas Mrs. Trotter would not sing and Mrs. Dombey _could_ not, matterswent very slowly indeed. 

When the time came for separating, Mrs. Dombey motioned to Jacob tosee Miss Montague to her hotel, but he being deep in a fit ofabstraction, his eldest son Charles stepped forward, and before hisfather could prevent him, was equipped in greatcoat and overshoes, ready for a moonlight stroll. During the evening he had noticed thatCharles was rather attentive to the fair actress, and the thoughtthat an intimacy between them was possible drove him to the verge ofdistraction, Mrs. Dombey noticed his strange behavior, and asked himthe cause, on which he muttered something about "Auction lunch--infernal champagne, " and some other incoherent exclamations, altogether unintelligible to his unsuspicious wife. When he and hisparamour got outside they walked along in gloomy silence for severalminutes--at last he addressed her: "Is it not strange that this child, whom I had thought far removed from me and mine, should be broughteven into my own house, and eat at my table?"

"Oh, it is fearful; only think what would be the consequence if anintimacy should spring up between her and Charles!"

"Yes, I must send him away at once. "

Mrs. Trotter reminded him that this step was unnecessary, asMiss Montague left the next day for Chicago to fulfil a professionalengagement. He heaved a sigh of relief, and then, with a passionatetug at Mrs. Trotter's door bell, turned to go away. 

"Will you not come in a while, Jack?" she said. 

"No, he replied, Clara (Mrs. Dombey) would suspect something. Shelooked at me very strangely this evening. "

"But you will come to-morrow, " rejoined the temptress. 

"Yes, I will look in on my way up from the office, " he said. "Good night. "

"Good night, Jack, " said she. 

As he got to his own door he found Charles leaning pensively againstthe balustrade, gazing wistfully at the heavens. 

"Well, Charlie, have you forgotten your latch-key?"

"N--no Sir, " stammered Charles, "but it is so confoundedly hotinside that I did not care to go in. "

Dombey reflected that as the thermometer registered only about tendegrees Fahrenheit he had but to open his window to attain as low atemperature as was consistent with comfort; however, he said nothing, and they both walked upstairs. 

"Good night, Charlie. "

"Good night, Father. "

And they entered their respective chambers. 

I have heard it said that if two men are placed in one bed, one inlove and the other with a toothache, that the man with the toothachewill fall asleep first. Here, however, were two men; one, past theprime of life, afflicted with the most bitter remorse; the other, young and susceptible, with all the fever of a youthful passionspringing up within his breast. Dombey could not sleep, the thoughtthat what at first was barely possible was now become highlyprobable goaded him almost to madness. He rose and dressed himself, going quietly out of the front door into Sherbrooke street. Alongthe street he went at a fearful pace, till, almost faint from wantof breath, he turned down the hill towards the city, habit bringinghim along the route he was accustomed to take to his office. As heturned the corner of St. James street, he saw (for there were fewpersons abroad) a young man walking moodily up and down on the sideopposite the St. Lawrence Hall; he turned as if he had seen anapparition, and ran rather than walked in the direction of his ownhome. 

Next day Miss Montague departed for the West, Mrs. And Miss Dombeyaccompanied by Charles went to see her off at the Depot, and withmany assurances of a future meeting, should she ever return toMontreal, they separated as the train moved slowly past the platform. As the drawing-room car was just clearing the station, Miss Montagueheld a piece of paper out of the window, which Charles caughteagerly and placed in his pocket-book. His mother and sisterchaffing him on receiving tender messages from the fair artiste, helaughingly produced it. 

It was nothing more nor less than a page of an old timetable, and bothMrs. And Miss Dombey laughed at the strange souvenir Miss Montague hadleft behind her. When they got home, however, Charles carefully openedthe paper and observed that opposite each of the cities on her routeMiss Montague had placed a figure in pencil thus:--Chicago, 4;Detroit, 2; Toledo, 2; Toronto, 3; New York; 6, Boston, 6. This, though unintelligible to his mother and sister, informed Charles thatMiss Montague would go first to Chicago and remain four days, andafterwards to the other cities mentioned, and that he might write ormeet her there as opportunity afforded. 

That day matters resumed their normal condition in the Dombey family;Jacob breathed freely now that his child had returned to the countryof her adoption, and his wife and family were happy because of hisimproved spirits and appearance. Charles had apparently settled downto business as usual, and Mesdames Trotter and Dombey drove outtogether as of old. In a few weeks, however, Charles asked hisfather permission to go for his holidays; a friend having invitedhim to spend a few weeks at Nahant an island near Boston. Therebeing nothing to keep him in Montreal he had no difficulty inprocuring consent, and he departed, taking fishing tackle enough tohave supplied the whole Atlantic coast for a season. When his fatherlearned the real object of his visit to Boston, he raved like amadman; he came to see me, and told me the whole story, most ofwhich I had learnt before from other sources and he persuaded me togo to Boston and to take on my self the painful duty of informingMiss Montague who and what she really was, and why it was impossiblethat she could ever marry Charles Dombey. The poor girl was almostheart-broken, for she had learnt to love her stepbrother dearly, andnow she would have to be separated from him entirely. It was not forherself, however, that she mourned the most, it was for him, when heshould learn of the wide gulf which separated them from each other. He never did learn it, however; Miss Montague consented (for his sake)to accept an engagement in England, and to trust in years to softenthe blow which had smitten her so severely. She wrote to Charles, telling him that, for reasons unexplained, she never could be hiswife, although she loved him dearly, and that as there was no usestriving against fate, she had bowed to the inevitable, and taken aforeign engagement. At first Charles was desperately cut up, but time, that physician _par excellence_, healed his wounds, and he is nowmarried to a respectable lady of this city; deservedly successful inhis business, and with a stainless reputation. Jacob Dombeystaggered along under his load for years, but, unable to containhimself, he one day confessed the affair to his wife, who, insteadof denouncing him as the wretch he was, pitied and sympathized with;aye, and not only that, she received his mistress into her house asbefore, rather than make public his heartless conduct. Truly such anangel never received such heartless treatment, or was so littleappreciated. It broke her heart however, and over her grave Dombeyresolved to cast Mrs. Trotter off forever, and send her away fromthe city. He accordingly arranged with her to take an annualallowance and go to New York with her family, vowing that he couldno longer endure her presence, which was grown distasteful to him. 

This did not at all suit Mrs. Trotter, who had now hoped to becomethe legal mistress of the Dombey mansion. But all her tears were ofno avail, the bitter pangs of remorse were tearing Dombey's bosom, and he would hear of nothing but, her immediate departure for theUnited States. He determined that however he might have blighted thelife of the wife whose excellent qualities he had only now begun toappreciate, nothing should stand in the way of her children'sadvancement; and the voice of a scandal having already been heardconcerning Mrs. Trotter, he felt that her immediate departure was anecessity. She argued and entreated, but it was of no avail, and sheaccordingly made the best of her case and got from him a liberalallowance. Hers was not of a nature to reform, however; she wentfrom bad to worse, and finally took to smoking opium as a means torelieve her gnawing conscience, ending her days prematurely. 

Dombey survived her but a short time. He tried hard to make amendsfor the past by increased attention to the children of his late wife, but he never fully recovered himself, and finally succumbed to awasting fever, superinduced by late hours and immoderate drinking. To his last hour his conscience smote him at the triple wrong he hadinflicted on his children, his natural daughter, and his confidingwife. 

CHAPTER III. 

The Bag Baby. 

Madame Charbonneau gave such entire satisfaction as _Maîtressed'Hôpital_ that I purchased her interest in the lease of the house, andemployed her permanently as my aide-de-camp. In a short time weestablished quite a reputation, and applications for accommodationpoured in from all quarters. 

One bitter cold day towards the end of March a lady and gentlemanarrived by the morning train from the United States. The lady wasapparently about thirty-five years of age, while the gentleman mighthave been from five to ten years her senior, and, although plainlyattired, they had the appearance of belonging to the better class ofsociety. The gentleman informed me that they had just arrived fromNew York, and had put up at the St. Lawrence Hall; but that his wifehad taken ill unexpectedly, and, hearing that she would be bettercared for in my house than at the Hall, he wished, if possible, tosecure rooms and professional attendance. The house being ratherfull at the time, Madame Charbonneau was obliged to give her thenurse's room (which contained two beds) till some of the other roomsshould become vacant; this her husband readily assented to, andarranged to call in the afternoon and bring the necessary funds, which I always made it a point to collect in advance. The ladyseeming tired and exhausted, I recommended her to divest herself ofher clothing and retire to bed, which she accordingly did, and soonfell into a deep sleep. In the afternoon the gentleman returned, and, having settled the bills, went upstairs to see his wife who was justthen partaking of some light refreshment. He expressed himself wellpleased with our arrangements, and said he would call regularly tosee how his wife progressed. 

That night as the nurse was about to retire, she was surprised tofind, under the coverlet of her bed, an enormous rag baby, as largeas a child of two years old, dressed completely, with shoes, bonnetand veil. Her astonishment can easily be imagined as she held it upto the light and carefully examined it; then, laughing heartily, sheturned to Mrs. Roberts (my patient) and said:

"My! who could have put this baby in my bed?" On which that ladyreplied with evident embarrassment that the baby was a dollbelonging to her niece, and that, imagining the bed to be unoccupied, she had, in unpacking her trunk, placed it there for the sake ofconvenience, and apologized for being so careless. The nurse made noreply, but, being of a jovial disposition, danced with it into theother rooms, exclaiming, much to the chagrin of the lady, that shehad found a beautiful baby in her bed. The other patients wonderedwhat it was, and whence it came, and appealed to me for information, but, as I knew nothing about it myself, their curiosity was notgratified in the least. On my questioning the lady she told me astory similar to that which she told the nurse, but her countenancecontradicted her assertions, and the idea of any child carrying adoll of the dimensions of the rag baby was too absurd for credence. No more was said about it, however, and the matter passed almostcompletely from our memory. 

For three or four days things went on as usual, Mrs. Robertsgetting to all appearances better every day, and her husband'svisits being paid with due regularity; one day, however, he failedto appear, and Mrs. Roberts seemed very uneasy. After tea she askedfor the evening paper, and hastily scanned its columns, when her eyefell on some item of interest, and she became deadly pale. TheAmerican war being then in progress I thought she might have learnedof the death of a friend or relation, so I inquired if anything wereamiss, and was astonished when she pointed out a paragraphcontaining an account of her husband's arrest for enlisting Britishsubjects for the American army, and smuggling them across the line, She now took me into her confidence, and explained that she was anaccomplice of her husband, and that they had made a practice ofenlisting men in Montreal. Her husband usually remained here, as itwas dangerous for him to travel to and fro, but she was sent as anescort for each recruit, and the baby was used to avert suspicion, as no sentinel would think of scrutinizing a man closely who wentacross accompanied with his wife and child. The excess of travel hadweakened her frame, and now this shock came to still further shakeher system; the result was a premature confinement, and a long andweary illness. 

Ere she recovered she got a letter from her husband, bearing the NewYork postmark. It seems he had been liberated on bail, (havinginfluential friends) and had at once made the best of his way to theUnited States. His wife soon joined him, taking with her theredoubtable rag-baby, which had afforded us so much food for gossipand conjecture. 

CHAPTER IV. 

A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing. 

Alfred Grandison was born in the ancient city of Bristol in the year 1831. His father had been bandmaster in a British Cavalry regiment, but had retired some years previous to the birth of little Alfred, and made a comfortable livelihood by teaching the children of thewealthy residents of Clifton, the fashionable suburb of Bristol. Young Alfred soon gave evidence of great musical talent, and used toamuse himself blowing trumpet calls on his father's French horn, although the instrument was almost as big as himself; he alsoachieved considerable mastery over the piano, the flute and theviolin, but, though bright and intelligent enough, and alwaysmaintaining a creditable position at school, it was evident thatnature had intended him for a musician, and that he could neversucceed in anything prosaic or mechanical. Accordingly his fathertaught him not only to play, but also instructed him in the theoryand literature of music, and, when he was old enough, had himentered as a chorister in Bristol Cathedral, where, in addition tovocal music, he was carefully taught the art of organ-playing by theCathedral organist. 

The boy soon became able to play quite skilfully, and when his voicebegan to give way he obtained a position as organist in the churchat Shirehampton, performing on a small instrument with one row ofkeys. From Shirehampton he shortly removed to a more remunerativeposition in Bristol, and he was not long there before he fell inlove with the daughter of a hotel-keeper in one of the suburbs, whom, in spite of the remonstrance of both relatives and friends, heeventually married, although she was both poor and plain-looking, and at least ten years his senior. "A young man married is a manthat's marred" says Shakespeare, and, without venturing an opinionas to the correctness of this theory, we may say that youngGrandison had made a great mistake. In a short time his affection, or fancied affection, for his wife became less ardent, and he foundhimself at the age of twenty-four, married to a woman who hadneither taste nor sympathy in common with him, the father of threehelpless children, and the recipient of the stupendous emolument ofsixty pounds a year. Added to all this his friends, being unwillingto associate with his wife and relations, had, one by one, desertedhim, and left him almost alone to brood over his ill-advised alliance. 

Whilst moodily glancing at an evening paper he saw an advertisementfor an organist who would be willing to go to Canada, and at onceseizing at the idea he applied for the post, which he eventuallyobtained without great difficulty, sailing for Montreal in thespring of 1855, to play the organ and direct the music of one of theleading Episcopal churches in this city. At that time there were, very few musicians of ability in Montreal, and Mr. Grandison soonbecame quite popular, both professionally and socially. His wife wasat first invited out, but, finding that she seldom accompanied herhusband on these occasions, her name was, in time, dropped from theinvitations, and Mr. Grandison was treated as if he were a bachelor, many indeed being altogether unaware of the fact that he had a wifeand family. 

Among those who took Grandison by the hand was a certain Mr. Sedley, a professional man of high standing. Mary Sedley, the daughter ofthe latter was possessed of a remarkably fine voice, and was one ofthe ornaments of the church choir, so that the family were naturallyinterested in the advent of a new organist from England, under whosecareful training the music of the church was to be developed andimproved. It was decided to place Mary Sedley under the specialcharge of Mr. Grandison, and he accordingly went twice a week to thehouse to give her lessons in singing, and when there was a specialAnthem to be sung his visits were much more frequent. Then theSedleys gave grand musical parties to which Mr. Grandison was ofcourse, invited, playing Miss Sedley's accompaniment on thepianoforte, while she entranced the assembled company with hersinging; in fact, no gathering of the Sedley family was completewithout the presence of the handsome and accomplished Mr. Grandison. 

All this, in its way, was harmless enough, but Mary Sedley was ablooming girl of seventeen, and Grandison, as I have said was quitea young man, and from the frequent walking home with her alone fromservices and rehearsals, and other meetings in society, there arosean intimacy which, though unnoticed by Mary's parents, and possiblynot by the young people themselves, could not be productive ofanything in the long run but sorrow and remorse. 

One Saturday night when Mary came home rather later than usual, herfather (who, though fond of her, was an austere man) questioned hergruffly as to the cause of her delay, when she replied:--"Oh! papa, I am to sing 'As Pants the Hart' to-morrow, and Mr. Grandisoninsisted on my trying it with the organ after practice. It isexceedingly difficult, you know. "

Her father _did not know_, and was inclined to be very angry. Thenext day, however, he forgot it all in the delight of hearing hisdaughter's voice resounding through the sacred edifice; Grandisonwas invited to dinner, and everything was once more _couleur de rose_. 

The first winter after Grandison's arrival in Canada he gave a grandconcert in Nordheimer's Hall, then the principal concert hall in thecity. Mary Sedley was the Prima Donna, and bouquet after bouquet wasthrown at her feet, as she retired amid the plaudits of the multitude. After the concert Grandison accompanied them home to supper, andabout twelve o'clock took his leave of the family. 

About an hour afterwards Mr. Sedley, thinking he heard a noise, gotup and searched the house, when, to his surprise, he found the doorunfastened. He thought he remembered having secured it as he retiredto rest, but was not certain; however, he proceeded, in his search, and on coming to Mary's room, found the door locked, and heard hisdaughter breathing heavily, as if asleep. Being unwilling to disturbher, he returned to his bed, and, ere morning, the affair had passedfrom his memory. Had he remained awake, however, he might have seena man emerge from his daughter's room, and, creeping stealthilyalong the passage, go out at the hall-door, his daughter, the pure, spotless Mary, _leader of Psalmody and sacred lays_, following closeat his heels, to fasten the door and make good his retreat. 

This sort of thing went on for a long time, unsuspected by eitherMiss Sedley's parents or friends, when Mary became suddenly placedin a very awkward position. A certain Mr. Hazelton, junior partnerin a large hardware firm, had long been a suitor of hers, and hadasked repeatedly for her hand; her father had hitherto refused togive his consent, owing to her tender age, but he had now withdrawnevery obstacle, and left her free to get married if she chose; morethan that, he urged Hazelton's suit, and, though unwilling to coercehis daughter in any way, gave her to understand that he wasparticularly desirous that she should give Hazelton a favorable reply. 

Under ordinary circumstances Mary would have had no hesitation inrefusing to have anything to say to Hazelton, but for some timerumor had been busy circulating scandal concerning herself andGrandison, and, as she was at that moment not in a condition to bearscrutiny, she was afraid to awaken suspicion by refusing Hazelton'soffer, and so he was made the "happiest of men" (?)

A short time after Miss Sedley had become engaged to Mr. Hazeltonshe went with her father and mother to Cacouna, where they had asummer residence. By a strange coincidence, Grandison also choseCacouna at which to spend his holidays, and combined business withpleasure by giving occasional concerts at the St. Lawrence Hall, which hotel had just been erected, and was the fashionable resort ofthose people from Montreal and Quebec who could manage to exchangethe heated atmosphere of these cities for the more bracing air ofCanada's popular watering place. Mr. Hazelton was unable to leaveMontreal, and Mrs. Grandison was not disposed to accompany herhusband, even if he could have afforded to take her, in fact, thepoor woman, feeling that she was a burden and drag on her husband, had taken to drinking, and had gradually removed herself stillfurther from the pale of fashionable society. Her house (which wassituated in a back street in Montreal) was not only untidy, butpositively dirty, and her children ran about the streets uncladuneducated, and uncared for. 

The Sedleys had not been long at Cacouna when one morning the oldgentleman walking out, as was his wont, before breakfast, sawthrough the fog (which in this district usually hangs about for sometime after sunrise) a man descend from his daughter's bedroom windowand walk hastily in the direction of the hotel. Both the distanceand the fog prevented him from positively recognizing the man'sfeatures, but the form and carriage were unmistakably those ofAlfred Grandison. Mr. Sedley was, so to speak, "struck all of a heap, "he could not believe the evidence of his own senses, and for a fewmoments he stood rooted to the spot as if thunderstruck; then herushed into the house, and going straight to his daughter's roomupbraided her with her shameful conduct, but was met by a bold andunqualified denial, the young lady stating that she had been tillthat moment asleep, and that possibly some burglar had been in thepremises, whom her father had mistaken for a gay Lothario. She burstinto tears and wondered that her father could have such an opinion ofher, and suggested that immediate search should be made, to see ifany articles of value were missing. Her father was by no meansconvinced of his mistake, however; he thought it possible that hisdaughter might not have been aware of Grandison's presence, or thathe might only have been _about to enter_ the house when he wasfrightened away; but that Grandison was there he felt certain, so, going immediately over to the hotel, he charged him directly withhis crime, at the same time, presenting a loaded revolver at his head, he threatened to blow his brains out. This, as may be supposed, didnot prove a ready means of eliciting a confession from the cowardlyGrandison. The poor wretch cowered before the righteous indignationof the broken-hearted father, and swore by every saint in theCalendar that the latter must have been mistaken, and that nothingcriminal had ever taken place between the young lady and himself. 

Mr. Sedley only half believed these asseverations, but, as may beseen, he was a poor diplomatist, and took the very worst way toarrive at anything like the truth. So saying "Not guilty, but_don't do it again_, " or words to that effect, he left the hoteland returned to his own house. Here he disclosed his fears to hiswife, but she scouted the idea as preposterous, and urged him tohave Mary's marriage with Hazelton celebrated as soon as convenient, and so put an end to all possible contingencies. 

Shortly after the return of the family to Montreal Mr. Hazelton ledto the altar with pride the "blushing" Mary Sedley. Good cause, indeed, had she to blush, for never was man more egregiously"sold" than was "Mr. Samuel Hazelton, of the city of Montreal, merchant. " The _happy couple_ left by the evening train for Boston, the "Wedding March, " which was admirably performed by Mr. Grandison, still ringing in their ears. 

About five months after this unholy marriage Mrs. Hazelton called onme, and disclosed to me the whole state of the case, informing me(of which there was little necessity) that her confinement was closeat hand, and soliciting my aid to get her out of the difficulty. Myfirst impulse was to call on her husband and acquaint him with thefacts: but, remembering that he occupied a prominent position, notonly in the mercantile, but also in the religious community; moreover, that a disclosure would in no way mend the matter, and would be alasting disgrace not only, to the two culprits, but also to Messrs. Sedley and Hazelton I listened calmly to her plans for getting outof the difficulty. She suggested pretending a miscarriage, wished meto invite her to my house, where she would become ill, and unable toleave till after her child was born. The child was then to beconveyed to the nunnery, her husband being deluded into the beliefthat she had miscarried. 

Now, in the ordinary course of business, I would have been perfectlyjustified in attending her without troubling my head about herantecedents; indeed, had she been unmarried I would possibly havegiven my services, but in this case the lady was married, and thechild lawfully belonged to her husband, _whose heir it was_, althoughactually belonging to another man. 

I accordingly declined having anything to do with her case, althoughI promised that, as her confession was made to me in confidence andas a professional secret, I would not disclose it to anyone. Havingfriends in Boston, she made some excuse to visit them, and she wasnot long there when her husband received a telegram, stating that hiswife had had a premature confinement and lay in a precarious statein Boston, whither her loving husband instantly repaired. The child(a beautiful girl) was sent to Mrs. Sedley in Montreal, and givenout to nurse. She was eventually adopted by a childless dry goodsmerchant in this city who had her educated as his daughter, employing, by-the-by, _her own father_ to give her lessons in music. 

One would think that now Mrs. Hazelton had got over this greatdifficulty, and started in life as a respectable married lady, shewould have eschewed her former errors and turned over a new leaf. Unfortunately for all parties, her husband was proud of her musicalability, and insisted that she should continue to take lessons fromGrandison, for whom strange to say, he had conceived a great regard. The frequent meetings consequent upon this proved too much for bothof the culprits, and in a short time they became as intimate as ever. Since Mary's marriage, Mr. Sedley had quite forgotten his formersuspicions of Grandison, and he was cordially received into bothhouses, being, in fact, almost a member of the family. 

Mr. Hazelton was a prominent member of the church and, being acapital speaker, had undertaken to give a lecture in the basement ofthat edifice addressed to young men; Mrs. Hazelton and some otherladies were to enliven the evening with music, accompanied on thepiano by Mr. Grandison. The lecture animadverted at some lengthconcerning the temptations which beset young men, and warned them toavoid vice of all kinds, drinking, gambling, and the rest. Amongother things he mentioned the social evil, and contrasted the happyhome of the chaste man and his virtuous wife with that of the drunken, vicious libertine. The seducer was anathematized, and a graphicdescription given of the poor degraded women who had lost the onejewel in their crown. It is needless to say that both Mrs. Hazeltonand her paramour felt exceedingly uncomfortable during this discourse;the former who was to have sung a brilliant aria at its close, grewdeadly pale, and had to leave the room. The lecturer requestedMr. Grandison to substitute a piano solo, but strange to say, he wasunable to perform anything without notes, so the announcement wasmade to the audience that, owing to the excessive heat (thetemperature was about 70 degrees Fahrenheit), Mrs. Hazelton, wasunable to perform that evening, and begged to be excused. Grandisonwas to have gone home with the lecturer to supper, but he said heconsidered Mrs. Hazelton would be the better of a little quiet, and, stammering out some excuse, slunk away in the direction of his ownhome. 

Mr. Hazelton found his wife reclining on a sofa in the drawing-room, and he at once exerted himself to alleviate her suffering, andgratify her every whim. He propped her up with pillows, and orderedthe maid to prepare whatever delicacies the larder afforded, blaminghimself as being the cause of all her sufferings. His solicitude inher behalf made her only the more miserable; she had never loved, and never could love, him, but his uniform kindness and attentionhad excited within her a feeling of gratitude which made her remorseall the more bitter as she thought how he had been duped by thewoman who had sworn to love and honor him. The next day was one ofthose appointed for receiving her singing lessons, but she sent amessenger to Mr. Grandison, telling him not to call for a few days, as she was unequal to even that slight exertion. Mr. Hazelton calledto see me in great alarm, informing me that his wife's first childwas prematurely born, and that he dreaded a recurrence of thatterrible calamity. I, of course, had my own ideas concerning whatwas the matter, but I promised to call and see her, and do what Icould to alleviate her sufferings. I found her well enough physically, but in very low spirits and in tears. She told me what I haveinformed the reader, adding that she was at the moment _enceinte_, the father of this child being also Alfred Grandison. I was verymuch shocked at this disclosure, but contented myself withremonstrating with Mrs. Hazelton concerning the course she waspursuing, urging her to drop all connection with Grandison. This shepromised to do, but I subsequently discovered that, far from keepingher promise, she had even gone so far as to plan an elopement withhim to the United States. 

About two years after Mrs. Hazleton's marriage, Grandison receivedthe appointment of organist to ---- Church, Chicago, and, togetherwith his wife and family, left Montreal for the Western city, leaving Mr. Hazelton in undisturbed possession of his wife; thelatter, instead of rejoicing at this providential release fromtemptation, fretted at the loss of her paramour, attributing, however, her fitful humor to her delicate condition. 

Shortly after Grandison's departure for Chicago I was summoned toattend Mrs. Hazelton, who gave birth to a fine boy. Mr. Hazelton wasin ecstasy at the thought of becoming a father; he gave a grandentertainment on the occasion of the child's christening, and whenthe guests all agreed that the child had "its father's nose" (whichwas doubtless the truth) the poor man's delight knew no bounds. Mrs. Hazelton gradually began to be more cheerful, and to try insome measure to make amends to her husband for the wrong which couldnever be repaired. When, however, he carried her baby up and down, or fondled it upon his knee, the bitter pangs of remorse gnawed ather heart, and made her captious and bad tempered. With all thisthere was no deep repentance, and when Grandison came to Montrealfor his holidays, her husband was completely forgotten once more. Grandison was invited to stay at the Hazeltons' residence, aninvitation which to do him justice he endeavored to decline, butMr. Hazelton pressed him so strongly that he was afraid to awakensuspicion by refusing, and so the wolf became ensconced snugly inthe sheepfold, not only without difficulty, but on the pressinginvitation of its occupants. Mrs. Hazelton during this visit urgedGrandison so strongly that he promised to elope with her so soon ashe could conveniently leave Chicago. 

He had not been long back at his new residence when his wife died, and letters of condolence were sent to him from all quarters. Hiswife, who had never been received into society, was suddenlydiscovered to have been one of its brightest ornaments, and her losswas deeply felt and proportionately deplored. Mrs. Hazelton nowthought her opportunity had come, and accordingly wrote to Grandisonthat she was ready to go to the end of the world with him. He, however, was not particularly anxious to go to such a remote locality;in fact he had made up his mind to remain in Chicago, and (now thathis wife was no longer a burden upon him) to turn over a new leafand become a respectable member of society. Whatever charms MarySedley may have had had long since disappeared, and Mr. Grandison'saffection was not so deep-seated that he was prepared to tie himselfto a comparatively plain old woman for whom he had long since lostevery particle of respect. He accordingly took no notice of herletter, and received a second and a third couched in the strongestlanguage of affection. But the more importunate she became, the moredid Grandison lose his respect for her; he therefore took no noticeof her letters, and determined to keep aloof from her in the future. 

When Mrs. Hazelton began to realize that he had deserted her, shegrew frantic indeed. She would not believe it; the letters hadmiscarried, or something else had interfered to prevent his writing. She resolved that, come what would, she would go to him, and, throwing herself at his feet, demand his protection. In the dead ofthe night she collected her most valuable clothing and jewellery, and, with a little money in her purse, stealthily left her husband's house, carrying her bundle in her hand. She wandered about the streets tilldaylight, and in the morning entered the Grand Trunk Depot in St. Bonaventure street, and procured a ticket for Chicago. Her husbandat first thought she had merely gone to Bonsecours market to purchaseprovisions for the ensuing week, and that she would shortly return. Breakfast time came, however, and she did not return, and he beganto get uneasy; enquiries were made of neighbors and friends at whosehouses she might possibly have stayed, but no one had seen her, orknew anything of her whereabouts. The police were next communicatedwith, and a regular hue and cry was raised in the city concerningher mysterious disappearance. In the meantime the object of theirsearch arrived in Chicago, and at once proceeded towards Grandison'sresidence. She had not gone far when he approached her with afashionably dressed young lady on his arm. Mrs. Hazelton ran towardshim with a cry of recognition, but, whatever he may have felttowards her before, the sight of her as she now appeared drove everytrace of affection from his heart, he looked at her coldly, andwithout the faintest sign of recognition The effect of thistreatment under the circumstances can well be imagined; the wretchedwoman fell fainting at his feet, raving wildly and uttering the mostawful imprecations. By this time a crowd had collected, and thepolice, thinking she was some madwoman who had escaped, had herremoved to an asylum, and placed under medical treatment. 

During all this period Hazelton was like a man demented; he causedadvertisements to be inserted in the principal papers, describinghis wife, and offering a reward for her recovery. The canal lockswere dragged from end to end, and every place likely to have beenvisited by her was thoroughly searched and examined. At the end ofabout a week Mr. Hazelton received the following telegram:--

 Chicago, Oct. 14, 18--. To S. Hazelton, Esq. , Montreal

 Person answering description in advertisement in _Tribune_ found here to-day, and placed under medical treatment. What shall we do?

 J----P----, --for Chief of Police. 

Mr. Hazelton immediately telegraphed a reply, and, taking the nexttrain, was soon able to identify his lost wife. The sight of himmade the poor creature worse, and he was forbidden to call till shewas in a less excitable condition. In about a week, though stillsuffering, she was removed to Montreal, and placed under the care ofDr. X----, to whom I communicated what I knew concerning herantecedents. In a comparatively short time she grew much better, andwas able to converse intelligently, the subject of her departure andher illness being carefully avoided. Her husband attributed hermental aberration to the old cause, although why she should havegone to Chicago, he never could exactly understand. 

Many years have now passed since these occurrences, and all theparties to this narrative are still alive. Mrs. Hazelton has neverrecovered from the effects of the shock received in Chicago, andsits brooding mournfully and in secret over her past transgressions, while her husband with unceasing devotion heaps coals of fire on herhead. Grandison has since moved to New York, where he married again, and became an altered man. I met him in Montreal a short time since, but he carefully avoided all mention of either Mr. Or Mrs. Hazelton, and did not dare to call either on them or the Sedleys. Once ortwice his name was mentioned at the house of the latter, but itseemed to awaken sad recollections in the breast of Mrs. Hazelton, and was consequently avoided by the family. The latter have lived sofar in ignorance of these occurrences, and it is to be hoped theywill never be undeceived. 

CHAPTER V. 

Among the Fenians. 

While still young, and unused to the many strange phases of life Ihad an adventure which, at that period of my career, made a deepimpression on my mind. A rough-looking man called on me, andrequested my immediate attendance on a sick woman at Point St. Charles, at that time a remote suburb of Montreal. As I hesitated togo with him, having a strange dread of accompanying him to such alonely place, he seemed to think I was afraid of not receiving my fee, and, pulling a long purse out of his pocket he took out a handful ofgold pieces, one of which he tendered me an advance. This made meall the more reluctant to accompany him, as I feared he might be arobber or freebooter of some kind, but, quickly controlling myemotions, I set my reason to work, and argued that, whatever hemight be, he could have no motive other than that assigned fortaking me with him, that he could gain nothing by way-laying or evenmurdering me, and so I put on my outer garments and got into thecarriage beside him. The night was wet and stormy, and, just as westarted, forked lightning flashed across the heavens in alldirections, causing the horse to dash madly along as if to overturnthe vehicle. This of course was a mere coincidence, but, with all myfirmness of will and sound logical reasons for not being afraid, Icould not altogether control my emotions as we drove through thelowest and dirtiest parts of Griffintown, which had at that time thereputation of harboring all sorts of Fenians, thieves and marauders. We crossed the canal and got out into the country, the raindescending in torrents, while the thunder crashed louder than ever. I believe that, had I been able to get out, I would have even thenretreated, but I had no alternative but to remain and make the mostof my position. Beyond a few words at starting, my companion saidlittle; indeed conversation was impossible, as were jolted from sideto side of the street, and the crashing of the thunder overheadwould have drowned our most powerful efforts. 

After about half an hour's ride, the carriage stopped at a lonelyhouse some distance on the Lower Lachine road, and, alighting, weentered, when I was piloted into an upper chamber, where a woman layon a couch in need of my attendance. I felt altogether re-assurednow, and at once opened my satchel to make the necessary preparationsfor my stay; still the room had not the air of an ordinary bedroom, and the presence of three men, all as rough-looking as my guide, made me suspicious as to their calling, more particularly as therewas not a woman to be seen save my patient. 

As soon as I had divested myself of my wet garments and hung them atthe fire to dry, the men left the room, and I ordered the woman toundress and go to bed, which she did. I then tried to get someinformation from her as to who her husband was, and what was theoccupation of the men I had seen, but she either was or pretended tobe too sick to enter into conversation, and I was obliged to restrainmy curiosity for the time at least. In about two hours the womangave birth to a boy, and as soon as I could leave with safety, Idonned my clothes and left for home, the man who had engaged meputting me into a cab with great politeness, and paying the driver, he ordered him to deposit me in safety at my residence. 

The next morning I was surprised to read in the paper that aquantity of arms and ammunition had been sent here from the Fenianheadquarters in New York, and that although it was known that theywere secreted somewhere about Griffintown, the police had beenaltogether baffled in their search for them. A new light now dawnedupon me, particularly as I recollected that the room in which mypatient lay was filled with long, coffin-shaped boxes, the uses ofwhich I had been unable to guess. I accordingly consulted with myhusband as to what course I should pursue. Was I, having come bythis information in my professional capacity, to shut my eyes tothese doings, or, taking advantage of my position, to inform thepolice? My husband argued in this way:--If these people had beenguilty of a crime, which could not now be ameliorated or averted, itwould be a straining point for me to take advantage of what I hadlearnt by accident and to bring them to justice; but that as in thiscase a great national trouble _might be averted_, and many livessaved, by timely information, it was my duty to exert myself in theinterests of the community by putting a check on their movements. With this end in view I communicated with Mr. P----, then Chief ofPolice, and from my description he said he had no doubt but thesewere the very persons of whom they were in search, and that if Icould only manage to frame an excuse for the introduction of adetective, he would make sure of their identity before making anyarrests. 

My second visit to the house was made in the morning. I found mypatient very weak and feverish, and, although it was only what I hadexpected, took advantage of the fact to express my fears that thecase was one requiring the most skillful treatment, and that unlessI were permitted to call in a medical man of eminence, I would notbe responsible for the consequence. The woman's husband was verymuch averse to this; but, as I urged it strongly, and his wife(of whom he was apparently fond) seconded my request, he finallyconsented, and the same afternoon called, accompanied by Detective F----, whom I introduced as my consulting physician. Whilst I mixed somesimple remedies for my patient, the detective carefully examined theboxes, which he was unable to move, and which we were both convincedcontained arms and ammunition for the destruction of the peacefulinhabitants of Montreal. Mr. F---- carefully noted the position ofeverything in and about the house, he also took a good look at thesurroundings, and then we departed for the police station. The Chiefwas for making an immediate arrest of the whole party, but Idissuaded him, urging him, in the interests of humanity, to waittill the woman was out of danger; he then agreed to wait for a fewdays, keeping the house and its inmates under constant surveillance. 

The woman got better day by day, and at the end of a week, the Chief, fearful lest something might occur to mar his plans, sent adetachment of armed policemen to arrest the Fenian emissaries andcapture the stores. In some way or another the men got wind of theaffair, and made their escape across the lines, leaving the poorwoman and her helpless babe alone and unprotected. The policeentered the house unopposed; they found there several dozen, musketsand rifles, also about a hundred bayonets and five thousand roundsof ball cartridge. The woman refused to give the slightestinformation as to the names or identity of her companions; she saidshe knew nothing about the arms contained in the boxes, that thelatter had been brought there by a strange man, and left in charge ofher husband, and that she had never seen them opened. As the menwere evidently by this time safe in Uncle Sam's dominions, thepolice contented themselves with securing the ammunition, leavingthe woman to shift for herself. As I did not like the idea ofleaving her in the room alone and uncared for, I explained thematter to the neighbors, who good-naturedly undertook to look afterher till she received money from her husband to pay her passage toNew York. As, although I had no compunction in assisting to break upthis den of ruffians, I pitied the poor woman, who was probablyinnocent of any crime, I handed her the gold piece which her husbandhad given me, and did not leave her till assured that the neighborswould look after her till her departure. In later years I have oftenpassed the scene of these transactions, and a shudder passed throughmy frame as I remembered my experiences among the Fenians. 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Disciple of Satan. 

About the year 1866 I was summoned to attend a lady in Berri street, the wife of an officer in the ----th Rifles. Her husband, CaptainO'Grady, had taken a furnished house for the winter, the quarters inthe Quebec Barracks being unsuited for the accommodation of a ladyof her station, and round the house on every hand evidences might beseen of both wealth, taste and refinement. Mrs. O'Grady was abeautiful woman of about twenty-two, and had only been married abouta year; her husband, who was an Irishman, loved her passionately, and gave me particular charges concerning her, bidding me spareneither trouble nor expense to render her illness as little irksomeas possible. After her baby (a fine boy) was born I attended herregularly every day, and, as she had travelled in her youth andlived for some time in Germany, she invited me to come and see herin the evenings whenever I was at leisure, so that we might conversein the beautiful language of Schiller and Goethe, and chat aboutthat beautiful far-off land. Captain O'Grady quite approved of thisarrangement, and often used to join in the conversation; it was inGermany he had met his wife, and he had a great fancy for the softGerman language, although speaking it but imperfectly himself. 

Shortly after the birth of his child, Captain O'Grady's regiment wasordered to Chambly, and he was obliged to separate from his wife fora time. He used to drive in occasionally to Montreal to visit her, but at this season of the year the roads were very bad, and, as thethermometer sometimes fell 20 or even 30 degrees below zero, thejourney was usually attended with much discomfort and even somedanger. On Christmas Day, Mrs. O'Grady wished her husband to remainat Chambly and dine at the mess, but he insisted on coming intoMontreal and dining with his family. He accordingly set out abouteleven o'clock in the morning, accompanied by a brother officer namedChurchill, a lieutenant in the same regiment. 

It was a bitterly cold day, and the snow, which had been fallingheavily for some days, was blown in immense drifts across the roads, rendering them almost impassable. The groom, being accustomed to obey, brought the horses round with alacrity when ordered to do so, but heshook his head ominously as he handed the reins to Captain O'Grady, and jumped into the dickey. 

Off they flew through the blinding snowdrifts, the fine horses goingat a tremendous speed, and threatening to overthrow the sleigh everyinstant. The hot breath of the horses froze to the head-gear andharness, rendering it perfectly white, and the three men wereobliged to pull their fur caps over their ears to avoid their beingfrozen. They had not proceeded far on their journey when the road, which in summer was clearly defined by fences on either side, diverged somewhat from the ordinary course, and was made, forconvenience, through an adjoining farm, being marked with pinebranches, stuck at intervals in the snow. As our party proceeded, even these slight indications were invisible, the drifts rising insome places to a height of twelve or fourteen feet. In one of thelatter the sleigh stuck fast, and the occupants were obliged to getout, and wading up to their knees in snow to assist the horses toregain _terra firma_, or at least a more compact body of snow. Whilst engaged in this operation, Mr. Churchill noticed that thegroom's nose was perfectly white, and on examination it was found tobe frozen; they accordingly set to work to rub it with snow, and atCaptain O'Grady's suggestion he held a large body of snow to it forthe remainder of the journey, which had the effect of thawing it out. 

In a short time they regained the high road, and went along at atremendous pace for three or four miles, when they entered thevillage of Longueuil, which is situated on the south bank of the St. Lawrence, a little below Montreal. They found the river completelyfrozen over, the cold being intense, but the ice-bridge had onlyjust been formed, and the surface was rough and uneven, causing thesleigh to oscillate fearfully, threatening every moment to overturn. The storm had by this time increased to a perfect hurricane, and thedrifting snow was driven with intense force into the faces of bothmen and horses, causing the latter to bound and gallop fearfully, tothe extreme peril of those behind them. O'Grady, however, was askillful driver, and kept the horses well in hand, calling to themfrom time to time in a reassuring manner; as for Churchill, he ratherenjoyed the little spice of danger, and, as conversation was out ofthe question, he lit a cigar, and, drawing the buffalo-robes tightlyround him, made himself as comfortable as possible. In a short timethey arrived at their destination, and throwing the reins to thegroom, O'Grady dashed up stairs and in an instant had his wife inhis arms. She remonstrated with him about coming in on such aterrible day, but descended to the drawing-room, and, having welcomeMr. Churchill to her house, ordered the servant to set the table fordinner. Just then the groom entered the house to enquire when thecarriage would be required in the evening, and the appearance of hisnose set the whole party laughing heartily; his proboscis hadassumed a deep red hue, and was swollen to an enormous size, givinghim a most comical appearance. O'Grady ordered him to bring thecarriage round at ten o'clock, and, dinner just then being announced, they prepared, in true English fashion, to celebrate the Nativity. 

After dinner, Mrs. O'Grady entertained the gentlemen with music, and, having chatted on various topics very pleasantly they were arousedto the fact that the evening social intercourse must draw to an endby the clanging of the door-bell announcing the arrival of the groomfrom the neighboring livery-stable with the horses. Taking anaffectionate leave of his wife, and promising to come into Montrealto dinner on the following Sunday, O'Grady mounted the box, followedby the light-hearted Churchill, and cracking his whip was soonspeeding rapidly along into the howling storm. Churchill lit anothercigar, and shut his eyes to avoid the blinding snowdrifts, while thedriver was with difficulty enabled to see his way. Arrived at thesuburb known as Hochelaga, O'Grady turned his horses' heads towardsthe river, and they dashed across the ice-bridge at the rate ofabout twelve miles an hour. On they went at a terrible pace, thesleigh bumping and jolting over the rough road, till bang they cameupon a piece of ice, on to which the snow had drifted, and over wentthe sleigh, turning its occupants head first on the hard, icy road. Churchill was first on his feet, and, though bruised and bleeding, succeeded in arresting the horses, who, now thoroughly frightened, were about to run away; the groom also soon recovered himself andran to the assistance of his master, but the latter was past allhuman aid, having fallen from the upper side of the sleigh beadforemost on a piece of ice, and broken his neck. His companions werestruck dumb with grief and astonishment; however, they could notstand freezing in the middle of the river, so, righting the sleigh, they placed the dead man gently inside it, and drove slowly toLongueuil, where a friendly _habitant_ placed the best room in hishouse at their disposal. 

Mrs. O'Grady, as may well be supposed, was very much shocked at thenews of her husband's death. The body was brought to her house inMontreal, and from thence to Mount Royal Cemetery, where it wasinterred, a company of rifles firing a volley over the grave. For atime the young widow was undecided whether to go back to her friendsin England or to remain in Canada, but, being unwilling to becomedependent on her relations, she accepted a situation as governess ina wealthy family residing in the west end of Montreal, placing herinfant son under the charge of a nurse. 

Mrs. Thomson, in whose service Mrs. O'Grady was employed, was thewife of a wealthy English gentleman who had invested largely inCanadian real estate and national enterprises. She had two daughters, aged 18 and 16, respectively (whom Mrs. O'Grady was expected to trainand prepare for entrance into society), also a son about 22, who, although educated as a lawyer, pursued no avocation other than thecollection of rents on his father's estate, and minor offices inconnection with the investment of his money. Randolph Thomson, theyoung gentleman in question, suddenly became very attentive to hissisters. There was not a single concert or ball of importance towhich he did not take them, whereas before he could rarely beinduced to accompany them anywhere. The girls never tried to accountfor this sudden change in their brother's behavior, being too muchengrossed in the enjoyment of the entertainments aforesaid totrouble their heads about the matter; Mrs. Grundy, however, had anidea that the handsome widow who officiated as governess hadsomething to do with the affair, and, a rumor of the kind reachingthe ears of Mrs. Thomson, the unfortunate widow was eventuallyobliged to leave the house, much to the regret of the whole family, but especially that of Randolph, whose brotherly attentions suddenlybecame less marked, and in time ceased altogether. 

Mrs. O'Grady, being once more thrown on her own resources, departedfor Sherbrooke, one of the most thriving towns in the EasternTownships, where she endeavored to make a respectable livelihood byteaching music. She chose Sherbrooke rather than Montreal, becausein the latter place every lady who wished to earn her own livingstarted out as a music teacher, and the teachers were rapidlythreatening to outnumber the pupils, and to equal many of them asregards want of knowledge. 

Close to Mrs. O'Grady's new residence, and removed a short distancefrom the town, there dwelt a wealthy old farmer named Clarkson. Mr. Clarkson was a bachelor about 65 years old, who, by steadyattention to his farm and shrewd speculations, had amassed aconsiderable fortune, being considered one of the "solid men" ofSherbrooke. Clarkson happening to meet Mrs. O'Grady at the house ofone of the principal clergymen, became enamored of her at first sight, and at the first opportunity proposed for her hand. This she was atfirst both to give, her heart at the time being elsewhere; but, asClarkson offered to settle all his property on her and her children, and he himself, though neither young nor handsome, was very agreeable, and held a high position in the community, she finally consented, and was led a second time to the hymeneal altar. 

Mr. Clarkson was very proud of his handsome wife, he ordered ahandsome phaeton and pair of bay ponies from Montreal for herprivate use, and gave her an unlimited allowance of pin money, andshe might be seen any afternoon, fashionably attired, driving fromone shop to another, followed by the admiring eyes of the bankclerks and beaux, and the envious glances of the single young ladiesof Sherbrooke. 

After three or four months Mrs. Clarkson told her husband that shehad been invited to go on a visit to Montreal, and urged him toallow her to accept it, particularly as her little boy was afflictedwith sore eyes, and there was no oculist of ability in the town. Herhusband readily consented, and, with the promise that she wouldreturn in a few weeks, Mrs. Clarkson came to Montreal, and callingat my house informed Madame Charbonneau (in my absence) that shewished to remain there if possible, as she was about to be confined. When I got home she confessed to me that she had been on terms ofintimacy with Randolph Thomson, and begged me not to inform herhusband, as he was exceedingly jealous, and would kill her if hesuspected the true state of affairs. 

Promising to do the best I could under the circumstances I had roomsprepared for both her and her boy, and secured the best medicalattendance for the latter, whose eyes were in a very bad state fromlong neglect. It was two weeks before Mrs. Clarkson's baby (a boy)was born, and very unpleasant rumors were circulated round the town, which, coming to the ears of the old gentleman caused him to write avery stiff letter, ordering his wife to return immediately. This, ofcourse, she could not do, and as she was unable to frame an excusefor refusing to I do so, she determined to take no notice of hisletter, and, if brought to task concerning it, _to deny havingreceived it_, the letter being unregistered. Fortunately for her, ifnot for himself, her boy's eyes continued to defy the skill ofDr. Fulford, the oculist to whose care she had committed him, and itwas imperative that they should remain in Montreal a week or twolonger. This fact was communicated to Mr. Clarkson, but his sister(who had continued to reside with him after his marriage) persuadedhim to have nothing more to do with his wife, and related to him therumors she had heard, allowing them (as may well be supposed) tolose nothing in the narration. 

Mrs. Clarkson was naturally very much put out when she learnt howher sister-in-law had acted; but, being both a strong-minded andcrafty woman, she determined to put a bold face on the matter, andif possible to pay off old scores with her sister-in-law. Sheaccordingly placed her baby out to nurse, and, as soon as she feltstrong enough, set out for Sherbrooke. She found her husband's houselocked against her, but, nothing daunted, she went straight to themayor's residence, and explained that, having gone to Montreal withher husband's permission, she had (as soon as _her boy_ wassufficiently recovered) returned to her home, and found the doorlocked against her. The mayor (a particular friend of Clarkson's)told her to come with him and he would see her righted, but sherefused, saying that she had already gone to her husband's house andbeen refused admission, and that she would not go again until hecame to fetch her; she then departed and engaged rooms at the hotel. 

The mayor, wishing to save his friend any public scandal, went to him, and remonstrated with him on his conduct, explaining that, as hiswife had gone to Montreal with his permission, he was legallyresponsible for all her expenses, and that in refusing to admit herinto his house he had rendered himself liable for an expensivelawsuit. On this poor Clarkson got so frightened that he ordered histeam to be brought round, and, driving to the hotel, implored hiswife to accompany him to his house, begging her forgiveness for hisconduct, and promising that he would do anything to make amends. 

Mrs. Clarkson now felt that she had obtained a grand advantage, and, assuming an air of injured innocence, enquired who had set himagainst her. Poor Clarkson was reluctantly compelled to admit thathis sister had had something to do with it, on which his wiferefused to live under the same roof with such a vile slanderer('), and insisted that, before she returned, the lady _who had takenaway her character_ should leave the house. In fact, she managed theaffair so well, and exhibited such an amount of "cheek, " that thepoor man actually sent his sister away, and drove with a magnificentteam of horses to bring home the woman whom he had refused to admitinto his house. 

For several months they lived happily together, Mrs. Clarkson_going on a visit to Montreal_ whenever it stated her. In processof time she gave evidence of being _enceinte_, and old Clarkson'sjoy knew no bounds, as he evidently rejoiced at the prospect ofhaving an heir. Had he known, however, that his wife, in visitingMontreal, was invariably met by Randolph Thomson, it is questionablewhether his joy would not have been considerably moderated. Beforethe child was born the old man died, leaving all his property to hiswife and his expected heir. His sister, who really was devoted to him, was left without a penny, and entirely dependent on the charity ofMrs. Clarkson. The widow, however, had not forgotten the part playedby Mrs. Clarkson during her brother's lifetime, and being nowsteeped in wickedness, her better nature was almost entirely lost. She turned the faithful sister from her door, and she, the false wife, was with her illegitimate child (born almost immediately after theold man's death) snugly installed in the home that in all equity andjustice should have belonged to the woman she ejected. 

"_Facilis descensus Averni_. "--It is wonderful how easy the descentreally is, when once the first false step is taken. As the avalanche, which at first becomes slowly loosened from its lofty position, gradually descends with greater and greater rapidity till it isdashed into the abyss, so does the frail mortal, who at firstshudders at the bare thought of an immoral act, rush headlong intosin till her desperate career is suddenly checked, often in a mannerfearful to contemplate. Mrs. Clarkson had now all that any womancould reasonably be expected to desire. She had triumphed over hersister-in-law and those of her husband's relatives who hadcirculated rumors detrimental to her character, and had become thepossessor of a comfortable home, without the incubus of an impotenthusband. But she was not content; Randolph Thomson, turning his backon her and his boy, had married a young lady of fortune; so vowingvengeance against men in general for their _falseness and inconstancy_. Mrs. Clarkson laid herself out to entrap and ensnare every man whocame in her way, and in this manner to revenge herself (as she bysome strange mental process led herself to imagine) on her falselover. 

The deceased Mr. Clarkson had a brother named William, a bachelor, whose farm was adjacent to that now possessed by the widow. Williamwas nearly twenty years younger than his brother, and was consideredrather a good-looking man by his acquaintances. It is possible that, but for her _liaison_ with Thomson, Mrs. Clarkson would, long erethis, have fascinated him with her beauty and blandishments; but, hehad hitherto escaped unscathed, though openly admiring his brother'swife, and taking her part against the scandal-mongers whenspeculation was rife as to the cause which detained her in Montreal. In looking round for some one to entrap and ensnare, Mrs. Clarkson'seye naturally fell upon William, as the most eligible party in herimmediate vicinity; and she was the more anxious to secure him, because, with a woman's far-seeing eye and long-reaching vengeance, she wished to circumvent her sister-in-law, who, being unmarried(and likely to remain so), had undertaken to keep house for heryounger brother, and would, as matters at that moment stood, havelikely outlived him and inherited his property. Opportunity was notlong wanting for her to effect her object; William was the soleexecutor to his brother's estate, and, as business often broughtthem together at the late Mr. Clarkson's lawyer's office in Montreal, it was not strange that the widow should almost immediately haveopened the campaign, which she did on the first occasion of theirmeeting in the city, beginning, as most great generals do, with alittle skirmishing, in order to draw out her opponent. It was abeautiful spring morning, and, as they had appointed to meet inMontreal at eleven o'clock, Mr. Clarkson called to drive hissister-in-law to the depot to meet the train. To his surprise, thatlady declined to accompany him, reminding him that she was now alonein the world, and that if during her husband's life-time the tongueof scandal was directed against her reputation, how much the morewould it be so now that her natural protector was no more. William, being little of a gossip himself, urged her to be above such pettypandering to public opinion, and to follow her inclinations, but shereplied naively. --"A woman has nothing to depend on but herreputation, and she cannot be too careful, you know. " "Perhapsyou are right, " William replied, laughing, and so he permitted thewidow to order her own buggy round, and follow him a few minuteslater to the depot. But even this precaution did not satisfy the wilyMrs. Clarkson. She knew that many Sherbrooke people would be on thetrains both going and coming, and that inquisitive eyes would watch, and gossiping tongues would relate all that passed during the journey, so she induced Miss Cuthbert, a neighbor of hers, to accompany her, promising her a pleasant day in Montreal. 

The train had not arrived when the ladies alighted at the depot, butthe ever-acute widow instructed her servant man not to drive away, but to wait and see if any parcels had been sent from Portland. Shedid not expect any parcels from Portland, but she wished all theneighbors who might be going on the train to see her man with thebuggy, in case they might imagine she had come in the carriage withWilliam. When they got on board the train, of course, herbrother-in-law took a seat with her and Miss Cuthbert, but thewidow pretended to be engrossed in a novel, leaving the youngerlady to carry on the conversation. A boy approached with "prizepackages" of candies, and William, buying two, handed them to theladies, requesting them to see what fortune had in store for them. Miss Cuthbert opened hers eagerly, and, amidst the almonds andlozenges, discovered a gilt brooch, which she laughingly fastenedon her breast. William offered to open the widow's for her, but sheinterrupted him, saying:

"My fortune has been told already, give it to Miss Cuthbert. "

"Oh, yes! give it to me, " said the sprightly girl, and hastilyopening it, she poked amongst the candies and pulled out a smallarticle rolled in tissue paper; unrolling the paper eagerly shedisclosed _a plain gilt ring_. 

"Put that on, also, " said Mrs. Clarkson. 

"Oh, no!" answered Miss Cuthbert, "I will try to get some one to putit on for me. "

With this careless banter the time passed away till they reachedMontreal, Mrs. Clarkson playing the shy widow to perfection, and, asmay naturally be supposed, not only raising herself in theestimation of her brother-in-law, but drawing him in a strangemanner within the radius of her fascinating influences. 

On arriving in the city they entered a carriage, and were driven toSt. James street, where Mr. St. Jerome, the lawyer, had his office. In about an hour their business was transacted, and William invitedthe ladies to Alexander's to partake of luncheon, but this the widowdiscreetly declined, being aware that the pastry-cook's in questionwas a celebrated rendezvous for all country-folk. Pleading as anexcuse that she wanted, to do some shopping, she advised William notto trouble about them, as they would prefer shopping alone, and that, if fatigued, they could easily drop in for an ice at somerespectable confectioner's. "Besides, " added Mrs. Clarkson, "I have promised to take Miss Cuthbert up the mountain thisafternoon, as she has never been to the summit of Mount Royal, though living so near the city bearing its name. "

"If you are going up the mountain, I pray you will allow me toaccompany you. I never visit Montreal without ascending it at leastonce, " said Mr. Clarkson. "If you do not wish me to go shopping, Iwill not intrude, but I will feel myself slighted if you compel meto ascend the mountain alone. "

The widow feigned to give a reluctant consent, and accordingly theyarranged to meet on Place d'Armes at two o'clock, and to drive tothe base of the mountain together. At that time the beautifulmountain from which Montreal derives its name, and most of its beauty, had not been acquired by the city. It was private property, and therewere no elegant roads by which to drive to its summit; indeed, itwas only by the courtesy of the proprietors that persons wereallowed to ascend the famous hill, and enjoy the beautiful sceneryand bracing air: even then the task of ascending was no easy one, and ladies were generally glad of the company of one or more of thehardier sex, if only to assist them in clambering up the steep ascent. 

Mr. Clarkson went to lunch, and then to the Corn Exchange totransact some business, arriving in Place d'Armes precisely at twoo'clock. Shortly afterward she saw the ladies emerge from the FrenchChurch of Notre Dame, and cross the square to meet him. Miss Cuthbertwas delighted with the church. Although a Protestant, she admiredit as an architectural art-work, the elaborate adornment, too, ofthe interior pleased her, and accorded with her womanly tastes. Mrs. Clarkson had seen both inside and outside so often that neitherhad now any more effect on her; indeed, not only was her heartsteeled to the refining influences of the building, but also tothe doctrines inculcated within it; she had started on the downwardpath, and never once dared to look up again, even for a moment. 

"Well, you are sharp on time, " said Miss Cuthbert, addressingMr. Clarkson. 

"Yes, indeed, I have been walking the streets for nearly an hour, wondering if the hands on the Seminary clock would ever indicate thehour of two. I had almost persuaded myself that the public clockshad all stopped, but my watch, which was ticking, told me that theywere going on with methodical regularity. " He addressed himself toMiss Cuthbert, but his eyes were turned slightly towards Mrs. Clarkson, who, blushing slightly (she could blush at pleasure), turned away herhead, and appeared to be quite confused. 

William hailed a cab, and they drove up University street, as far asthe carriage road permitted them. Dismissing the "carter, " theyentered the adjacent field, and ascended by a winding path which atthat time ran through the property of Mr. (now Sir Hugh) Allan. Miss Cuthbert, although she lived faraway from all mountains orhills of any kind, was remarkably active, and bounded up the steepascent like a deer. Mrs. Clarkson was a _dear_ of another kind, andshe was obliged to cling to her brother-in-law for support, whichlatter he was by no means adverse to giving, after about twentyminutes climbing they arrived at the "view point" immediately overSir Hugh Allan's residence, when everything was immediatelyforgotten in the inspeakable emotion excited by the magnificentpanorama before them. At their feet lay the beautiful city, the rowsof shade trees, clothed with verdure, lending a gorgeous setting tothe elegant limestone buildings. In front rolled the mighty St. Lawrence, nearly two miles wide, the vast expanse being relieved bySt. Helen's Island, with its luxuriant foliage. On the right theVictoria Bridge, that monument of engineering skill, stretchedacross the mighty river towards the picturesque village of St. Lambert; while further to the westward might be seen Nun's Islandwith its shady groves, at the head of which rushed the boilingwaters of the famous rapids of Lachine. I have in my youth travelledthrough both Germany and Switzerland and, later, through thebeautiful scenery of New Hampshire and Vermont, but nowhere do Iremember having seen a view so grand, or a panorama so picturesque, as that to be seen from the brow of Mount Royal. 

For a while the entire party gazed in speechless admiration at thescene before them, when Miss Cuthbert exclaimed:

"I can say, with the apostle of old, 'It is good for us to be here. '"

"And build _three tabernacles_? queried Mrs. Clarkson. 

"Oh, no, two would do. One for me, and another for you andMr. Clarkson. "

At this rejoinder Mrs. Clarkson bit her lips, and changed theconversation immediately. 

When they had surveyed the city, the river, and the country on theopposite shore, they prepared to ascend to the highest part of themountain, where the observatory stands, imbedded in trees. Here theysat down for a time to rest, and partake of some light refreshmentwhich they had brought with them; they then proceeded to descend onthe other side, passing through the Protestant and Catholiccemeteries, both elaborately laid out, and looking like beautifulflower gardens, rather than burial grounds. As they neared Côte desNeiges Miss Cuthbert commenced to scamper along like a child, and atone short declivity, she started off at a run, calling on the othersto follow. Clarkson took his companion's hand and invited her todescend in like manner, but, almost at the first step, hissister-in-law uttered a sharp scream and fell forward on the grass, informing them that her foot had turned under her, and that she hadsprained her ankle. 

William was almost beside himself. He felt that he had foolishlyinduced her to forget herself so far as to indulge in a wild rompand thus injure her ankle. He wished Miss Cuthbert at the bottom ofthe sea, and wondered how they were to get the beautiful cripple home, as they were removed from residences or conveyances of any kind, andMrs. Clarkson was no small weight. There being nothing else for it, however, the sturdy farmer lifted her in his arms and carried her tothe house of the caretaker of the cemetery; then, leaving her gentlyon a sofa, he started for the inn at Côte des Neiges, thinking hemight obtain the means of conveyance to Montreal. 

On his arrival at the inn he was informed that there was no liverystable of any kind for miles around, and that the private buggy ofthe proprietor was at the moment in Montreal, whither the landladyhad driven for provisions. Just then a team was driven at a rapidspeed from the direction of St. Laurent; it contained two younggentlemen from Montreal, who had driven round the mountain attendedby a groom. On hearing the particulars of the accident they at once, with great gallantry, gave up their vehicle, a mail phaeton, for theuse of the disabled lady, cheerfully undertaking to walk theremainder of the way (about four miles), and enjoining Mr. Clarksonto bring the carriage to their stable so soon as he had depositedhis fair companions in a place of safety. 

On reaching the cemetery, William found the widow looking wretched, indeed, and apparently suffering great pain. Her face brightened, however, as she saw the carriage and was convinced that theywould be able to get to Montreal in time for the night train forSherbrooke. William assisted Miss Cuthbert into the trap, andplaced Mrs. Clarkson carefully beside her; then, mounting thebox, he thanked the caretaker for his kind offices and drove, viaCôte des Neiges hill, to Montreal. He suggested to Mrs. Clarksonthat it would be better for her to take a room at the St. LawrenceHall for a few days, and enjoy perfect rest till her ankle got better, but she, remembering her past experiences, preferred to travel atonce to her home, and so avoid all scandal. 

William drove straight to the Grand Trunk terminus in St. Bonaventure street; and, placing the ladies in a Pullman car, droveup to Sherbrooke street with the team, which he left, as directed, at the young gentleman's residence. He proceeded along to St. Lawrence Main street, where he hailed a cab, and drove back to theterminus. Shortly after his return to the depot the train started, and in a few hours they reached Sherbrooke. 

It was considerably past midnight when they got to Mrs. Clarkson'sresidence, so Miss Cuthbert remained with her till morning, doingall she could to alleviate her pain. Shortly after breakfast Williamcalled; and as his sister-in-law was confined to her room, heconsiderately kept her company till Miss Cuthbert had gone home andobtained permission to remain a while longer with the disabled lady. There is nothing that tries a man's heart so much as to see a woman(particularly a beautiful woman) in pain. The widow was aware of this, and so, although the sprain was purely accidental, and was notincluded in her programme, turned it to such good account that thepoor bachelor was fairly hooked, and began to think seriously that hehad got into an awkward fix. 

Marriage with a deceased brother's wife was illegal, and noclergyman could perform the marriage ceremony without violating thelaws of both Church and State; even if one could be prevailed on tofollow the dictates of his conscience, and to stretch a point intheir favor (as was sometimes done) society would not recognizetheir union, and would shun them as open adulterers. In vain did hissister-in-law urge on him that the law was absurd, and that, asthere was no blood-relationship between them, there could be nothingcriminal in their living together; he had not the moral courage toface the cold criticism of a narrow-minded and bigoted community, and, though mad with passionate love, he hesitated to take the fatalplunge. 

Mrs. Clarkson, however, having carried the outposts and principalbarriers successfully, was not to be thwarted by a mere matter ofsentiment. She expressed her intention of departing forthwith forDetroit, assuring him that she would no longer remain in a countrywhere such intolerant bigotry existed, and instructed him, if heloved her as he pretended, to sell his property in Canada and followher thither. 

Clarkson was both to leave his relations and the home of hischildhood, but the temptress lured him gradually on, refusing attimes even to see a man who valued his narrow-minded friends'opinion rather than her love, and at length he consented to sell hisfarm for whatever it would bring, and to rejoin her in Detroit. Thiswas another piece of generalship on the part of the widow, as, didthey remain in Canada, she could not, in the event of her husband'sdeath hold the property which would revert to her hated sister-in-law;but that being now converted into cash she was at liberty tosquander it during her husband's life-time, retaining the fortuneleft by her first husband for the future use of herself and children. 

For a time Mr. Clarkson lived with his sister-in-law in a princelystyle in Detroit. They entertained largely and handsomely, andmost of their guests neither cared nor enquired who they were, orwhence they came. They had not been there more than six weeks whenMrs. Clarkson made the acquaintance of Count Von Alba, who for sometime had been the lion of fashionable circles in Detroit. Von Alba wasa Russian, who (for political reasons said his friends, for criminalreasons said his enemies) had emigrated to America and lived on hisfortune (his friends insisted)--his wits, said his enemies again. 

Whichever surmise was correct, Von Alba was undoubtedly good-looking. He stood five feet eleven inches in his stockings, and waspowerfully built; his complexion, like most Russians was dark, andhis lofty forehead was surmounted with curls of the darkest brown. At the time of the Clarksons residence, the Count was aboutfive-and-thirty years old; he had naturally a genial manner and agood-humored expression of countenance, and a scar on his forehead(obtained, he said, when a lad, at Inkerman) made him an object offeminine admiration, while he was at the same time greatly envied bythe opposite sex. 

Von Alba was a sort of Admirable Crichton. He rode like Nimrod, danced like Terpsichore, drove like Jehu, shot like William Tell, and sang like Sims Reeves. It was in the _latter_ accomplishment, however, that he chiefly excelled; he would stand up at the end of acrowded drawing-room, and, playing a delicate accompaniment on hisguitar, would vocalize one of the passionate love-songs of hisnative land. Sometimes he sang in English, then his defectivepronunciation lent a strange charm to his singing, which, althoughit could scarcely be accounted for, made itself felt even in thebosoms of the dilettanti. 

Strange to say, although courted and run after by nearly all theeligible young ladies, the Count became so fond of Mrs. Clarkson'ssociety that scarcely a day passed but he was found at her house. Atthe fair lady's "Thursday Evenings, " of course, he was one of theprincipal attractions, added to which he dined and lunchedfrequently at her house, and escorted her to balls and parties: herhusband not caring for the everlasting round of excitement, and, farfrom feeling jealous of the Count, he was proud to think that hischoice of a companion should be endorsed by one who presumably was acompetent judge. 

It was not long till the lady was at her old tricks again, and whatRandolph Thompson had been to her before, Von Alba soon became, thesimple husband encouraging these visits, and allowing his wife tosquander his money lavishly on her paramour. Mrs. Grundy in themeanwhile began to be suspicious, and rumors, at first vague andindefinite, became almost pointed accusations against Mrs. Clarkson. The poor husband, although not altogether crediting the fact thatthere was a foundation for these reports, saw the necessity, in theequivocal position in which both he and his wife stood, of putting astop to all suspicious intercourse with the Count; and, beingresolute enough when so disposed, he forbade his wife to meet VonAlba any more in private, or to invite him to her house. 

This, as may be supposed, brought matters to a crisis and brought ona terrible quarrel between the abandoned woman and her husband. Shesaw that the game was up as far as Detroit was concerned, and so, managing to forge her husband's name to a cheque for severalthousand dollars, she went the next day with great boldness to thebank where he kept his money and presented it; it was cashed by theclerk without hesitation, and that evening, abandoning both Clarksonand her children, she went, accompanied by her paramour, to thedepot and took the train for Montreal, where they went to an hotel, registering their names as Mr. And Mrs. Mortimer, of New York. Notwithstanding their false names and altered attire they were tracedto the St. Lawrence Hall, Mrs. Clarkson being surprised, on comingfrom breakfast one morning, to observe her husband busily scanningthe register at the office counter. The Count had not seen him, butMrs. Clarkson hurried him upstairs and told him that theirwhereabouts was discovered, and that they must take refuge in flightbefore Clarkson had time to take steps for their apprehension. 

Ringing the bell, Von Alba bade the boy to have their bill made outand receipted, and to have their luggage sent to the station in timefor the next train for New York. 

"There is no New York train till 3. 15, " said the boy. 

"When is there one for Toronto?" asked the Count. 

"Not till eight this evening, but the Lachine train, which meets themail boat, leaves at 11. 30. "

"That is what I mean, " said Von Alba; "we will go by that;" then, packing hastily, the two culprits descended by the ladies staircase, and, entering a carriage, drove off to procure tickets for Toronto. 

All this time Mr. Clarkson was quietly seated in the breakfast-room, taking light repast after his long journey. That the persons hesought were in the hotel he felt confident; but there were so manygentlemen with their wives real or pretended, from all parts, thathe was puzzled to conjecture which of the names in the register wasthat assumed by the Count. At length he resolved to take the boy intohis confidence; and, handing him a gold piece, he began to questionhim concerning the guests now quartered in the hotel. When he haddescribed the pair he wanted, the boy said: "W'y these ere must bethe pair wat's just gone to the Toronto boat!" Clarkson said not aword; but, handing a card to the cashier, rushed out of the hotel, and, jumping into a cab, bade the driver to go with all speed to theUpper Canada boat. Had he thought for a moment he would haverecollected that the boat leaves the wharf early in the morning, andproceeding slowly through the canal, stops to take on passengers atthe head of the Lachine Rapids. In his blind haste, however, he hadforgotten this; and lost so much time in going to the wharf that, when he eventually learnt the truth and got to the depot, the trainwas just leaving the platform. 

There was nothing for it now but to wait for the train for the west, and to get on board the steamer at Kingston. He had at least thesatisfaction of knowing that they were on the boat like rats in atrap, and that, except the delay in confronting the villain Von Albaand his wretched companion, he was as successful as possible in hispursuit of the fugitives. Returning to the city, he procured theassistance of a detective, who undertook to accompany him to Kingston, and assist him in apprehending and arresting the fugitives. 

By this time the steamship "Hungarian, " on which the wretched pairhad embarked, was ploughing the waters of Lake St. Louis. After atime they passed through the Beauharnois and Cornwall canals, andentered the labyrinth of beautiful patches known as the "ThousandsIslands. " As they emerged from this lovely spot the saloon becamesuddenly filled with smoke, and in a few minutes cries of "Fire! Fire!"were heard on every hand. A rush was made for life preservers, whilethe crew of five or six men vainly endeavored to extinguish theflames. The captain ordered boats to be lowered, but, the men beingexcited, and badly drilled at best, the boats were successivelyswamped, leaving the poor terrified creatures only a choice of twofearful deaths. 

One of the sailors handed Mrs. Clarkson a life preserver, which sherequested Von Alba to fasten round her waist, but the cowardlyfellow _snatched it from her_, and, hastily securing it round hisown waist, swung himself overboard, leaving her to perish in theflames! He was not to escape so easily, however; with a bitter yellof mingled rage and despair the wretched woman mounted the taffrail, and plunging straight for the spot where he rose to the surfacedragged him under again and again with fearful maledictions. Thepassengers who still remained on deck could do nothing to separatethem, and although the life preserver would have sustained both ofthem easily in the water, so great was the woman's bate on thediscovery of Von Alba's cowardly treachery, that she did not evengive a thought to her own escape, so intent was she on dragging himto the bottom. The expression of her face, lit up as it was by theblaze of the burning; steamer, was terrible to behold: the veins inher head and neck were swollen almost to bursting, and she diedcursing with bitter malediction the man for whom she had sacrificednot only herself, but her husband and her children. 

The steamer burned to the water's edge, only a few of those who hadjumped overboard escaping. The bodies of the guilty pair werediscovered at some distance from the wreck, Mrs. Clarkson's handbeing tightly clutched round her companion's throat, while histongue and eyes protruded fearfully. 

With sad and heavy heart Clarkson returned to Detroit, and, havinggathered together what remained of his former property, prepared toreturn to Canada. He took with him the children of his late wife, placing them both as boarders at the College at Lennoiville tillthey were old enough to be apprenticed to some trade or profession. He never quite recovered from the shock received on hearing of themanner of Mrs. Clarkson's death and that of her paramour, but becameprematurely aged when he realized that, instead of the sweet angeliccreature whom he thought he had married, he found that he had weddeda regular disciple of Satan. 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Frail Shop Girl. 

The many fine ladies who patronize the fashionable emporiums ofMontreal little think (as they sit comfortably at the counter, leisurely examining dozens of articles they never intend to purchase)of the sufferings undergone by those who minister to their wants, and, it may be, their caprices. Dozens of these poor creatures stand dayafter day, from morn till night, without a moment's rest except atmeal-times; even then the short period allowed them barely sufficesto permit of a hasty meal, when they have to hurry back again toundergo another term of misery. 

It is strange that we should be so careful of brute beasts that weform ourselves into societies for their protection, prosecutingrigorously any one who shall have the temerity to ill-treat or abusethem, and yet allow our fellow-creatures (and those, too, of theweaker sex) to be treated with the most barbarous cruelty. A bruiseor a blow may be brutal and severe, yet neither is so hurtful, sosystematically cruel, as the forcing young girls to stand erect forlengthened periods, without change of posture. I am sure if themembers of the House of Commons were deprived of their seats evenfor one session, we would, without further ado have a Bill enactedmaking it criminal for shopkeepers to make slaves of their employees, or individuals to patronize such establishments. 

Were shop-girls provided with even the commonest of seats, untoldnumbers of crimes and diseases would be heard of no more. I amconfident that but for this most refined cruelty the circumstanceswhich gave rise to this story would never have occurred, and that Iwould have been spared the narration of a history which, thoughpainfully true, is none the less shocking. 

M----'s dry goods store has long been known in Montreal as awell-started and well-appointed establishment. Carriages dailyblocked the thoroughfare while waiting for their fashionable ownersoutside its door; and inside busy walkers and clerks could be seenrunning hither and thither, serving customers. Young women, also, some of them still bright and cheerful, many, alas, pale and heavywith sadness, might be seen grouped behind the counter, engaged inhanding goods down from the shelves, and displaying them to thefashionable loungers behind the counter. 

One of these girls, by name Esther Ryland, was noticed by many whofrequented M----'s store on account of her unusually attractiveperson and elegance of manners; she was a little above the averageheight, yet graceful and well-formed, with remarkably handsomefeatures, and eyes that sparkled like a pair of diamonds. Esther hadnot been long in Messrs. M----'s service, yet she had become sopopular as a saleswoman that crowds frequented the particularcounter at which she assisted, and she was known to many who wereunacquainted with her name as the Pretty Shop-girl at M----'s. 

Esther was very proud of her attractions, both professionally andotherwise; she did not calculate, however, that the more popular shebecame the more work she would have to do, and that she would, intime, pay for her popularity with her health, if not her life. Shehad, in and out of the store, a great many admirers amongst those ofthe opposite sex, but there was one she prized above all others, acertain Mr. Quintin, a merchant tailor, who had just startedbusiness for himself, and had persuaded Esther to promise that, after another year's service, she would give up business and becomehis wife. 

It had been their custom to go for a stroll together on the longsummer evenings, and together they might have been seen, fondlylooking into each other's faces, as, arm-in-arm, they perambulatedthe more remote portions of Sherbrooke and St. Denis streets, whichat that time were scarcely built upon. 

One evening when Quintin called, as usual, to take his enamorata fora walk, she said she would prefer to stay at home, as she was quitefatigued with the day's work. Nothing disconcerted, her loverremained with her in the house, and they amused themselves with apack of cards and a chessboard. The following evening, however, Miss Ryland was again indisposed, and, on questioning her closely, Quintin drew forth the avowal that she _had not sat down for aquarter of an hour_ during the whole day! It seems it was the busyseason at M----'s, and, besides being engaged incessantly inserving customers, Miss Ryland was obliged to shorten her dinner hour, and to hurry back to meet the increased demand. 

Quintin was quite shocked at this discovery. Although well aware ofthe brutal treatment of shopkeepers' assistants, he had never beenan interested party, and so had the matter placed before him _in allits horrors_ for the first time. He resolved that, come what might, he would emancipate his intended wife from a life of such slavery, and so, having carefully arranged his business and purchased a neatlittle cottage in Cadieux street, he urged Miss Ryland to consent tomarry him without delay, and so avoid her life of thraldom. Sheagreed to marry him during the ensuing month, pleading with feminineweakness that it would take at least that time to get her trousseauready, and the day was finally arranged to their mutual satisfaction. 

The excitement of preparation before marriage, and the change ofscene during her wedding-tour, wrought such an effect on the womanthat Mr. Quintin became convinced that his wife's health wasthoroughly restored, and be labored assiduously at his business, looking forward cheerfully to the time when she should become amother, and the merry laughter of his children should, in his hoursof rest from worldly cares, gladden and enliven their home. 

A year rolled by, and both Mr. And Mrs. Quintin looked hopefullytowards the future; two years passed and still they were childless. Mrs. Quintin would have given all the world, had she possessed it, for one of God's blessings; she loved children, even those of otherchildren, and _one of her own_ would have been a priceless treasure. But she lamented more on her husband's account. She knew that hedoted on children; and when she saw him take the neighbours'children on his knee, and, after looking wistfully in their faces, rise and dash his hand across his eyes, she knew what it meant. "Oh, " she would cry, "if only these abandoned wretches who deserttheir offspring could realize what it is to desire them and yet liveunblest! If they but knew the priceless treasures they were castingfrom them, they would turn and repent in sackcloth and ashes. "

Mr. And Mrs. Quintin had been married about three years when one daythe former called on me, his face beaming with joy, and informed methat his fondest hopes were about to be realized, and that he wouldlike me to call and consult with his wife. I was a little surprisedat this intimation, as, from what I knew of Mrs. Quintin, I hadfully made up my mind that she would never become a patient of nine;however, I was glad to hear that I had been mistaken, and so, whennext in the neighborhood I waited on that lady and congratulated heron her improved prospects. To my great surprise she burst into tears, and confessed that she was not _enceinte_, or likely ever to becomeso; that her career in M----'s store, and continued standing forhours together, had rendered her physically unable ever to become amother. She added that her husband had so set his heart upon the oneobject (viz. , the desire to have children), and had spent so muchmoney for medicine and medical advice with a view to that end, thatshe could not bear him to think that all his efforts were unavailing, and her complaint having assumed a form to all outward appearancessimilar to pregnancy, she had permitted him to delude himself withthe belief that the latter was the cause of her altered appearance, and that scientific skill had counteracted the effects of years ofabuse. 

I was greatly taken aback at this disclosure, but my surprise was asnothing compared to that in hearing the plot which the woman's nowdiseased mind had concocted. She said she was going to bear reproachno longer (for, though her husband never murmured, at least in words, his friends and her neighbors were ever ready to deepen her sorrowand humiliation by taunting her with her impotency), and her eyesrolled in frenzy as she almost shouted: I MUST AND SHALL HAVE ACHILD'! Why am I prohibited from having what many do not know how tovalue? Many of them cast their treasures from them; shall I, franticwith despair, _refuse to pick one up_!

As she walked up and down the room in her fury, she looked like onedemented. Her hands were clenched till the nails entered her flesh, her eyes rolled wildly, and, were I more easily frightened, I wouldhave felt impelled to call for help. Gradually becoming cooler, Mrs. Quintin unfolded to me her plan for deceiving her husband, and, with a coolness that I would not have pardoned but for her evidentlyunhinged condition, actually _requested me to assist her?_ She saidshe had been offered a child for adoption by a lady who was moreguilty and unfeeling than herself, and that the person in questionhad promised to send her word when she was taken ill, so that shemight send for me, and make her arrangements for the reception ofthe child, which was to be transported secretly into her bedroom. 

I was so astonished that I was for a time unable to a speak. Thedeep plot itself, the proposition made to me to assist her, and thecool manner of the lady herself, fairly staggered me. At length, speaking as calmly as I could, I tried to convince Mrs. Quintin ofthe enormity of the crime she intended to commit, telling her that, if she wished to adopt a child, she would find it quite an easymatter to do so without taking any such course as she evidentlyintended; and, after arguing for some time, she seemed to yield alittle to reason, and promised to do nothing rashly. She had already, however, committed herself to the first part of her programme, andtold her husband a falsehood; how was she to undeceive him? Isuggested that she should tell him on his return that she had beenmistaken, and that on examination I had found nothing unusual thematter with her. This she positively refused to do, saying that herhusband had so set his heart on this one object that, were his hopessuddenly dashed to the ground, he might do something desperate. Shesaid she would break it to him gently, and, imploring me to saynothing to him of what had passed, she escorted me to the door, and, with tearful eyes, bade me farewell. 

Several months elapsed, and I had, for the time, thought little ofeither Mr. And Mrs. Quintin, when one evening in glancing over thepapers, my eye fell on the following announcement: "On the ----th inst. , at ---- Cadieux street the wife of R. Quintin of a daughter. " I letthe paper drop as I gazed vacantly at the ceiling and tried torealize the whole affair. Undecided how to act, I mechanically puton my bonnet and cloak, and walked up Cadieux street, when, comingout of the house, I spied my friend, Dr. P----. 

"Good evening, Doctor, " said I. 

"Oh, good evening, Mrs. Schroeder. I have just been attending apatient of yours; it seems they were not at all prepared, and hadnot time to notify you. Indeed, I was late myself, as I did notarrive till some minutes after the child was born. "

Without saying a word I beckoned the Doctor aside, and made a signthat I wished to speak with him privately. He invited me to stepinto his carriage, and we drove in perfect silence to his residencein Beaver Hall Terrace. Alighting, he preceded me to his surgery, and closed the door; then, with a look full of meaning, he said:

"Well, what is there wrong here?"

"I said, Before I reply, will you permit me to ask you one or twoquestions. "

"Who called you to attend Mrs. Quintin?"

"A carter came and requested me to come with all speed to attend alady in Cadieux street. I went as quickly as possible, but the childwas born before my arrival. "

"Who, then, attended the lady?"

"The nurse did, and apparently very satisfactorily indeed. I foundthe bandages so well arranged, and the patient's pulse so strong andregular, that I left, perfectly satisfied that all was properlyattended to till your arrival. They explained to me that the ladywas your patient, but that being unexpectedly taken ill, she hadordered the carter to bring the first doctor he found at home. "

"Was Mr. Quintin at home?"

"No; he is gone to England to purchase some goods. "

"Ah! That accounts for it then. "

"Accounts for what? Really you must not catechize me any further. What is there underneath all these questions?"

I drew my chair closer to him, as I said tragically:

"Mrs. Quintin _never had a child_. "

"This rather staggered the good old doctor, who had just come fromthe house, where he had examined and weighed the infant. He startedup from his chair, and, drawing back, exclaimed:

"What do you mean? Explain yourself. "

I then at length narrated all I knew concerning the Quintin family, and, as I proceeded with my story, the old man's eyes opened widerand wider as he exclaimed:

"My God what a diabolical plot"!

"Yes, indeed, and I was invited to join in it. "

"Well, well. _I_ certainly would never have suspected anything ofthe kind. "

"Nor would anyone. The thing was well arranged, and artfully carriedout. "

"I suppose they will send for _you_ now. "

"Not at all. That is only a sham to get rid of your attendance. Thehusband will be given to understand that you were hurriedly called in, and that, my assistance being unneeded, they did not think itworth-while troubling me. "

After consulting with Dr. P. For a considerable time and putting thecase in different lights, we came to the conclusion that it would beas well now to let matters take their course. Any interference onour part would only have raised a great public scandal, and renderedboth Mr. And Mrs. Quintin miserable, without benefiting anyone, so weallowed the poor man to believe that his prayers were answered, andthat the beautiful girl he fondled was really his own. 

Time rolled on, the baby being baptized in due course and known by thename of Edith Quintin. As she grew older, both Mr. And Mrs. Quintinbecame passionately fond of her, the latter being as much attachedto the little girl as if she were her own daughter. When the childwas about twelve years old, Mrs. Quintin, who had gradually grownmore and more delicate, began to feel that she must, ere many monthshad passed, finally succumb to the disease which was graduallygnawing at her vitals, and the deception she had practised on herhusband was a source of great discomfort and annoyance to her. Shecalled on me in great grief, and, having informed me concerning thatof which (as the reader knows) I was well aware, implored me to giveher counsel and advice. She was surprised to hear that I had alreadylearnt all from Dr. P----; for, although she, of course, knew that_I_ was not blinded by her subterfuge, she was not aware thatI knew all concerning the method adopted by her, and when she learnedthat both the doctor and myself had forborne to inform on her, shewas visibly affected, and thanked me on her knees. 

I advised her to break the matter to her husband, and not to diewith such a load on her conscience, but she avowed that she hadneither the strength nor the courage to do so, and importunatelybesought me to undertake the painful task. When Mr. Quintin learntthe truth he was of course greatly shocked, and at first was bitterin his denunciations at his deceitful wife. His better judgment, however, was soon brought to bear in the matter, and he was movedrather to pity her misfortune than to punish her for her fault. Heknew that her judgment erred solely in order to retain his affection, and when he looked at her pale face and emaciated form, and thoughtof the agony and suffering, both mental and bodily, which the poorcreature had endured, he willingly forgave her, and, though sadlydisappointed and sorely smitten, did what he could to reassure her. 

Edith meanwhile had developed into a beautiful girl, and had shereally been, as she believed herself, the daughter of Mr. AndMrs. Quintin, she could not have been more beloved by them. Theformer enjoined me never to reveal the secret of her birth to hisdaughter as he called her, and so her life, at least, was notdarkened in the least by the knowledge of the truth. 

When Edith was about seventeen years old Mrs. Quintin finallyyielded to the ravages of that dread destroyer, consumption. Thepoor girl wept sadly and bitterly at the loss of her mother, theonly one indeed the poor child had ever known, and poor Quintin weptsadly as he thought of his wife's brief and unhappy career. Heremoved with his daughter into furnished lodgings, not wishing thechild to be burdened too soon with the cares of house-keeping. Whathe would not allow her to do for him, however, she soon became veryanxious to do for another, and the days of her mourning were notlong passed when she became the happy wife of a young man namedWentworth, bookkeeper in one of the leading hardware firms inMontreal. She has now children of her own, and the youngsters'greatest delight is to gather round their grandfather's knee whilehe astonishes them with stories. To them nor to no one else, however, has he told, even as I have done, the story of the frail shop-girl, who from being young and handsome, and the belle of her circle ofacquaintances, became a wretched and deceitful woman, diseased bothin body and mind, and finally sank into a premature grave. 

Out on this heartless, brutal system, and the thoughtlessness andignorance which permit it! I hope the narrative given above maycause some of those at least who engage in this barbarous system topause and give the great problem of life, capital and labor, a fewmoments thought that they may see the error of their way, and thatpoor Esther Quintin may not have died in vain. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The two Orphans

One evening, about a dozen years before the introduction of thepresent system of fire alarms into Montreal, crowds might be seenhurrying along that part of the city known as Little St. James street, towards the scene of an immense conflagration. Several fire engineswere throwing strong streams of water on the burning mass, but, theevening being windy, the fire swept all before it, and soon reducedseveral buildings to ashes. 

In one of these resided Mr. Wilson, Notary Public, and his twodaughters, the eldest a beautiful girl about 9 years old, the otheraged nearly 8. When the fire commenced they were seated calmly atthe tea-table, partaking of their evening meal, but, so sudden wasthe holocaust which burst with tremendous fury around them that theyhad not the slightest warning till they were surrounded with densevolumes of smoke The two girls rushed forward to the window, andscreamed for assistance, while the old man endeavored to gather someof his most valuable papers together and throw them into the street. 

Amongst the crowd who assembled were two young men, clerks, namedWilgress and D'Alton respectively. Taking in the situation at aglance, they sought hastily for ladders, and placing them againstthe burning windows, mounted bravely through the flames, eachseizing a girl round the waist, and carrying her in safety to theground. Their clothes were almost completely destroyed, while theirfaces were grimed and scorched, still, nothing daunted, they lookedup to see if anything more could be done; they espied the old man atone of the windows with a parcel in his arms. Quick as thoughtDalton mounted the ladder once more, going through the flames like asalamander, and, taking the parcel from the old gentleman, tried toinduce him to descend the ladder. Poor old Wilson, however, couldnot bear to leave so much that was valuable while a chance of savingit remained, and so, rushing wildly back into the burning building, he was soon lost to sight. A cry arose from the crowd as they sawhim disappear once more, and several hardy youths sprang up theladders, determined to bring him out by force, but, ere they couldenter the naming pile, a loud shriek met their ears as the floorgave way, hurling the poor old notary into the dreadful pit of fire. All efforts to do anything further were now unavailing, and thefiremen directed their energies to protecting the neighboringbuildings, and preventing the fire from spreading. 

The young men were at first puzzled what to do with the two girlswhom they had rescued, and who were now orphans, without parents, money, or even clothes, but some Sisters of Charity, who hadwitnessed the heroic action, came forward and offered to take themin charge. The good sisters took the children to the convent, andprovided them with both food and clothes, intending to educate themand bring them up in the Catholic faith, but some Protestant ladies, members of the congregation to which Mr. Wilson had belonged, havingheard of the affair, induced the clergyman to call and obtainpossession of the orphans, they undertaking to provide the cost oftheir maintenance, or to find them homes in Protestant families. 

By the time the Rev. Mr. Flood called at the nunnery the childrenhad dried their tears, and were beginning to feel quite at home. TheSister in charge, however, saw at once the correctness of theClergyman's action, and agreed to give the girls up as soon as hehad made arrangements for their reception elsewhere. In a few daysthey were sent for, and each was adopted by a different family;Cissie, the elder, was taken in charge by a childless minister, residing in St. Albans, in the State of Vermont, while Lillie, theyounger sister was adopted by a farmer from the neighborhood ofVarennes. 

Many years passed away and the two girls were grown up, and wereboth uncommonly good looking, Lillie being then just seventeen, andas handsome a girl as one could wish to see. Then circumstances, however, were not the same, for while Cissie had received a goodeducation, and had in every way the manners of a lady, Lillie couldnot even read with facility, and writing was with her and utterimpossibility. The people who had adopted her were Irish settlers, who, though comfortably off, knew little beyond the cultivation ofpotatoes and the care of pigs. 

About this tame Cissie Wilson, tired of the monotony of life at St. Albans, determined to make an effort to "see the world, " as shecalled it, and earn her own living; and, as her adopted fatherremonstrated with her in rather a hasty manner, she collected hereffects together, and, one day while the old man was out, startedfor Montreal. She left a note for him, informing him of herdestination, and warning him not to attempt to stop her, as she haddetermined, at all hazards, to carry out her intention. Miss Wilsonhad been several times in Montreal, and had several acquaintancesthere, among them a Miss Wood, whose father had a position in theTelegraph Office. To Miss Wood's, therefore, she repaired, and, being welcomed with the usual number of kisses, she requested theyoung lady to persuade her father to procure a situation astelegraph operator or something of the kind, as she was determinedto earn her own living. This the young lady promised to do andsucceeded so well that Miss Wilson was soon installed in a tolerablygood position, earning enough money to maintain and clothe herselfrespectably. 

Things went on smoothly enough for a time, Miss Wilson spending mostof her leisure time with her friend, Miss Wood, or sitting quietlyat home arranging such dresses and finery as her scanty incomepermitted her to indulge in. After some months, however, she beganto make more friends, and being invited frequently out, and made muchof because of her beauty and accomplishments, she soon became madlyeager for the means of dressing herself like the rest, and makingthe conquests she knew she could make, were she only to have equalterms with her rivals. 

This passion for dress and jewellery soon became deep-seated; wereshe only well dressed, what could she not achieve. She had, in heranxious endeavors to make a good impression in society, deprivedherself even of necessaries sin order to procure a fashionableball-dress and outfit, and these were now no longer fit for activeservice. While musing over this circumstance one evening, as shewalked home to supper, she chanced to meet Anna Smith, who had beenthe belle at the last ball, her fine dress and showy jewelleryhaving completely eclipsed the more solid and modest beauty of thepoor telegraph girl. Miss Smith inquired casually if Cissie weregoing to the Oddfellows' ball, an affair which was then on the_tapis_, and when the latter answered in the negative, explainingthat her small salary would not allow her to purchase the necessaryfinery, Miss Smith laughed and called her a silly little goose. Taking her by the arm, Anna then let her into a secret, andexplained how she obtained all she required, and indeed could, outof the abundance of her stores, fit out Miss Cissie, whom she choseto consider her protégée. She urged Cissie not to miss the ball onany account, and reminded her that she had already obtained a decidedadvantage over Miss Williams, Miss Hunt and Miss Jones, and thatwith such an outfit as she would lend her the victory would becomplete. 

Cissie was for a moment shocked. She had been several times offeredpresents by gentlemen of her acquaintance, but had always resolutelydeclined to take them, having an instinctive feeling which warnedher against their acceptance. She could not bear now to wear thedresses proffered by Miss Smith, and momentarily made up her mindnot to go to the ball at all. Then again her heart failed her as hercompanion glibly ran over the names of those who were to attend, andCissie thought how she would like to enter the room on Horace Gibson'sarm in the presence of Miss Williams and the rest. Horace Gibson was aclerk in the Bank of Montreal who had invited Miss Wilson to the ball, and was to receive her answer that evening. As luck would have it, that young gentleman approached just as the girls were rounding thecorner of the street, and, raising his hat in salute, inquired ifhe was to have the pleasure of taking Miss Wilson to the ball. Cissie hung her head, and was just about to offer some excuse, whenMiss Smith answered for her:

"Oh, yes, _of course_ she'll go, and be the best dressed and bestlooking lady in the room too. "

"If you have taken her up, I am sure she will be at least the_second_ best as regards get up, " responded Mr. Gibson, conveyingan indirect compliment to Miss Smith herself, who was celebrated forthe elegance of her attire. Cissie could not utter a word. After all, she thought, there can be no harm in borrowing a dress from a younglady! It was not for her to inquire how that lady was able topurchase so many dresses; and then, as she looked at the handsomeyoung man before her, and thought how her rivals would bite theirlips with envy to see her in her elegant out-fit, the blood rushedinto her temples, and with an impetuous bound she burst away fromboth her companions and entered the house, saying to Mr. Gibson:"Yes, I'll go; call for me at nine to-morrow. "

Till late night Cissie sat in her rocking-chair, her hands pressedover her throbbing temples; at length wearied nature came to herrelief, and compelled her to retire to bed. Being fatigued, she soonfell fast asleep, and on the morrow when she awoke, although sheremembered clearly all that had passed on the previous evening, shehad not the same sensitive feelings, or the same sharp prickings ofconscience, and, as she walked towards the office, she began toanticipate the ball with the greatest pleasure. 

As Miss Smith had said, Cissie, beautiful before, was ten times asbeautiful now that she was adorned with all that art could do in thematters of dress and jewellery. Miss Williams fairly gnashed herteeth with envy, and left the hall shortly after ten o'clock, disgusted with _that thing_ from the telegraph office, while thegentlemen eagerly sought for an introduction to the acknowledgedbelle of the ball-room. Miss Smith was as proud of Cissie's successas if it had been her own. With all her faults the girl possessed agood heart, and in doing as she did fancied she was doing theinnocent country girl a kindness in opening to her the highway tofame and fortune, even though it were reached by the gate of dishonor. 

It is needless to give in detail the particulars of Cissie Wilson'scareer; suffice it to say, that the brilliant triumph at theOddfellows' ball was too much for her weak nature. She plungedheadlong into the vortex of worldly pleasure and excitement, and, having little time or inclination for reflection, became in timequite habituated to this peculiar mode of life, always maintainingoutwardly, however, a moral and respected appearance. 

All this time, the reader may well ask, what had become of Lillie, the younger sister? She had been remarkably successful in hercountry home, having at her feet the hands and hearts of all themost eligible young men for miles round. This at one time would havegratified her utmost ambition; but her sister's letters from Montrealmade her dreadfully anxious to join her in her whirl of excitingpleasures, and, with the understanding that her sister would obtainher employment in Montreal, Lillie, at the age of eighteen, came tothe city. 

She was not long in her new home till her sister unbosomed to hermany things of which she had previously been in ignorance, andpromised to introduce her to the _créme de la créme_ of her worldlycompanions, urging her to endeavor to acquire these graces andaccomplishments which she had failed to learn in her country home. Lillie soon became more popular even than her sister; for, althoughshe was not so well educated, she was naturally clever and witty, and there was a vivacity and freshness about her conversation, which, added to her beautiful face and perfect figure, made her a charmingand desirable companion. 

One day Mr. D'Alton, one of the gentlemen who had rescued the twogirls from the fire, was walking along Notre Dame street, when heobserved a beautiful girl, rather showily dressed, promenading justin front of him. Something in the girl's manner attracted hisattention, and, as he passed her, he turned round, and carefullyscanned her face. As he did so the girl looked up and their eyes met;he, raising his hat, blurted out an apology, saying he had mistakenher for another lady of his acquaintance named Brown. "Oh, " said she, laughing, "my name is Lillie Wilson. "

On hearing this name D'Alton started, and, having questioned herclosely concerning her antecedents, asked her if she remembered thefire, and the two gentlemen who rescued herself and her sister; and, although she had altogether forgotten his appearance, she rememberedthe circumstance perfectly. They walked together for a little while, and then he asked her permission to visit her at her address, and wasastonished to find that she objected, for some strange reason, to doso. At length, bursting into tears, she confided to him her wholehistory, informing him that she had been seduced and betrayed, andwas at that moment _enceinte_. This disclosure, as may well besupposed, staggered D'Alton not a little, but at the same time hebecame more and more interested in the girl, and offered, if shewould promise to give up her corrupt mode of life that he would dohis best to see her through her present difficulty. Calling on me, heconsulted with me as to what was best to be done under thecircumstances, explaining that, although he was willing to do all inhis power for the girl for the sake of old associations, yet that hedid not wish to peril his own reputation. I promised to do what Icould for the girl, and calling on her was informed that herparamour was an officer in the Rifle Brigade, who had returned toEngland, leaving her to bear the burden of their crime. Havingprocured suitable lodgings, I saw the girl comfortably housed, andin due time she gave birth to a fine little boy, which, as usual inthese cases, was sent to the nunnery to be taken care of by the goodSisters of Charity. 

Mr. D'Alton did not come to visit Miss Wilson during herconvalescence but, after she was completely recovered he calledfrequently, taking her to theatres and concerts, and sometimes inthe winter to sleigh-rides. What his intentions at first may havebeen I do not know; I certainly think that but for his friends hewould openly have married her; be that as it may, in a short time itbecame apparent that they had both overstepped the bounds ofordinary friendly intercourse, and that Mrs. Rushton (as she nowcalled herself) would soon require my services a second time. Thistime she gave birth to a beautiful girl, and, before many years werepast, there followed another girl and boy. These children were not, as in the former case, sent to the nunnery, but were retained andbrought up by their mother, she being smart enough to perceive thatby doing so she would maintain a hold on their father, and securefor herself, if not a respectable, at least a comfortable position, Mr. D'Alton having been successful in business, and being at thattime one of the leading brokers in Montreal. 

For a time things went on this way, D'Alton visiting his mistressfrequently, and becoming passionately fond of the children, whomMrs. Rushton artfully used to influence him on all occasions. To doher justice, it must be said that she never, either in thought oraction, was untrue to D'Alton, and that, whatever her past careermight have been, she lived at this time a quiet life, indeed, caringonly for her husband (as she called him) and her children. By thetime the little boy was two years old, both mother and children hadso ingratiated themselves in Mr. D'Alton's affections, that hedetermined, come what might, to marry his mistress, and so maketheir future offspring at least legitimate. 

He was weary of his irregular mode of life, and, being comparativelywealthy, longed for some place which he could call his home. Hiswife could hardly mix in society, even could she obtain an _entrée_to that realm of prudery and hypocrisy, but he cared for no societybetter than that of herself and his children, and his bachelorfriends, of whom he had not a few, would, even if they did know orsurmise the truth, exercise a more liberal spirit, particularly whilethe wine in his cellar maintained its reputation. Accordingly, heone day astonished and delighted Mrs. Rushton with the proposal thathe should marry her; and that they should live together openly. Asmay be supposed, the lady unhesitatingly accepted the proposal, andaccordingly they were married, formally and legally in St. George'sChurch, which, at that time was situated in St. Joseph street, onthe site now occupied by Messrs. Ligget & Hamilton's large dry goodsstore. Mr. D'Alton took a house in a new portion of the city, and asthey lived very quietly, receiving no calls, except from businessfriends of Mr. D'Alton, the neighbors did not trouble themselvesmuch about them, or inquire concerning their antecedents. 

Although her husband did not trouble himself whether his wife was orwas not received into society, Mrs. D'Alton felt it very keenly. Shehad not, like him, drank the cup of life's pleasures till it tastedinsipid or even nauseous; on the contrary, she looked on the pompsand vanities of society as only a woman can look on them, and nowthat she was legally respectable, and rich enough to keep pace witheven the most fashionable of her neighbors, it made her very heartache to think that these scenes of brightness were closed to her asmuch as ever. She thought of what she might have been had she not inher ambitious haste gone off the right track; and, pained withbitter reflections, and with no one to speak to or converse with(for her husband spent most of his time at the club) she solacedherself, as others in her predicament have done, with the cup offorgetfulness, sinking deeper and deeper at every step, till thehabit became confirmed. 

Although Mrs. D'Alton had taken her husband into her confidence, andtold him truthfully her history, she had not sufficient strength ofmind to tell him how ignorant she really was, and that she could noteven read and write with accuracy. Her letters to her husband hadbeen written by her nursery-governess, engaged ostensibly toinstruct the children; but in reality to act as amanuensis for thelady of the house. The young lady thus engaged was at first ratheraverse to signing her mistress' name to her letters without addingher own initials, but the present of a handsome broach and earringssoon quieted her sensitive conscience and she soon fell into the plan, not being unwilling to make use of such a powerful lever forobtaining largesses from Mrs. D'Alton. In time this young ladybecame so overbearing that her mistress fully made up her mind todischarge her, but a summer trip to Portland being then on the tapis, she allowed her to have her own way, as Mr. D'Alton remained inMontreal, and would naturally expect letters from his wife duringher absence. She would have dismissed the governess and engagedanother, trusting to her own pleadings and the powerful appeals ofher purse to win her over, but the handwriting would not be the same, and she would not for worlds have allowed her husband to think shehad deceived him. 

The day came for their departure for Orchard Beach, where Mr. D'Altonhad taken a cottage for their use. The children were in great gleeas they anticipated surf bathing and digging in the sand, butMrs. D'Alton was moody and down-hearted, the exhilaratingeffects of a large potion of brandy having worn off and a reactionset in; her husband, however, attributed it to sorrow at herseparation from him, and was rather gratified to think she was sodeeply affected. 

They arrived at her destination in due course, and were comfortablyensconced in the cosy little cottage. Miss Watson, the governess, dressed herself up, and with the children departed for the promenade, and Mrs. D'Alton was left to her own reflections. The thought of herpast career, of the opportunities gone for ever, and lastly of thepredicament she was now in, shunned by all respectable people, anddespised by her own paid servant, who felt her power, and wasdisposed to wield it unmercifully. The brandy-bottle, hernever-failing companion, was by her side, and as she mused mopinglyover her sins, she took from time to time copious draughts of thepotent spirits, regardless of its power to do otherwise than to robher of these racking memories of the past. In about two hours thepromenaders returned and found her lying back speechless in her chair, the bottle and glass by her side; her eyes rolled wildly as she gazedvacantly on her children, but she was unable to utter a word. 

Miss Watson became alarmed and summoned a doctor immediately, who, on entering the room, perceived at once the cause of Mrs. D'Alton'smalady, and ordered her to be conveyed to bed. In the morning shewas a little better, being able to speak; but she was still verymuch shaken, and raved incoherently. Mr. D'Alton was telegraphed for, and came immediately; but, being merely informed that his wife hadhad a fit, he imagined her to be afflicted with hysteria; indeed, although he knew she was fond of a glass of wine, and often joinedhim in partaking of brandy and water, he had no idea that sheimbibed to such an extent. 

In a few days Mrs. D'Alton was able to go out again, and, as duringher husband's stay at Orchard Beach she was particularly abstemious, she was able to associate with the ladies in the hotel, and madeseveral acquaintances, who, seeing that she had the dress andmanners of a lady, interchanged calls with her and invited her tovisit them in Montreal. On her return to her home, however, theseladies received her but coldly, and when she gave a large party, inviting all those whom she had met at the seaside, "they all, withone accord, began to make excuse, " and at entertainment there waspresent, besides herself and the family, only a sister of thegoverness, and one or two bachelor friends of Mr. D'Alton. Dancingwas of course out of the question, so they organized two whistparties, and, with a little music, managed to drag along till supper, which was served in Joyce's best style, and looked unnecessarilyelaborate for the small number who were to partake of it. 

Mrs. D'Alton was mortified; she had imagined that those people whomshe met at the seaside would have judged her on her merits, andwould not have taken the trouble to inquire concerning herantecedents. She did not calculate that, what may be allowable at asummer resort, would not be tolerated in Montreal society; moreover, that the tongue of slander had been busily engaged in painting hereven blacker than she really was, so that these people, even ifpersonally disposed to associate with her, _dared_ not do so lestthey might lose their own insecure foothold on the ladder of socialposition. In moody silence she presided throughout the entire evening;she was enraged at herself and at the poor enslaved creatures who, though anxious to go and enjoy themselves yet dared not infringe therules laid down by society; and, as she drank glass after glass ofher husband's famous Moselle, she became more and more despondent. 

About midnight Amy Watson, the sister of the nursery-governess, tookher departure, and Mr. D'Alton with his friends, went up to thebilliard room to enjoy themselves at their favorite game. It wasnear daylight ere they grew tired of pocketing the ivory spheres, and left their host to close the doors, and retire to his room. Whenhe did so what a sight met his gaze! There lay his wife in all thefinery she had arrayed herself to dazzle her fashionableacquaintances, _a speechless corpse_! a brandy-bottle, nearly emptied, lay at her side, telling too plainly what had been the cause of heruntimely death. Her husband's first impulse was to ring the bell andsend for a doctor, but, knowing the scandal that would surely ensue, he quietly let himself out, and went for Dr. Hickson, beingdetermined not to give up hope till he had done all that couldpossibly be done. The doctor on examining the body shook his headominously, confirming Mr. D'Alton in the belief that his wife was nomore; he considerately agreed to remain in the house, and not toinform the servants for some time of the occurrence. The doctor'spresence, of course, excited some alarm, and in a short time it wasknown that Mrs. D'Alton was dangerously ill, the announcement of herdeath being reserved for a time till all the traces of the recentfestivities were removed, and the house had resumed its normalcondition. 

When the children heard of their mother's death they rent the airwith their cries of anguish; even Miss Watson shed real tears, heroccupation, like that of Othello, being gone. Poor Mr. D'Alton wasalmost beside himself. He had never loved another woman; and, thoughhe was not blind to his wife's failings and shortcomings, henevertheless lamented the loss of one, who, whatever her faults, wastrue to him and a good mother to his children. 

In the meantime what had become of Cissie Wilson, Mrs. D'Alton'selder sister? She had endeavored to persuade Mrs. D'Alton to engageher as governess to her children, but the latter, once married, refused to hold any communication with her whatever. Miss Wilson thendespairing of finding a road to reform in Montreal, took herdeparture for Toronto, taking a position as governess in one of theleading families there. On hearing of her sister's death she wroteto Mr. D'Alton, offering to take charge of the children till he hadtime to make permanent arrangements for their education. To thisletter she received no reply, which nettled her so much that shedetermined on a plot for wounding the pride of her haughtybrother-in-law. "Who is he, " she would exclaim, "that he should dareto snub me?" "If I _have_ sinned, was _she_ not equally bad, and ishe not guilty _himself_?" "Never mind, Mr. D'Alton, I will have myrevenge some day. " She racked her brain to think of some means ofrepaying him for his severity to her, but could think of nothing atthe time, and so resolved to wait and watch her opportunity. 

It was some years before Miss Wilson had that opportunity for whichher heart so yearned, but come it did, surely enough, and she dealtto Mr. D'Alton a blow so bitter that he never got over its effects. 

Lillian, Mr. D'Alton's eldest daughter had, after her mother's death, been sent to a fashionable school in Mansfield street, presided overby the wife of one of our leading brokers. Here she made many friends, and being known only as the beautiful and accomplished daughter of arich widower doing business in Montreal, and well known on theExchange, she was in time introduced into society, and became at onebound the belle of the season. 

At that time several British regiments occupied the Quebec Gatebarracks, and the officers were eagerly sought after by theparty-giving community, no ball being complete without at least twoor three officers in _full uniform_. Among the latter was a certainCaptain Trevelyan, the heir-apparent of an English nobleman, who was, of course _the_ eligible young gentleman of the season. Most of theladies openly courted Captain Trevelyan and, figuratively speaking, laid themselves at his feet; but Lillian D'Alton was too littleversed in such matters to know the triumph she had achieved in beingsought after as a partner by the much-admired Captain, and, when heasked her to dance although she complied readily with his request, yet she carried herself with an air so natural, and altogether sodifferent from the time-worn belles he was so accustomed to meet, that he engaged her for dance after dance, then for supper, and, before the ball was concluded, he was deeply in love with her, nonethe less because she was the only young lady in the room who did notcovet that distinction. 

Although Lillian was but eighteen years of age, she could not butperceive the marked attention paid to her by Captain Trevelyan, norwas she blind to the glances of envious hatred darted at her fromall quarters. Her heart responded to the unspoken avowal of herpartner, and ere they parted that night they were one in heart and inthought, each living only for and in the presence of the other. 

Youthful love makes rapid progress. Ere many months had passedLillian D'Alton was the affianced bride of Captain Trevelyan, andtheir approaching wedding was the one theme of conversation at balls, routes or parties. 

Here then was the opportunity longed for by Miss Wilson. She wouldinform Captain Trevelyan and his friends concerning the D'Altonfamily, and warn him to break off his engagement. With a refinementof cruelty peculiar to women blinded with rage, she allowed thewedding day to be fixed before she communicated with the bridegroom, and then sent him a complete history of the family he was about toenter, informing him that the lady he was about to marry was theillegitimate child of Mr. D'Alton, and that in marrying her he wouldnot only injure his own prospects, but alienate himself completelyfrom his family, bringing on them both shame and discredit. 

Captain Trevelyan read the letter with astonishment, but did notbelieve one word it contained. His Lillian a bastard! why the thingwas preposterous. Her father was as well known on 'Change asRothschild was in London. Her mother's funeral had been attended bythe wealth and fashion of Montreal, and since that time Lillian hadbeen the acknowledged belle of the set commonly known as "the upperten. " The letter being written in rather extravagant terms, heimagined it to contain the incoherent ravings of a maniac, and hisfirst impulse was to toss it aside. On the arrival of the Englishmail, however, he received letters from his friends, couched in termsof the deepest anxiety, urging him to sever all connection with theD'Alton family if he did not wish to alienate himself completelyfrom all his family and friends. These letters led him to think moreseriously concerning the communication from Toronto, and beingdetermined, come what might, to know the worst at once, he startedimmediately for Mr. D'Alton's residence, only to find that thegentleman in question had just that moment departed for his office. 

Lillian was at home, however, and she rushed downstairs impetuouslyto meet her affianced husband. He received her as usual, but therewas a cloud on his brow as he followed her into her boudoir, wherethey frequently spent hours together. He questioned her concerningher aunt and her relations generally, but Lillian knew little morethan that her aunt resided in Toronto, and was generally consideredto be what is called "flighty. "

This somewhat reassured Trevelyan, and he dismissed the subject fora time from his mind. He determined, however, to clear the matter up, and so in the evening he called to see Mr. D'Alton, requesting a fewwords with him in private. The two men entered the study, andTrevelyan led off by saying:--"I have received a strangecommunication from your sister-in-law, Miss Wilson; from whatLillian has told me, I am aware that she is a person of weakintellect, and her stories are not worthy of credence, but I thoughtit due to you, nevertheless, to bring the matter to your notice. "

At the mention of Miss Wilson's name D'Alton turned deadly pale. Hewas a bold man, and capable of carrying out a deep scheme, had hefelt so disposed; but this intimacy of Trevelyan with his daughterwas the result of no scheme, and he had for some years lived, withthe rest of his family, a blameless life, rejoicing in the fact thathis neighbors either did not know, or had forgotten, or overlookedhis past career, and were prepared to receive his children with openarms into society. With bated breath he ran his eyes hastily overthe letter held out to him by Trevelyan, and in an instant he sawthe whole situation. If he could only have had time to consider thematter, he would probably have taken the right course, come whatmight; but he had little time for decision, as Trevelyan stoodbefore him, eagerly expecting a reply. Mr. D'Alton pictured tohimself the state of affairs did he acknowledge the truth of theaccusation, and though loath to deceive the young man (whom healready loved almost as dearly as his own son), he dared not ruinhis daughter's prospects by an avowal. Pretending to read the letteronce more he gained a little time, and then, with consummatediplomacy, endeavored to find out what Trevelyan thought. Looking upcoolly, he said--

"And do you believe all this, Trevelyan?"

Of course, Trevelyan _did not_ believe it, and was profuse in hisapologies, for having permitted himself to doubt for a moment thatthe writer was bereft of reason. This confirmed Mr. D'Alton in hiscourse and he at once denounced his sister-in-law in no measuredterms, vowing to punish her for her irresponsible utterances. Thenews that Miss Wilson had written to Captain Trevelyan's friends inEngland made D'Alton furious, and he swore a fearful oath that hewould place her where her ravings would harm no one but herself. Allnight long he thought over schemes for getting rid of her, and atlength he concocted a plan which he speedily put into execution. 

As was said before, Mrs. D'Alton and her sister were orphans andthey both left their adopted parents early in life, having livedunder assumed names for years, and severed all connection with theirformer associates. During Mrs. D'Alton's lifetime her sister wasforbidden to approach the house, and on the death of the formerMiss Wilson was not recognized by her brother-in-law. The childrenhad never seen or known their aunt, and the people with whom she hadlast resided in Montreal (in the capacity of nursery-governess) hadknown her as Miss Rogers, and had lately lost all trace of herwhereabouts. 

Taking the early train for Toronto, Mr. D'Alton took counsel ofan astute lawyer, and learned that, as events had been shapen, Miss Wilson would have now great difficulty in proving her connectionwith the D'Alton family, did he choose to deny it, and that the factof her having written such letters as those received by Trevelyanand his family would be fair presumptive evidence that the woman wasinsane. 

Carefully considering his position, D'Alton determined on his courseof proceeding. He was averse to a public prosecution, as many things, now unknown or forgotten, might be brought to light, and yet he feltthat the woman must be effectually silenced by some means or other. Going to her residence he boldly demanded an interview with her, and, producing the letter to Trevelyan, asked if she had written it. Miss Wilson laughed as she saw the effect of her shot, andexultantly exclaimed:--"Of course I wrote it; who else _could_ havedone it?"

"And are you aware that you are liable to be prosecuted for libel?"pursued D'Alton. 

"It is no libel, " retorted she, fiercely; "you know it is true, oryou would not be here now. "

"Indeed! _can you prove it, then_?"

"I have no need to prove it to you. Your very facial expressionacknowledges it to be true. "

"Will that satisfy the jury?"

"What jury?"

"The jury who are to try you for a malicious libel!"

At this Cissie started, but recovering herself exclaimed: "_You_dare not sue me for libel. Your history would not stand repetitionin court. "

"Who knows my history?"

"I do!"

"Indeed! WHO ARE YOU?"

The fierceness with which he said this made his sister-in-law quail. She perceived that he was terribly in earnest as he repeated hisquestion in a tone very unusual with him, and she meekly replied:

"You know well enough who I am, your late wife's sister. "

"My wife _had no sister_!"

The look he gave as he said this fairly frightened her. She had seena good deal of life, and had in her time met with all kinds of menand women, but never till now did she fear either. She began to seethat she had roused a desperate man, and that, legally, she had nohold on him, neither status in society; moreover that she had gotentangled in the meshes of her own net, and that only the dread ofexposure would prevent D'Alton from prosecuting her for libel. Notknowing what to do, she remained mute, her eyes fixed firmly on theground. At length Mr. D'Alton broke the silence: "You haveevidently had an object, " he said, "in circulating these reports. Ifyour object be to extort money out of me, you will find it more toyour interest to remain silent. " With these words he drew from hispocket a roll of bank bills, and laid them on the table near hiscompanion; but she, growing livid with rage, refused to touch them, promising to expose him and his family before all the world. 

D'Alton had not calculated on this, and was for a time taken alittle aback. His last card, however, was not yet played; and, summoning all his energies together, he braced himself for theenactment of that, which under other circumstances, he would havesuffered much rather than become in any sense a party thereto. Addressing the lady once more he said:--"What, then, was your objectin writing these letters?"

"My object was _to disclose the truth_, " she cried, vehemently, "to denounce you as a blackhearted villain, and to save anunsuspecting youth from becoming the victim of your deep-laid schemes. "

D'Alton bit his lip with passion, but restrained himself. "And youdo all this solely from conscientious motives, " he said with a sneer. 

"My conscience, like your own, Mr. D'Alton, is pretty well hardened. No; I have no conscientious motives to impel me to show your truecharacter to the world; but revenge is sweet, and I have notforgotten the scorn and contempt with which both you and yourfashionable wife treated me while I was in Montreal. _I_ was not goodenough to touch the hem of your garments, but _she_ was dressed upand paraded in the drawing-rooms of those who did not know betterthan to admit her, and now her b---- daughter is to wed a scion of anoble house, while _I_ am not even recognized. No, Robert D'Alton, you will not become respectable and leave _me_ out in the cold, insulting and spurning me at every turn with your petty offers ofmoney. I have sworn to have my revenge, and by ---- now that theopportunity offers, I _will have it_, too!"

She had worked herself up to state of uncontrollable fury. Her eyesrolled wildly, and she looked like one demented. This gave the devilhis opportunity, for D'Alton, who had been halting between twoopinions, came to a hasty conclusion, and bringing the interview toa close, hurriedly left the house, his teeth firmly set, and a horridglare in his eyes. He walked rapidly down Yonge street and along theeast end of King street, then, hailing a cab, he directed the driverto travel towards the west end, coming to a halt opposite theLunatic Asylum. Entering he enquired for Dr. Tuffnell, and wasinformed that he would likely find that gentleman at his residenceon Jarvis street. On repairing thither he found the doctor at home, and, requesting a few minutes' private conversation, was sooncloseted in the consultation room. "I have long intended to see you, "Mr. D'Alton began, "about a young lady who lived in our family someyears ago in the capacity of nursery-governess. She was always of asomewhat flighty disposition, which we used to humour as best wecould, and when she left us (at my wife's death) for Toronto, wefancied she had quite recovered, but it seems she has been graduallygrowing worse, and she now continually torments our friends and uswith letters full of ridiculous flights of fancy, which, thoughmeaningless to those who understand how she has been afflicted, might possibly cause serious trouble. "

"Has the young lady, then, no friends or relatives?"

"None, whatever. She was taken out of an orphan asylum by an agedclergyman, now deceased, who adopted her, and since his death shehas supported herself by teaching. We consulted our physician abouther some time ago, when she imagined herself to be my wife, andordered her mistress down to the kitchen. He thought it would beadvisable for her to take another situation away from us till herhealth improved, as she was continually fancying herself trampledupon by some member of the family; we accordingly procured for her asituation in a friend's house in Montreal, but they in turn becamefrightened of her, and dismissed her, which dismissal, strange to say, she attributed _to me_. She now imagines herself to be my wife'ssister, and demands an entrance into my house, denouncing me in thevilest terms, and writing scandalous letters to all my acquaintances. "

"Are you sure she is insane?"

"Well, I have long tried to persuade myself that she is not, butlatterly she has grown so violent that I am afraid that what I saidyears ago to my late wife in fun about her being demented was onlypainfully true. If you would kindly visit her and give me youropinion concerning her case, you would oblige me very much. "

"What does her present mistress say about her?"

"Oh she has only been there a short time and has not yet given anexhibition of her oratorical powers. Still the lady who is aclergyman's widow, told me that she walks about her room in themiddle of the night, talking wildly to herself. "

Dr. Tuffnell had not time to visit Miss Wilson that morning, but hemade an appointment with Mr. D'Alton for the following day, andtogether they went to the unfortunate girl's residence. Arrived atthe house they rang the bell, and inquired for Mrs. Brookes, themistress. 

Mrs. Brookes was a middle-aged lady of a retiring disposition. Herhusband had died at an early age, leaving her to take care of threeyoung children. Her temporal wants however, were provided for, herhusband having been possessed of a handsome income independently ofhis small salary. Dr. Tuffnell made inquiries concerning Miss Wilson'shabits, and was informed that her actions were at times very peculiar, that she had not gone to bed all the past night, but had stamped upand down her room, talking as if to a second party. Mrs. Brookes wasshocked to hear that she had unwittingly engaged a mad woman to takecharge of her children, and suddenly recollected several extraordinaryepisodes which, until that time, had never struck her forcibly. 

It was arranged that the Doctor should see Miss Wilson and satisfyhimself concerning her affliction before any further steps were taken. Accordingly Mrs. Brookes rang the bell and told the servant tosummon the governess. 

Miss Wilson had not slept all night, and her eyes had a wildexpression, which heightened when she beheld Mr. D'Alton. The doctor, having previously taken all that was told him for granted, made uphis mind at once that she was insane, and never reflected for amoment on the possibility of some scheme being on foot to injure her. On entering the room she laughed wildly and said--"So you have comeback with your bag of gold. I tell you it's _trash_, sordid trash, not half so sweet as REVENGE!"

Now as the doctor had heard nothing from either D'Alton or Mrs. Brookeswhich he could in any way connect with this wild utterance; moreover, as the young lady looked like a tigress, and walked fiercely up anddown the room, he became more than ever convinced that he had got abad case in hand and acted accordingly. Looking at D'Alton he shookhis head, which Mrs. Brookes perceiving, she shook her head in turn, and, taking out her handkerchief, wept copiously. Dr. Tuffnell triedto soothe the patient with gentle words, but she (mistaking him fora pettifogging lawyer, whom D'Alton had engaged to bind her over tokeep the peace) cried out:

"Ah, yes! you want to quiet me, but _you can't_ quiet me. I am likethe surging cataract, which, suppressed in one place bursts outagain with more fury in another. I have suffered too much to betamed down by soft and gilded promises. No, Robert D'Alton, you havestarted the mighty avalanche and it is too late now to stop itsprogress. "

The doctor began to feel he had a desperate case in hand and triedto quiet her, but the more he did so the worse she got till at lastall persons began to talk to her, receiving from the poor girlreplies altogether removed from the point at issue coupled withthreats and oaths and furious gesticulations. At length the doctorsuggested, in a whisper, the propriety of their departure, when theymight consider what was best to be done, but, on Mrs. Brookesprotesting that she was afraid to stay alone in the house with themaniac, Dr. Tuffnell dispatched a note to the asylum, and in a shorttime two keepers arrived, and proceeded to take Miss Wilson intotheir care till she should become possessed of a sound mind. 

There is no time at which a sane person looks so much like a maniacas when trying to convince people of his sanity. The real lunaticwill cunningly hide his affliction from the most watchful, and isfrequently able to deceive those unaccustomed to deal with personsof unsound mind, but the victim of persecution becomes wild withhonest indignation, and generally manages to convince even those whomight be inclined to believe him to be sane. 

When the truth of her position began to dawn on Miss Wilson, shebecame more frantic than ever. She raved at D'Alton and the doctor, tore with her hands at the keepers, and abused Mrs. Brookes forstanding tamely by to see one of her own sex so ill-used. She roaredso that two policemen came rushing up to the steps to inquire whatwas the matter, but, seeing Dr. Tuffnell, with whom they were wellacquainted, they saluted him respectfully and withdrew. 

Miss Wilson was accordingly driven to the asylum and incarceratedtill she should come to her senses, and Mr. D'Alton, having madearrangements for her safe-keeping returned to Montreal. 

Shortly after her father's return Lillian D'Alton was married toCaptain Trevelyan in Christ Church Cathedral. The wealth, beauty andfashion of Montreal attended the wedding, and the costliest presentswere displayed on her father's sideboard. The young couple departedfor England immediately, Trevelyan's regiment having been orderedhome, and the bride was received into the first London circles. 

Mr. D'Alton remained in Montreal where he still lives and moves inthe best society. What his private feelings are I cannot tell, butoutwardly all is serene, the only one besides myself who knows hisfamily history having long since passed away in solitary confinement. 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Tale of Two Cities

Among the many friends we made during our stay in Montreal, nonewere so thoroughly beloved by myself and family as the Sinclairs. Mr. Sinclair was an English artist who had settled in Canada sometime previous to our arrival, and, being generally well informed, aswell as a shining light in his own profession, he was made much ofby the English residents here, and had as pupils many of the wivesand daughters of the officers of the garrison, besides some of themore cultivated Canadians. Mrs. Sinclair was a refined English ladyof good family, and had several children, mostly girls, who weregreatly admired not only for their beauty, but also for their manyand various accomplishments. The Sinclair girls were frequently atour house, being, in fact, looked upon as members of our family, andno social gathering of ours was considered complete without them. 

In time Mr. Sinclair became tired of Montreal. Many of his patronsleft with their regiments for England, and he became weary of thedull routine and scanty income which he saw was all he could everlook forward to in Canada, so, breaking up his household, hedeparted for the United States, and, having lived for a time invarious cities, finally settled in Boston, where he became quitesuccessful, and soon obtained an enviable reputation as a portraitpainter. 

Lulu Sinclair, the eldest of the girls, was a sprightly blonde ofabout sixteen when her father left Montreal, and the family had notbeen long in Boston before she became engaged as a teacher at one ofthe conservatories, and a mutual attachment sprang up between thepair. Miss Sinclair had already made her _début_ in Boston MusicHall as a vocalist, and the pair were frequently engaged at the sameconcerts and entertainments, so that the natural sequence was thatthey in time became engaged, and afterwards--_married_!

"Nothing very mysterious in that, " I think I hear my fair reader say, a little disappointed that I have not prepared a spicy bit ofscandal for her delectation; but as Balaam the Prophet could onlyspeak as he was impelled by the spirit, so likewise must I confinemyself to _the realities_ of the case, and I therefore make noapology for this commonplace bit of history, but proceed with mystory. 

One evening Lulu made her appearance at our house, in Montreal, accompanied by Mr. Hill, her husband. It seems that they were on aconcert tour, and were to give two concerts in Saint Patrick's Hall, which at that time stood on the corner of Craig street and Victoriasquare, and, as we had often invited them to do so, they promised toavail themselves of our hospitality during their stay, as theirengagement terminated with these concerts and they were anxious totake a little rest before returning to Boston. 

The children were delighted to have Mr. And Mrs. Hill in the housewith them; they had never met a _real live prima donna_ in privatelife before, and they flaunted "Professor Hill" and "MademoiselleLulu Sinclair" in the faces of their juvenile acquaintances, as ifthey had been entertaining the Emperor of all the Russias and HerImperial Majesty the Empress. 

Since the Sinclairs had left Montreal, the principal playmates ofour children had been the Bennetts, who lived in the adjoining street. Mr. Bennett was a French-Canadian, with (as usual) a large family, and was in comfortable circumstances, having a large retail groceryon Notre Dame street. One evening, shortly after the arrival ofMr. Hill and his wife, the former drew me aside and asked me if Iknew a family in Montreal named Bennett. I told him that I knew themintimately, that they lived close at hand, and taking him to thewindow (it was late in the spring) I showed him the children walkingopposite hand in hand with our own. He then intimated that he hadsomething to tell me, and, taking me aside into the adjoining room, he told me something which astonished me as much as it will doubtlessastonish the reader of these pages. 

It seems that Mr. Bennett's father was an American, who, in earlylife, being settled in Montreal, became enamoured of a Canadian girlnamed Beauchamp. Miss Beauchamp was young, pretty, and a Catholic. The first two of these qualifications rather suited Mr. Bennett, andthe third did not in any way annoy him, he being (although aProtestant) a liberal-minded man, and having the idea that thoughtsand opinions could not be forced, like sheep, to go in a particulartrack, but that every one should be free to hold what convictionshis reason dictated, untrammelled by conventionality or creed of anykind. Miss Beauchamp professed to be of a like mind, and agreed toallow him to educate the boys (if any), while she would look afterthe female issue of their marriage. With this ridiculousunderstanding they got married, and for a time things wentpleasantly along, Mrs. Bennett attending L'Eglise St. Jacquesregularly, not only without opposition from her husband butsometimes even accompanied by him. He did not believe in theefficacy of the service to save his soul, but he had sufficientcommon sense to know that it could not harm him, or turn him onewhit aside from what his reason dictated; and neither did it, for atthe end of two years he was as greatly opposed to what he consideredthe errors of the Church of Rome as ever he was, and though heattended L'Eglise St. Jacques almost as regularly as St. George'sChurch, of which he was a member, he went there simply because heliked the society of his wife, and she believed it to be necessaryfor her salvation. 

In the course of time Mrs. Bennett gave birth to a boy, then twogirls, and afterwards another boy, all of whom, as children will, made enquiries concerning whence they were and whither they weregoing, etc. Mr. Bennett now began to see the folly he had beenguilty of in making the agreement mentioned above. If the Catholicreligion were the true and only faith, all his sons were on the highroad to perdition; if, as he was inclined to think, the Protestantreligion were nearer the mark, then what was to become of the girls?What a pleasant prospect was there before him! His family torn anddivided by the most bitter of all dissentions, religious disputes(or rather _irreligious_ disputes about matters of doctrine), andhis life and those of all his family rendered miserable. This wascertainly bad enough in its way, but something more annoying was instore for him. He one day discovered that not only were the girlsbaptized in the Romish faith, but that the _boys also_ weresurreptitiously baptized by the parish priest, so that he alone ofall the family remained a Protestant, and a poor one at that. Everyday things got more and more complicated, and his wife at lastopenly avowed that _all_ the children were to be Roman Catholics, and advised him also to flee from the wrath to come and take refugein the arms of the true church. 

Bennett was not exactly a bigot, but, if not a Protestant, he wascertainly not going to become a Roman Catholic. Cursing himselfbitterly for his folly, he sought to make matters better; but that, so far as changing the religion or creed of his family went, wasaltogether beyond his power. He had his choice between living analien and a heretic, despised by his own family; and joining a churchwhose teachings he considered puerile and inefficacious, and theatmosphere of which was now exceedingly disagreeable to him. Hiswife showed herself so much more devoted to the church than to herhusband, that his love for her soon faded away, and he made afearful resolve to leave Montreal, and never see his wife orchildren more. Accordingly one evening, instead of returning as usualfrom his store, he left for parts unknown, leaving his wife andchildren almost penniless behind. 

Mrs. Bennett, though acting as she did, loved her husband dearly. Itwas this very love for him which made her so anxious for him toleave what she considered the false religion of the Church ofEngland for the pure and unadulterated system of the Church of Rome. She cried after him as if her heart would break, and sent after himin all directions. All her efforts, however, were in vain, no traceof her husband being found. The children were left at school tillthey were in time old enough to be apprenticed to a trade or business, Mrs. Bennett struggling bravely, as only a woman can do, to keeptheir heads above water. When William, the eldest boy, was aboutfourteen, he was placed in the well-known house of Messrs. Mockridge &Co. , dry goods merchants, and in course of time became thoroughlyconversant with the business. He had not only been able to help hismother to maintain the family, but had put by sufficient to start asmall business for himself. Before deciding on the latter, however, he determined to visit Boston, to get a few ideas connected with thebusiness, and, while there, came across his father, who had marriedagain under the name of Hill, his wife being a young American ofgood family, and the mother of the gentleman from whom I learnt thisstory. 

William Bennett reproached his father with his misconduct, andinsisted on his leaving his American wife. Bennett the elder wasvery much averse to doing so, but his son would leave him noalternative, threatening him with exposure and criminal actionshould he decline. The old man tried to temporize, and persuadedWilliam to visit and dine with his family, introducing him as abusiness friend from Montreal. 

Whatever Anti-Spiritualists may say to the contrary, there areundoubtedly influences other than material which affect us at times, and give us mysterious intimations of events happening or about tohappen. Both Mrs. Hill and her children had a presentiment of someimpending calamity, and, although they had not the faintest suspicionof the real state of affairs, they did not look on William Bennettas they would have done on any other person casually introduced intotheir household. A damper seemed to have been placed on all theirspirits, and the flow of conversation was sluggish and dull. 

After dinner they endeavored to organize an impromptu card-party, but that, also, was a failure; and, although, as a rule, they had alittle music after dinner, on this particular evening each oneseemed indisposed to break the monotony. 

About ten o'clock William left for his hotel, having first made anappointment with his father for the following morning. When they metWilliam returned to the subject of their previous discourse, andinsisted on his father returning with him to Montreal. The oldman vowed that, come what might, he would never go back to his"priest-ridden family" as he chose to designate his wife and children. The battle waxed fast and furious, till at last William exclaimedwith an oath: "By ---- you shall leave your Yankee mistress, then;_she_ shall suffer what _my mother_ suffered;" and with oaths andthreatenings he hounded his father out of Boston, determined thatMrs. Hill should not (innocent though she was) enjoy the happy homewhich was denied to his mother. 

When Mrs. Hill learned the truth (which she did from a letter senther from Montreal) she nearly lost her reason. Her case was evenworse than that of Bennett's first wife; because, whereas the lattercould at least seek her husband, and live in the hope of one dayfinding him again, the former could not, even did she discover him, claim him as her own. 

Mr. Hill's visit to Montreal, then, though ostensibly made forprofessional pursuits was, in reality to find out somethingconcerning his father's whereabouts, and other matters connectedwith his quasi-relations. It was strange that he should have come tome for information without being at all aware of our intimacy withthe Bennett family, indeed, while he was relating his story AmeliaBennett, his brother's eldest child, came running in for somethingor another, and I at once saw a resemblance between the two, notonly in personal appearance, but also in manners and actions. 

The next day Mr. Hill, leaving his wife to the care of our family(who had undertaken to show her "the lions") went forth on hisexpedition in search of his father. He had obtained from me hisbrother's business address, and going to the office unannounced wasimmediately recognized by him, although they had only met once before, and that a considerable time previously. On explaining the object ofhis visit, Hall was very coldly received and informed that Bennettthe elder had left Montreal for New York some years previously andhad not since been heard of. Mr. Hill pretended to believe the story, but secretly determined to keep a watch on his half-brother as hefelt certain that the latter was still in communication with hisfather. He accordingly made arrangements to stay at my house, and asthe Bennetts were constantly coming and going he was sure that in ashort time he would learn more concerning him of whom he was insearch. 

One afternoon we were seated round the parlor fire, discussing theusual after-dinner topics, when Mrs. William Bennett dropped in tohave a friendly chat. She disclosed the fact that her husband wasgoing to visit a superannuated employee in the nunnery, which heusually did on the first of each month, and that she did not see whatreason her husband had to support forever all his broken-downemployees. At the first word, Hill listened breathlessly, and whenMrs. Bennett said that she had just left her husband dressing, hequickly, but quietly, left the room. In an instant he was oppositeBennett's house, and as soon as he noticed the bedroom lightextinguished (for it was already dark), he drew back into a shadowedcorner till he saw Bennett emerge from the doorway and walk rapidlydown the street. Hill followed at a safe distance, but soon he sawhis brother hail a passing sleigh, and, entering it, order thedriver to take him somewhere; the name of the street, however, hefailed to hear, and he felt chagrined to see the neighboringcab-stand completely deserted. "Now or never, " he thought, "am I toattain the object of my visit, " and he dashed madly along the streetafter the vehicle which was travelling at the rate of ten miles anhour; several times he passed a cab-stand and would fain have takena fresh horse in pursuit, but he was afraid that while doing so hemight lose sight of the sleigh he had followed so far; or confoundit with another vehicle, for they were now passing through thecentre of the city towards the west end of St. Antoine street. 

Past terrace after terrace they flew, till Mr. Hill was nearly faintand breathless, when a sudden turn to the right brought them to thefoot of a hill, now Guy street, up which the carter walked his horse, and gave the half dead pedestrian time to recover his breath. Whenthey had proceeded about a quarter of a mile up the hill, the carterdrew up at the Nunnery on the left side of the road, and Mr. Bennett, alighting, rang the bell. A sliding panel was immediately pushedaside, and a hooded sister held a few moments conversation with thevisitor, on which the door was opened, and he was admitted. Hill, who had been standing in the shadow of the porch, entered unnoticedat his brother's heels, the janitor being under the impression thatthey had come in the sleigh together. Walking along a dark corridorthey came to a stairway, down which their guide preceded them intothe basement; here Hill took a favorable opportunity to turn aside, still keeping his eye on the others till they arrived at the end ofthe passage and entered a large room where several old men werecongregated, some chatting in groups, others smoking or readinglazily. In one of these, with emotions which cannot be described, Hill recognized his father from whom he had so long been separated. His first impulse was to rush boldly in and make himself known, but, the first transport over, his American caution prevailed, and heslipped down another passage which commanded a view of the staircase, and watched from his point of vantage the many persons returning fromvisiting their friends. He felt relieved when he saw Bennett takehis departure, and with one bound he rushed into the middle of theroom where the old man was, and, throwing himself round his father'sneck, wept like a child. The old man did not recognize him at first, but when he did he went into hysterics, so great was the shock tohis nervous system. Never was there such a commotion in the quietNunnery, and the inmates gathered round in excited groups to listento Hill's story. He told them that his father had left Boston someyears before, and, becoming unable to support himself, had beenplaced by a heartless elder brother in the cold confines of theNunnery, although the younger members of the family were bothwilling and anxious to support their aged parent. There being noreason why the old man should not leave the institution if soinclined, the Superior allowed him, after some hesitation, to takehis departure, first receiving the grateful thanks both of himselfand of his son for her kind and fostering care. Hill left a letterfor his brother, informing him that, his father being willing, hehad taken him away from the Nunnery, and that as they evidently didnot want to keep him with their families, he was about to take himto live with _his_. 

Bennett was furious when he received the letter, but, as Mrs. Hillwas now no more, and no threats or exposures of any kind couldinduce young Hill and his father to separate, he allowed them to gotheir way in peace. 

A few years after these occurrences Mr. Hill received an appointmentin Montreal. 

Bennett and he sometimes meet in the street, but give no signs ofrecognition. The old man is still living, seldom going beyond theportals of his son's house and passing most of his time in moodymeditation on the past. Let us hope that a heartfelt repentance mayin some measure atone for his past weaknesses. 

CHAPTER X. 

A Blighted Life. 

Amongst the many orthodox business men of Montreal, none were morehighly esteemed than Mr. Rogers, Manager of the ---- Bank. He waswhat is generally considered a shrewd business man, methodical andprecise in all his relations, whether commercial, domestic orecclesiastical. I say ecclesiastical, because the worthy gentlemanwas one of the pillars of the church, having held the office of Elderfor several years. Mr. Rogers had several children, most of whom hetrained in the way in which they should go, but Jack, his eldest son, was incorrigible, and resisted all attempts to keep him under control. On Sunday mornings the family were usually marshalled in thedining-room, and marched off to church, but Master Jack frequentlyput in an excuse, --he had a bad cold, or a sprained ankle, or someother ailment which precluded the possibility of his attending. Nosooner were the family outside the garden gate, however, than thepoor boy with the sprained ankle would perform a _pas seul_ on thehearthrug, or, in spite of a cold which prevented his going out ofdoors, would shout "The old log cabin" with an excellent tone andremarkable vigor of lung; then, returning to his room, he would takea French novel from its hiding place under his pillow, and, lightinga fragrant Havana, would devote the morning to "the improvement ofhis mind, " as he called it. 

Mrs. Rogers employed three servants besides a coachman: acook, a housemaid, and a tablemaid. The latter was a young andattractive-looking girl from Glengarry, Ontario, named Ellen MacNee, who was about seventeen years old, and had never before been inservice. For this damsel Jack Rogers conceived an attachment, andalthough at first the girl withstood his attentions, ere long shegave way to his importunities, and for months they lived on terms ofthe closest intimacy. Jack of course promised (as all men do) tomarry her, and to do him justice I must say that he fully intendedto do so, but his income as a bank clerk was only twenty dollars amonth, and he knew he had no hope of receiving any assistance fromhis father. So things went on till Ellen felt she could keep hersecret no longer from those around her, and she told her mistressshe was going home to visit a sick aunt, and did not know whethershe would return or not. Mrs. Rogers was very sorry indeed to partwith her (for she had ingratiated herself with all the family, although not to the same extent), and told her if she wouldundertake to return she would only fill her place temporarily withanother girl. With this understanding Ellen left her place andentered the Female Home, where shortly afterwards her baby (a girl)was born; she had the child baptized almost immediately, calling itBeatrice, after her young mistress, to whom she had been muchattached, although it is doubtful if the young lady in question would, had she known it have appreciated the honor conferred upon her. 

Ellen was scarcely recovered from her illness when her brother, acountry farmer, who had by some means got wind of the state ofaffairs, came to Montreal, and had his misgivings confirmed. When helearnt the truth he was furious, and would, he vowed, shoot both herand her betrayer; but fraternal affection was so strong within himthat he gradually became more calm, and exerted himself to make thebest he could of a bad business. He requested me to take the childand place it in a nunnery in spite of the earnest protestations ofits mother, and persuaded the latter to return to her home inGlengarry, promising to hide her shame from her mother and friendsif she would bid farewell forever to the child and her betrayer. Hepersistently refused even to look at the baby, but, rough anduncultivated as he was, I could see a tear glisten in his eye as hismanly heart quivered with emotion. 

Home the poor broken-hearted girl went, and the baby was left in mykeeping till the morrow, when, according to agreement, I was to handit over to the good sisters. It was destined to be otherwise, however. That evening a gentleman called at my house; he was a bachelor, wellto do in the world, and hearing the story, which it was necessary totell him, in order to explain the child's presence, he asked me withpardonable curiosity to let him see the baby. When he took her inhis arms she smiled so sweetly upon him, and crowed so joyously, that his heart was touched, and he could not bear to think that thepoor helpless babe should be made to suffer for the sins of itsparents; he asked me to let _him_ have the child, promising that hewould adopt her, and do for her as if she were his own. 

I suggested to him the scandal such a measure would give rise to, and urged him not to place himself in such an unenviable position, but he insisted that he was willing to let society have its fling, and that if I would consent to the child's adoption, he would takethe responsibility attached to it. 

What was I to do? The man was well off, and had conceived a fancyfor the child. As for the world's sneers, if he could afford tolaugh at them why should I refuse him the gratification ofperforming a noble action? I handed the child over to his care, having first procured from him written papers of adoption, andlittle Beatrice was installed in her new home. A nurse was procuredfor her, and everything that money could procure was provided for hercomfort. The gossips sneered and wagged their heads as they spoke ofthe "adopted" child, insinuating that there were stronger ties thanthose of mere philanthropy to bind Mr. Richards and the childtogether, but he, quite unconcerned, paid no attention to theirhints and innuendoes, and tried so far as lay in his power to makethe child comfortable and happy. When she attained the age of fiveyears he procured a governess for her, and had her instructedthoroughly in all that go to make up a modern education as she grewolder. 

But a cloud soon appeared on the horizon of the child's career. Mr. Richards became ill, and was ordered by his medical adviser to aSoutherly climate. He was obliged to sell his estate and placelittle Beatrice in Mrs. Thompson's boarding school, where shecontinued for a few years till the return of her adopted father. Hecame, it is true, but the seeds of a fatal disease had beenimplanted in his system, and had taken a deadly hold; in a fewmonths he was no more, and as nearly all his money had been eaten upin paying travelling and medical expenses, poor Beatrice was leftonce more not only without a friend but without a penny in the world. Mr. Richards had paid her school fees annually in advance, and as atthe time of his demise several months of the term paid for wereunexpired, Beatrice had a comfortable home secured for her at leastduring that period; for the future she would either have to performmenial services at the school, or go out in the cold world without afriend or protector. The former was considered by the poor girlpreferable to going she knew not where, and so she accepted theoffer of a situation as housemaid, kindly proffered to her byMrs. Thompson _out of pure charity_ at two dollars per month lessthan the previous occupant of the situation. 

Poor Beatrice had a hard time of it as housemaid. Her formercompanions took a fiendish delight in ordering her about till herlife became perfectly unbearable. She had but one friend to whom shecould unreservedly pour forth her troubles, her Sunday-School teacher, Miss Flint. To this lady she gave an account of her history, so faras she was able, and asked her for advice and assistance. Miss Flint, being both sensible and charitably disposed, advised her to leaveher present position, having first procured a suitable one elsewhere, and she promised to exert herself to this end. 

Among the numerous acquaintances of Miss Flint was Mrs. De Beaumont, a Southern lady of means, whose husband held a high officialposition in New Orleans. Mrs. De Beaumont had, in order to avoidthe yellow fever epidemic, taken up her residence temporarily inMontreal, and was now with her two daughters about to return to herSouthern home. The education of the latter young ladies had beensomewhat neglected, and Mrs. De Beaumont was anxious to procure asgoverness and travelling companion a young lady of moderate meansand unlimited ability. 

Here, then, was an opening for Beatrice. On the recommendation ofMiss Flint, coupled with certificates from the various professors atMrs. Thompson's school, the poor girl was duly installed in an easyand, to her, lucrative position. She was not long settled in her newhome when Mr. Hartley, brother of Mrs. De Beaumont, fell violentlyin love with her, and, contrary to the wishes of his relations, insisted on paying her open attention. The poor girl had been solong accustomed to being buffeted and slighted in every way that herheart fairly gave way before his passionate wooing, and, althoughMrs. De Beaumont frowned on her angrily, and the rest of the familysnubbed her grievously, yet Beatrice felt so happy in having someone in whom she could confide that she bore all their pettyannoyances with the utmost forbearance, and refused steadily to takethe slightest notice of them. 

Mr. Hartley was a planter of considerable wealth. He had long liveda bachelor's life; so long, indeed, that his friends never thoughthe would marry, and each one often unconsciously counted how much ofthe property would eventually become his. Mrs. De Beaumont wasparticularly displeased when she heard his open avowal of hisattachment for her governess, for, though Hartley was not an old man, he being at that time only about forty-six years old, yet she hadhoped that her daughter would have inherited a portion of his vastwealth, which was now about to be transferred to a stranger, withoutfriends, fortune or name. In spite of this secret antipathy to thematch, Mrs. De Beaumont openly pretended the greatest friendship forBeatrice, for, being a woman of the world, she saw clearly howmatters would stand in a few years, and she could not afford tobreak either with her brother or his intended wife. 

The wedding came off with all the aristocratic splendor of an F. F. V. Ceremonial. The dusky coachmen and footmen were resplendent withgorgeous liveries and wedding favors, their white teeth glisteningin the sun as they grinned from ear to ear, perfectly happy andcontented. After the ceremony the newly-married pair went for abrief tour through the Eastern States and Canada, returning toMr. Hartley's plantation, where Mrs. Hartley was called upon by allthe leading families in the vicinity, and took her place with asmuch grace as though she had been "to the manner born. " Mrs. DeBeaumont greeted her sister-in-law affectionately (at least to alloutward appearances), and invited her to visit her old homefrequently; in fact all those who were aware (and who was not) thatMr. Hartley had settled every penny of his fortune on his wife andher prospective offspring were lavish of their attentions to theirbeautiful, and now immensely wealthy, neighbor. 

When her first baby, a little girl, was born, Mrs. Hartley weptbitterly and refused (like Rachel) to be comforted. Her husbandcould not understand it at all, and was greatly grieved that sheshould be so down-hearted when they had both every reason, to behappy. Beatrice besought him to forgive her weakness, and explainedthat it was only now that she was a mother that she fully realizedthe anguish her own mother must have suffered at parting with her, and she implored him as he loved her to exert himself to find hermother and make her happy. Had his wife told him to lie down whilstshe drove a carriage-wheel across his neck, Mr. Hartley would haveunhesitatingly obeyed her; how readily, then, he set about findingwhat most men are so glad to be without, viz. , a mother-in-law, caneasily be imagined. He promised his wife that so soon as businesspermitted him he would take steps to discover her mother'swhereabouts, but that night he was awakened out of a deep sleep bycries of terror from his wife; she had had a dream, she said, thather mother hung over a precipice, looking up to her for help, which, while she hastened to give, she saw her mother sink into the yawningabyss, uttering shrieks of agony. Hartley was beside himself withfright; he thought his wife would lose her reason, and so he quietedher by assuring her that he would write the next day to getinformation, acting on which he would set out immediately on hissearch. In the morning he despatched a letter to Mr. F---- inMontreal, instructing him to obtain what information he couldrespecting a girl called Ellen MacNee who had lived in former yearswith Mrs. Rogers; in reply he was informed that the girl left thecity, no trace being procurable. He then inserted advertisements inseveral Canadian newspapers, informing the public that if EllenMacNee would correspond with X. Y. Z. She would hear of something toher advantage. But in vain did the fond husband seek the mother ofhis blue-eyed darling, now grown pale with deferred hope and anxiouscare, and when the latter proposed that they should personally go toMontreal in search of their missing relative he readily acquiesced, feeling assured that, even if they were unsuccessful, the excitementof travel and occupation would restore the bloom to his wife'scheeks and preserve that health which, was now apparently on the wane. 

In a few days they had made preparations for an extended tour, andere a week had passed they were snugly quartered in the St. LawrenceHall, Montreal. The day after their arrival they called on me toknow if I could assist them in their search, bidding me spare noexpense in order to effect the desired object. I promised them everyassistance in my power, and at once placed myself in communicationwith all those whom I had known to have any dealings with Beatrice'sunfortunate mother. It was truly painful to see the anxious face ofthe young woman as she came daily to me to enquire if I had heardany news, and when I showed her a letter from Mr. MacNee, hermother's eldest brother, stating that his sister had gone to NewYork as nurse, she immediately persuaded her husband to give chase. Their efforts were in vain, however. The girl, it was true, hadtaken service in New York, but had subsequently left there for herhome in Glengarry, and had never been seen since either there or inNew York. Detectives having again been employed to assist in tracingher movements, it was discovered that she had returned by rail toMontreal _en route_ to Glengarry, but here all traces vanished, andthe supposition was either that she had committed suicide, or metwith some accidental death. Beatrice would have it, however, thatshe was still alive, and would leave no stone unturned to find her. It was suggested that New York should again be visited, as theprobability was that she returned there after her trip to Montreal;various other plans were thought of, and some of them, doubtless, would have been acted upon, had not a new light shone in upon thescene. 

At the outset of the proceedings I had communicated with theprincipals of the various Houses of Refuge in this city, and, although the authorities had done their utmost to facilitate oursearch, so far we had failed to advance in any way. At this time, however, I received a communication from the Bishop, informing methat he thought he could help us, and when I called on him, accompanied by Mr. And Mrs. Hartley, he told us that he had beenvisited by a hardened creature, whose name did not concern us, andwho, in anticipation of a reward which she had heard was offered forthe recovery of the recluse, disclosed the fact that she had, underan assumed name, become a sister of charity, and was at present aninmate in a convent in ---- street, where we would, doubtless, beable to recognize her. 

Beatrice became quite excited at the news, and insisted on rushingoff at once, but her strength failed her, and she fell fainting on asofa. By great persuasion she allowed us to drive her home on thepromise that she would be allowed to accompany us on the morrow. Thenext day we entered a carriage and drove to the Convent; we agreedthat Beatrice should go alone to meet her mother while we remaineddownstairs. Running into the room where her mother was, the poorgirl fell on her neck and covered her with kisses. But no responsivegreeting met the impetuous child, the woman stared at her with awild hazy stare as if to inquire, Who are you? What do you mean bythese extravagant caresses?

But if she failed to recognize her child she did not fail torecognize me, and by some strange association of ideas she seemed towander in thought back to her past life, and the hot blood mountedto her temples. When she became calmer I explained to her how we hadcome there, and the object of our visit. She was touched at theproofs of her daughter's affection, and the hot tears rolled rapidlydown her furrowed cheek, but she steadily refused to leave theinstitution. In vain the poor girl pleaded, and Mr. Hartley andmyself joined in our entreaties that she would accompany herdaughter and her husband. Finding all our arguments of no avail Iadvised Mr. Hartley to let the poor creature have her way till thereality of the situation had come home to her, recommending him toallow his wife to call frequently at the Convent to see her mother. This advice the indulgent husband acted upon, and day after dayBeatrice would go and sit for hours conversing with her parent, sometimes obtaining permission to take her for a walk or a drive, and secretly longing, though never expressing it in words, that hermother would accompany her back to her home in the South. 

So far the excitement had kept Mrs. Hartley up, but after a time areaction set in which culminated in a wasting fever, and prostratedthe poor creature on a bed of sickness. This, though apparentlydisastrous, ended happily for all. Beatrice's mother, so long as_she_ was the object of pity, shrank from all communication withher rich relatives, but now that her child was in need of assistance, she flew to her with a mother's impetuosity, and anxiously watchedby her couch day and night, while the poor thing tossed and raved indelirious paroxysms. Mr. Hartley summoned Dr. Hickson to his wife'sbedside, but that astute practitioner wisely foretold that themagnetic influence of her mother's presence would do more for hispatient than any drugs or medicines, and, accordingly, he contentedhimself by prescribing a sleeping-draught, leaving other agencies todo their work. 

In a couple of weeks Mrs. Hartley rallied, and ere long she becameconvalescent, and even cheerful. She used to chat with her motherfor hours together, and the fourth week after the latter's arrivalshe was able to go out for a drive accompanied by her and the baby, who had accompanied Mr. And Mrs. Hartley in all their travels. Thelittle girl and her grandmother soon became great friends, and when, Beatrice being strong enough, her mother would have returned to herconvent life, the baby's smiling face did what all persuasion hadfailed to do, and bursting into tears, the aged penitent folded thedarling to her breast and declared that she would never part from itagain. Beatrice's joy knew no bounds; and as for Mr. Hartley, he wasperfectly satisfied to know that his wife was happy. In a few daysthey made preparations for a journey to the South, and ere longMrs. Hartley had the satisfaction of seeing her mother snuglyensconced at her own fireside, living as it were over again, andenjoying in the care of her daughter's child, the maternal pleasurewhich had hitherto been denied her. Ere leaving Montreal Mr. Hartley, at his wife's request, erected a handsome monument in Mount RoyalCemetery to the memory of the humane man, who, regardless of thejeers and scoffing of gossiping scandal mongers, had braved publicopinion, and saved to the world a good wife, an affectionatedaughter and a loving and tenderhearted mother. 

During all this time, it may be asked, what had become of Jack Rogers, one of the principals in my narrative?

Jack was fairly wild at the thought of his sweetheart going into aninstitution. He would have married her on the spot and braved allhis father's anger. But the girl showed equal self-denial, and wasmuch more sensible; she saw that, by consenting to marry a pennilessgentleman, she would certainly injure him, without in any waybenefiting herself. She knew his father sufficiently well to feelsure that, were he aware of his son's relations with her, not onebut _both of them_, would be ignominiously turned out of doors. So, consoling her paramour with this questionable bit of comfort, shetore herself away, saying coolly that he would soon forget and marrysome one in his own station in life. But, though she nerved herselfto speak in this strain before him, when alone she broke downentirely, and sobbed till her heart nearly broke, for the poor girlloved him dearly, and, poor though he was, would have married himand worked for him, if necessary. She saw, however, that hisprospects would be utterly blasted were he to disclose his positionto his father; and she unselfishly took on herself _the whole_ ofthe punishment for a sin of which she was scarcely guilty, or, atany rate, less highly culpable than he. 

Jack would fain have put a pistol ball through his head, anddoubtless would have done so had the pistol been handy; but hispistols, like everything else he possessed, were out of order, andwere at the moment in Mr. Costen's hands, where they lay in adisintegrated condition till the young gentleman's blood had gotsome degrees cooler. Still, he could not help thinking how his follyand thoughtlessness had ruined the hopes of a poor innocent girl, and he longed for some opportunity for going abroad, orparticipating in some excitement to enable him to muse less moodilyon the past. 

The American civil war was at this time in full blast, and largebounties were offered for volunteers. An American agent, meetingJack Rogers in a saloon, which the latter frequented, offered himtwo hundred dollars and an outfit if he would go as a substitute fora young gentleman in New York. This offer Jack readily accepted, andwithin a short time found himself _en route_ to Richmond to join theFederal Army. He was not long in the service when his superiorintelligence and daring exploits made him conspicuous among hisfellows, and he was promoted from one grade to another till he wasplaced in command of his company. This was a position Jack waseminently fitted for, and his reckless bravery was talked of far andwide throughout the army. 

For a long time, in spite of his foolhardiness, Jack remainedwithout a scratch, save a slight wound from a rifle ball atGettysburg, where he made himself particularly conspicuous. Justbefore the close of the great struggle, however, he was sent incommand of a foraging party consisting of about forty-five rank andfile and the usual complement of officers. Their path lay through adeed ravine in which high wooded cliffs looked down on each side. These cliffs were in possession of a Louisiana regiment, who werestationed there in the hope of cutting off supplies from theNortherners, and, just as Captain Rogers with his handful of men, entered the ravine a murderous fire was opened on them from bothsides. Rogers ordered his men to reply, but, as the ravine affordedlittle or no cover, they were finally obliged to make their way asquickly as possible to the end of the pass and fight their waythrough. They found their way completely blocked by a force of twoor three hundred rebels, but, as to return would have proved equallydisastrous, there was nothing for it but to surrender, or cut a pathfor themselves through, the enemy. Bracing themselves for a terriblestruggle, Rogers and his little band advanced to within a few yardsof the open, where their foes, with rifles loaded and bayonets fixed, stood demanding their surrender. Captain Jack ordered his men tofire at a given signal, and then to advance; and, firing his ownpistols by way of signal, he dashed through the smoke, followed byhis daring band, cutting and slashing right and left. 

But courage will not enable men to do impossibilities. Out of thehandful who entered the ravine but three managed to cut their waythrough the opposing forces, and these were all more or less injuredby rifle balls or sabre cuts. Poor Rogers fought like a lion; but, being the centre of attraction on account of his uniform, he had hishands more than full, and though he pistoled two men and knocked anofficer who would have seized him senseless with the butt-end of hisempty revolver, he was finally brought off his horse with a pistolshot, and captured, more dead than alive, by the enemy. 

The officer in charge was so struck with the bravery of the poorfellow that he had endeavored to take him prisoner, and had stayedsome of his men who had essayed to run the fiery captain throughwith their bayonets; his impetuous charge, however, led them in selfdefence to disable him, and the young lieutenant who shot him had noalternative except to be brained by a blow from Jack's pistol. Theexcitement over, however, the colonel of the victorious corps sent adetachment in search of the wounded of both sides, and ordered alitter to be prepared for Captain Rogers' removal to his own quarters. Poor Jack was severely injured. The ball had entered his left armclose to the shoulder, and was not necessarily fatal; but his horsehad fallen on him and bruised him so that he could scarcely breathe. The march to the camp was about two miles, and, although the menmoved as gently as possible, yet Captain Rogers suffered agony as hefelt every motion. Arrived at Colonel De Beaumont's quarters (forthe brave commander was the husband of Mrs. De Beaumont) a surgeonwas sent for and the invalid's wounds were attended to. Although aprisoner of war Captain Rogers' received every attention fromColonel De Beaumont and the officers under his command, and when, the regiment being ordered to head-quarters, the Colonel was obligedto send Rogers to prison with the rest of his captured force, theparting was more like that of two brothers than that of a victor andhis fallen foe. 

After the close of the war, which, event took place shortly afterthese occurrences, Colonel De Beaumont, disgusted and sick at heart, returned to New Orleans. He was obliged to bow to fortune, and toswear allegiance once more to what he considered the oppressor. Almost his first thought after his return was to enquire concerningthe Federal troops who had been captured by his men, especially thegallant Rogers, for whom he had formed a more than passing attachment. He learned that of those who had been placed in confinement, somehad died of their wounds, others, as soon as the proclamation ofNorthern supremacy gave them their liberty, had returned to theirhomes, but that the Captain, having contracted a dangerous fever, had been unable to accompany them. De Beaumont lost no time inseeking out the poor soldier's quarters, and was grieved to find himbarely alive, be having scarcely recovered from the fever, besidessuffering from partially healed and badly-dressed wounds. TheColonel persuaded him, so soon as he could move, to accompany him tohis own house, where he would receive proper attention, and, in ashort time, the sufferer was installed in De Beaumont's comfortablehouse, the kind hostess doing all in her power to alleviate hissufferings. 

It was about this time that Mrs. Hartley, accompanied by her mother, had returned to her husband's residence, and one day as she wasvisiting Mrs. De Beaumont she learnt the story concerning thewounded officer, who, though in the service of the North, wascompassionately treated by the whole household, having made friendsof them all by his cheerful uncomplaining disposition, and hisgrateful acknowledgment of even the slightest service. Whilerecounting the story to her husband and mother at dinner, the lattergrasped the table convulsively with both her hands, and breathlesslydemanded of her daughter all the particulars; with a wildexclamation of terror, she rushed up to her room, hastily followedby her bewildered daughter. The latter found her mother in the act ofdressing hurriedly, and on enquiring for an explanation the poorwoman fell on her child's neck, and with bitter tears explained thatit was _her own father_ who lay so near them at death's door, andthat, whatever it might cost, she would rush to his side. 

Poor Mrs. Hartley was sadly shaken at these tidings. She explainedall the circumstances to her devoted husband, and took his advice. Hartley recommended his wife to let her mother have her own way, andpromised that presently he would accompany his wife to De Beaumont'shouse to visit the invalid. 

The rest of the story is soon told. The sad meeting of poor Rogerswith the mother of his child, who stayed by his side night and day, the bitter tears of Mrs. Hartley as she beheld her father for thefirst and last time; the mutual expression of love and forgivenessere the poor invalid breathed his last, beloved and forgiven by thoseon whom he had thoughtlessly entailed much sorrow and suffering. 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Mother-in-Law. 

John Wilkie was the son of Scotch parents residing in Toronto, Ontario. He was possessed of considerable literary ability, and whena lad had entered Toronto University with the intention of pursuinga professional career; but his father shrewdly reasoned that, although fame might be acquired more readily by clergymen and lawyers, money was an important consideration, and might be acquired with, comparative ease in a well managed business. He accordingly placedhis son in the wholesale house of Messrs. Campbell & Castle, and indue course of time the lad secured an interest in the business. 

The young man was not long a member of the firm when he becameenamoured of a young lady named Collins, whom he had met at thehouse of a mutual friend. For a longtime he paid attention to thisyoung lady, taking her to balls, concerts and operas, and finally heproposed for her hand and was accepted. 

Miss Collins was scarcely what one would call a beautiful girl, yetthere was an attractiveness of manner peculiar to her which causedher to be much, sought after and admired in social circles, and manywere the sad and heavy when it became known that she was about tomarry John Wilkie. 

At this juncture Wilkie the elder was carried off with an attack ofpneumonia, leaving John, his only son, heir to his house and property. This occurrence of course caused the wedding to be deferred for atime, and the bridegroom elect went into deep mourning; in a fewmonths, however, he doffed his sable garments, and, having causedthe family mansion to be refurnished and renovated, began to makepreparations for his wedding. 

The affair came off with great _éclat_, the bride being driven homefrom church behind four dapple-grey horses, several carriagesfollowing with bridesmaids, groomsmen, and invited guests, among thelatter being many rejected suitors, who took a kind of melancholypleasure in seeing the matter through. Mrs. Wilkie was in excellentspirits, as was also the dowager, her mother-in-law, and after the_déjeuner_ they wept together and kissed each other at parting asif they were blood relations. Mrs. Collins was not so much affected;she was so much entranced at the rich prize she had secured for herdaughter that grief was altogether out of the question. 

What a sweet time is that when two loving hearts, throwingcommercial and domestic cares to the winds, devote themselves to theagreeable pursuit of entertaining each other. Shutting their eyesand ears to the outer world they fancy that the sun, moon and starsshine for them, alone; that nature's smiles are specially preparedfor them; that the birds carol bridal chansonettes only for theirbenefit; and that the whole world is contained in the small areawhich immediately surrounds them. 

Mr. And Mrs. Wilkie had a long, pleasant honeymoon. They spent acouple of weeks at Niagara Falls; then, having visited Boston andNew York, they spent a few weeks at Saratoga, returning to Torontoabout six weeks from their wedding-day. Everything had been preparedfor their reception, and Mrs. Wilkie, senior, sat in state to welcomethem to a cosy meal which had been prepared in the dining-room. Having eaten sparingly, Mrs. Wilkie retired to her room, for she wasfatigued by travel, and John with his mother went on a tour ofinspection over the house. 

It must be hard for a mother to give up the care of her son to astranger; to think that he whom she has nursed so tenderly, andwhose every want was so long supplied by her gentle hand should beleft to the care of another must be fraught with pain and bitterrecollections. Mrs. Wilkie sighed deeply as she showed her son themany improvements which had been made in the old house, and thoughtthat her reign was at an end and that a new Caesar had taken thereins of government. The Lord of the Manor failed to observe thetrepidation with which his mother handed him the keys, and showedhim the various details connected with the management of the house, and with a cool "good night, mother, " he retired to rest, at peacewith his mother, himself, and the world. 

For several months things went smoothly enough with the parties tomy narrative. The dowager accepted her position, though, it must beconfessed, with a bad grace, and the new mistress gave a life to theplace to which it was unaccustomed. At length Mrs. Wilkie gave birthto a son, and great were the rejoicing and festivities. The dowagerwas promoted to the title of grandmamma, John boasted the proudtitle of father, and the mother's joy knew no bounds. The child wasin due time christened with appropriate solemnity, and in a fewmonths after his birth he became a very important member of theWilkie family. 

Mr. Wilkie wanted the boy called William after his late father, butMrs. Wilkie would not have what she was pleased to term a plebeiandesignation, and insisted on calling him Alexander. The dowageropposed this with all her might, but "her usefulness was gone, " andher feeble remonstrances were of little or no avail. This slight sankdeep into her heart, and she waited, calmly and patiently, for anopportunity of retaliating on her daughter-in-law. 

In due time the opportunity presented itself. Mrs. Wilkie was in thehabit of going to the skating-rink accompanied by some of herfashionable acquaintances; her husband did not care for skating, butwas proud to hear his wife's graceful performances eulogized. Thedowager, however, had no heart for "the grape-vine" and other foolishdevices; she thought it high time for her daughter-in-law to take onherself the serious duties of matrimonial life, and deprecated thefondness of the lady in question for rinks, balls, and festivities. 

One night Mrs. Wilkie was invited to a skating-party. Her husband, having some letters to write, declined to go, and she went incompany with a Mr. Smithers, an old acquaintance of hers, and one ofthe finest fancy skaters in Toronto. During her daughter-in-law'sabsence at the rink, Mrs. Wilkie the elder took upon herself tolecture her son on his wife's giddy behaviour, and so worked upon hisfeelings that he regularly gave way, and allowed his mother toremain mistress of the position. 

When the fashionable Mrs. Wilkie returned to her abode late in theevening she found the door closed on her, repeated pulls at thedoor-bell eliciting no response. With her skates the lady thenhammered violently on the door, waking the echoes of the quiet street, and finally, in her frenzy, she smashed every window within reach, and departed to her mother's residence. 

Mrs. Collins was very much surprised to receive a visit from herdaughter at such an unseasonable hour, and when she was made awareof the cause she became proportionately indignant. She suggested thepropriety of taking legal proceedings for the restitution of herdaughter's rights, but the latter would not listen to any suchsuggestion, and vowed she would never live with Wilkie or his wretchof a mother again. 

Mrs. Collins expected daily to receive a message from Mr. Wilkie, requesting his wife to return to him, but he, being completely underthe influence of his mother, failed to do anything of the kind, imagining that his wife would come as a suppliant to him. In this hereckoned without his host, for Mrs. Wilkie was as proud as Lucifer, and would not bend her haughty head to be made Empress of Canada. One thing, however, caused her great uneasiness: her child, Alexander, was all the world to her, and she set her wits to work to devisesome means of obtaining him. 

Without recourse to unpleasant legal proceedings or equallyunpleasant negotiations with her mother-in-law, Mrs. Wilkie couldnot hit on any plan by which she could obtain the control of herchild's nurture and education. At length she resolved on the simpleand practical plan of taking forcible possession of the boy. Onceresolved, she speedily put her plans in execution. 

The child's nurse was in the habit of driving him in a baby carriageto the Queen's Park for an airing, and one afternoon the mother layin wait for the appearance of the infantile equipage. She was afraidto approach the servant with a bribe, as, in the event of her refusal, the Wilkies would be placed on their guard, and would set a strictwatch over all the child's movements. She accordingly sat down at adistance, closely veiled, and waited till an opportunity presenteditself. 

She did not have long to wait. The nurse on entering the park fellin with a tribe of professional acquaintances, one of whom, drawinga love-letter which she had received from her pocket, commenced toread it for the edification of her companions. Not content withlistening to the gushing effusion, the auditors crowded around theproud recipient of the epistle, reading with eager eyes suchportions as they could see over the shoulder of their friend. Whilethe representative of the dowager was busily engaged in scanning theamorous lines penned by the lovesick swain (the child left to hercare being at some distance in his carriage, sleeping under theshade of some trees), Mrs. Wilkie cautiously approached, and, lifting the unconscious child with the tenderness peculiar to mothers, walked quietly and swiftly away towards the gate, when, coollyhailing a passing cab, she drove to her mother's house, proudlydepositing her baby in a richly adorned cradle which had beenpurposely prepared for his reception. 

It was a long time before the nurse missed the boy; in fact, nottill she prepared to start for home did she give him a thought, except to congratulate herself that he slept so long and gave her solittle trouble. When she at length turned towards the place whereshe had left the carriage and learned the true state of affairs herface grew deadly-pale, and, beckoning her companions towards her, shepointed to the carriage and uttered several piercing shrieks. Manywere the suggestions as to what had become of the boy. Some thoughthe might have got out of the carriage alone and fallen into the pond, but, as he could not yet walk, this was highly improbable, anothersuggested that he had been stolen by gypsies, but could not say thatshe had ever heard of gypsies in connection with the Queen's Park. Many other theories, some wild, a few reasonable, were advanced, butyet no clue to the whereabouts of the child could be discovered, norcould any light be thrown upon the mystery. 

The poor nurse was in a terrible state of mind. She had in her fancya picture of the baby's grandmother threatening to tear her limbfrom limb, while the frantic father went for the police; but returnshe must, and so, with a different step from that with which sheentered the park, she set out for home, arriving there just as thebell rang for dinner. 

The old lady was just commencing to lecture her for keeping thechild out in the evening air, when she saw, from the expression ofthe girl's face, that something unusual had occurred, and rushing out, she threw up her hands in astonishment at the empty perambulator, giving a mute look of inquiry which spoke volumes. In a momentMr. Wilkie joined the throng, just as the frightened domesticsobbed out, as well as she could, an account of the child'sdisappearance. He was about to rush at once to the police office, but the old lady, shoving him aside, hastily put on her bonnet andshawl, and, ordering the girl to summon a cab, peremptorily forbadeMr. Wilkie to leave the house till she had made a reconnaissance ofthe quarters of her daughter-in-law. 

Mrs. Collins lived at the extreme west end of King street, and, asMr. Wilkie's residence was in the North-East, in the neighborhood ofthe Horticultural Garden, it was some time before the wilymother-in-law approached her base of operations; she accordinglyleaned back in the carriage, and, closing her eyes, meditated on herplan of action. Bidding the coachman pull up at the corner of Brockstreet, she alighted, and proceeded on foot towards the house: itwas a semi-detached cottage, with a small garden in front, thedwelling being only a few feet from the street. Inside all was, apparently, quiet as usual, but Mrs. Wilkie thought she heard a soft, measured song, as if some one were singing a child to sleep. Approaching the window she caught a glimpse of her daughter-in-lawpacing the room to and fro with the child pillowed in her arms; so, quickly receding into the darkness, she made her way back to thecarriage, satisfied that her calculations, in one particular at least, had been correct. 

Entering the cab, she bade the driver return with all speed toMr. Wilkie's house, setting her mind, during her transit on thefrustration of the hopes of her daughter-in-law, against whom she inher heart registered a vow of vengeance. She found her son pacingthe dining-room like a madman, and she at once gave him all theparticulars concerning her reconnaissance, adding, at the same time, that he must take legal measures to obtain possession of his child, no matter what the cost. In spite, however, of his mother'simportunity, Wilkie steadily refused to give the matter publicity bytaking legal proceedings, so the old lady was obliged to contentherself with concocting plans for retaking the child from the handsof the enemy. 

Mrs. Wilkie watched long for an opportunity, and at last she wassuccessful. She found out where her daughter-in-law went to church, and one Sunday having learnt from one of her emissaries that both ofthe ladies had gone to church together, leaving the child in chargeof the maid-of-all-work, she hurriedly set out for the house, andboldly ringing the door-bell inquired for Mrs. Wilkie. On being toldthat the lady was at church and would not return for some time sherequested permission to sit down and wait, as she was fatigued withher long journey. Entering the drawing-room, she sank on one of thelounges and appeared to faint. The poor domestic did not know whatto do, but ran wildly to and fro exclaiming, "Och, wirrasthru, what'll I do at all at all'" The invalid gradually came round, andgasped out, "Dr. Metcalfe, go for Dr. Metcalfe!" This gentlemanlived a few blocks distant, and the girl at once rushed off, withoutwaiting even to put her bonnet on. 

Quick as thought Mrs. Wilkie ascended the staircase to where herinfant grand-child lay wrapped in slumber: hastily wrapping him in ashawl she descended to the door, and coolly hailing a passing cabwas soon far from the scene which had so wrought upon the feelingsof poor Bridget Moriarty. 

When Bridget arrived with the doctor she found that the old lady haddisappeared leaving, however, a card for Mrs. Wilkie. On thelatter's return Bridget told her the whole story, adding that shesupposed the old lady had come to herself and got tired waiting; intime, however, the baby was missed, and that threw a new light onaffairs. Mrs. Wilkie was frantic; she denounced Bridget as agood-for-nothing, refused to sit down to dinner, and set off with hermother in the direction of Mrs. Wilkie's house. 

This time, however, the dowager was on her guard. The child wascarefully looked after, being under the care of a faithful ally ofthe old lady, whose instructions were never to leave him for amoment out of her sight. Mrs. Wilkie and her mother might walk upand down and look at the lighted windows; they might also watch at adistance the youthful hope of the house of Wilkie as he took hisdaily airing in the park, but the trick once tried could not berepeated, and the fond mother (for whatever her faults were sheloved her child) was obliged to pine in weary loneliness. 

During all these sieges and reprisals the little fellow waxed strongand healthy, in sublime unconsciousness of the importance attachedto the possession of his person: he was by no means neglected, theonly risk he ran was that of being hugged to death, as each party, more through joy at the success of its schemes than from love of theyouth in question, caressed him lavishly if not fondly. 

Some months after these occurrences Mr. Wilkie removed to Montreal, where he soon became permanently established, and, as he was alwaysfond of politics, he was in a short time recognised as one of theleaders of the liberal party. When the reaction consequent on thefamous "Pacific Scandal" set in, Mr. Wilkie, M. P. , took his seatfor K----, a small town below Montreal, rising in Parliament, as hedid everywhere else by his ability, far above the common level. Hisson was placed at the Montreal High school, and gave promise ofbecoming in time even more distinguished than his father. 

They had not been long resident in Montreal before the poor olddowager was seized with acute rheumatism, to which she finallysuccumbed, and Mr. Wilkie was obliged to engage a housekeeper tolook after his household affairs and his son's education. It was asad time for poor little Aleck; his grandmother fairly doted on him, and indulged his every whim, but Mrs. Riddell, the new housekeeper, cared not whether he was happy or miserable so long as she drew hermonthly pay. 

All this time Mrs. Wilkie had been living with her mother in Toronto, and, as soon as she heard of her mother-in-law's death, shepersuaded her mother to remove to Montreal, so that she mightsecretly keep watch over her boy, whom she now loved, if possible, more than ever. Assuming the name of Mrs. Johnson, she took lodgingsin a house nearly opposite the residence of Mr. Wilkie, and thus wasenabled to observe closely all the proceedings of his household; shelonged to throw herself at her husband's feet and implore hisforgiveness, but her proud spirit rebelled against such an act, andshe sat at her window day after day in moody silence watching herdarling boy going and returning from school. 

Shortly after his wife's arrival in Montreal, Mr. Wilkie wassummoned to England on business of importance, a fact with whichMrs. Wilkie became easily acquainted through the _Gazette_, whichheralded all his movements, the fond mother now became more anxiousthan ever about her boy, and indeed not without reason, for, beingmonarch of all she surveyed, the easy-going housekeeper laid herselfout for "a good time, " and, although in her way she was kind enoughto the child, she left him to take care of himself as well as hecould, being content if she prepared a bed for him to sleep in, andordered his three meals a day with unfailing regularity. The houseMr. Wilkie lived in was situated in one of the newest and mostfashionable localities, having what are generally designated"modern improvements, " and one of these latter so improved theinternal arrangements of Master Aleck, that he was soon confined tobed with enteric fever. Mrs. Johnson, missing the boy from the street, called to enquire after him, and had her fears confirmed by thehousekeeper, who said she did not know what to do for his father wasaway, and she had never in her life nursed a fevered patient. Thewily mother seized the opportunity with avidity, and with unblushingeffrontery perpetrated the atrocious falsehood that she was aprofessional nurse of large experience, and that such an interestdid she feel in the little fellow that she would if permittedundertake to nurse him free of charge. Mrs. Riddell was delighted, and at her neighbor's suggestion sent for Dr. Brownie, who had, shesaid great experience in such cases. A cablegram was despatched toMr. Wilkie, and everything that science could devise was done for thepoor little sufferer. For many days he seemed to get worse and worseand his devoted mother was nearly worn out as she sat up night afternight wiping his fevered brow, or moistening his parched lips, atlength the crisis came, and the doctor pronounced him on the way torecovery, adding that the slightest neglect on the part of those whotended him would permit a relapse, which would in all probabilityprove fatal. In this case, however, the latter caution wasaltogether unnecessary, what Mrs. Johnson lacked in experienceshe more than made up for in care and solicitude, and, as everydirection of the physician was carried out to the letter, thelittle fellow began perceptibly to mend before the telegram cameannouncing Mr. Wilkie's arrival in Quebec. On the receipt of themissive Mrs. Johnson made preparations for her departure, sayingthat her services were now scarcely needed, and that she needed rest;Mrs. Riddell at first tried hard to induce her to remain, but whenshe looked at the pale thin face, and thought how many weary nightsthe lady had voluntarily sat up with the raving child, she ceased tourge the request, and at once set out for a mercenary to replace her. 

What a difference there is between him who enters on a labor of loveand the hireling who works for pay! In this case, then, it mayeasily be supposed with a mother's ardent affection on the one hand, how different was the cold professional service rendered by thenurse who replaced Mrs. Johnson: although kind and attentive, shehad not the same soothing power, nor could she sing the sweetlullaby which so often in his fevered moments had calmed poor littleAleck's soul, and the little fellow became at once very low indeed. At this juncture his father arrived, and when he saw his boy he wascompletely overcome; he learned from the housekeeper all theparticulars of the kind neighbor's attention, and resolved to gopersonally to her residence and implore her not to desert his boytill he was out of all danger. Waiting only to partake of a morselof food, he set out for the house indicated by his housekeeper, andinquired for Mrs. Johnson. The girl who opened the door told himthat Mrs. Johnson had been out nursing a sick child for severalnights, and had just fallen into a deep sleep, the first she had hadfor days, and urged him to call round again in the afternoon, whenher mistress would probably be able to see him. In the afternoon hereturned in great haste, saying that he must see Mrs. Johnson at allhazards, that his boy was worse, and raved incessantly for her. While he was speaking the lady he inquired for suddenly came downstairs, and as their eyes met both uttered an exclamation of surprise. Forgetting everything in her anxiety for her boy's safety the poormother's face became suffused with tears as she anxiously cried withbated breath, "Is he dead?" "No; thanks be to God and his mother'scare he still lives, but you must not let him die now. "

The rest of the story is soon told; the pride of both husband andwife was humbled by adversity, and in their heavy affliction eachwas made to feel what a strength and comfort it was to have acompanion who could sympathize not only with the joys but with thesorrows of the other. The boy was several weeks before he was ableto leave his room, during which time his mother told him the historyof her troubles, and recounted how miserable she felt without himand his father, all of which was of course retailed to the lattergentleman, and effectually healed the breach between the man and hiswife. The dowager's name was for obvious reasons never mentioned byeither Mr. Or Mrs. Wilkie, and as for the youthful hope of the house, his memory was so elastic that he never even thought about the oldlady. 

Mrs. Riddell was astonished when she became acquainted with the truerelations of the nurse and her patient, but, having become quiteenamoured of the former (who by-the-by was now become both adiscreet and amiable matron), she readily fell into a subordinateposition in the household, taking her orders quite gladly, andhaving a special care for little Aleck. Mrs. Wilkie has now anassortment of boys and girls, Aleck being entered as a law studentat McGill University and the others being still at school; sheseldom thinks of the past, preferring to look forward to a brightand happy future. Still at times her mind will revert to scenes ofyore, and she shudders as she thinks of the bitter experiences shehas had, attributing most if not all of them, rightly or wrongly, toher mother-in-law. 

CHAPTER XII. 

A Deserted Wife, or Model Woman

One hot summer's day I received a visit from a young and beautifulwoman attired in fashionable costume. She told me she was desirousof obtaining accommodation for a couple of months as her husband wasin England and the time of her accouchement was at hand. She was thebearer of a letter which ran as follows--

 LONDON, England, August 6 18--

 _To whoever is with my precious wife in her hour of trial_:

 MY DEAR MADAM--I cannot refrain, as the husband of the most lovable wife on earth from expressing my ardent wish and prayer that all may be well and that you will remind her that I am most tenderly loving and thinking of her and shall pray hourly for her, but whatever be the issue, let all be done for her happiness and comfort. 

 I will part with all I have rather than that she or her infant shall want anything. Oh how I wish I were near to love and comfort her. If her dear infant is spared all well and boy or girl I shall be quite as pleased if my idol be well. _Let all give way_ if need be for my precious wife's sake, and on no account let her life be endangered, even for the sake of the child, if such crisis should occur, which Heaven forbid. 

 I can say no more, but I wish I could enclose my hand and heart if I could comfort your patient. Of course I shall be terribly anxious to know that all is well; will you kindly have a postal card ready just to say "all is well" if so it be; never mind more till my poor wife can put her own name to a letter. 

 God reward you for an act that I know the angels envy you, for your charge is a "friend of Jesus, " and my only friend on earth. 

 Yours in intensity of anxious interest, P. MERRICK. 

 My address is Sunny Hill Avenue, London, E. 

Mrs. Merrick explained to me that her husband was a member of awealthy English firm doing business in Montreal, and that he was atthat time obliged to be in London on business, but would soon return, when she purposed setting up an establishment of her own. Her fatherand mother (both Scottish Canadians) had been dead many years, andshe had been educated in a boarding school in Ottawa where she hadfirst met Mr. Merrick. 

Within a few days the lady became an inmate of my house, and incourse of time became the mother of a beautiful little boy, news ofwhich was at once despatched to London. For three weeks Mrs. Merrickwaited patiently for a reply, and after that time, receiving none, she became uneasy, and wrote a long letter to her husband, beseechinghim to send her an answer immediately, but neither to this letterdid she obtain any response and days became weeks and the weeksbegan to spread themselves into months and yet not a line or even aword could be obtained to indicate the whereabouts of Mr. Merrick orwhether he was alive or dead. At last the terrible truth began todawn on the poor creature that she had been basely deserted by himwho was sworn to be her friend and protector and she became almostdemented, she tried to account for his silence in many ways but herintellectual acumen as too great and her reasoning always broughther to the one sad conclusion. However, as nothing better could bedone the spirited creature made up her mind to earn her own livingand that of her child, and setting her wits to work she soonobtained a situation as governess at the house of Mr. Mullaly, aretired merchant of considerable means whose wife and daughters weredesirous of obtaining an entree into polite society. Placing her boyout to nurse, she set out for her new home, and soon began to feelthe blessedness of working for her own living. 

But her happiness was not unmixed with pain. The Mullaly girlssomehow or another heard that Miss Caldwell (she had given hermaiden name) was the mother of a little child, and, although sheadmitted the fact and recounted to them her whole history, they gaveno credence to her assertions, but began to treat her with thegreatest contempt making her life miserable. The poor woman wouldfain have left her situation, but she recollected that it would bedifficult to obtain another without referring to Mrs. Mullaly whowould be sure to tell the whole story with several embellishments. On the whole she thought she had better remain where she was for atime, hoping that, as years went by, and the girls acquired morejudgment and common sense, they would treat her with greater fairness. Accordingly she bore all the taunts of the young ladies with greatmeekness and patience, and made herself so agreeable and useful that, although they never could make up their minds to believe her storyor to treat her as one of the family--the Mullalys came to regardMiss Caldwell as indispensable to their existence, and whenMiss Mullaly the elder got married she took Miss Caldwell withher in the capacity of housekeeper the young sisters no longerrequiring her in her capacity as governess, which situation she, however, did not long keep as the remuneration would not enable herto educate her boy as she desired. He was a fair-haired, brightlittle fellow, and the most loving little creature on earth. Sheconsulted with me what best could be done to earn a larger salary. I advised her to become a professional nurse though hard she wouldthink it at first, when once accustomed to its little drudgeries shewould find it a noble calling, with God's blessing attached to it. She consented, and I trained her in my hospital, she became in a veryshort time one of my most proficient nurses. From that time she hadgained the battle, for, as soon as some of our medical men gotacquainted with her, they gave her employment at the most serious oftheir cases, till at last it became very hard for me to procure herfor some of my own patients, and through her abilities, patience, andrefined feelings she gained a great many sincere friends. One of herpatients, an old lady, left at her death $200 to her kind nurse, andthis enabled poor Mrs. Merrick to give her boy that education whichshe had so long craved for him. 

In the meanwhile Willie Merrick was placed at school at Lennoxville, where he evinced great talent. At twelve years of age he was notedas the finest classical scholar in the school, and his mother wasinduced to place him in training, with a view to his matriculatingat the University of Bishop's College. The fond mother lived only forher son, so she placed him under the care of a private tutor, atwhose hands he made such progress that at the early age of fifteenhe entered the University. Here he showed himself at once to be madeof no ordinary metal, and he became quite a favorite with thePrincipal and professors, all of whom were ever ready to lend him ahelping hand. His mother had intended him for the church but Williedid not (so he said) feel "good enough" for that high and holycalling, so he entered the Faculty of Law, determined, if possible, to distinguish himself in that profession so soon as he obtained thenecessary qualifications for commencing practice. In process of timehe obtained his degree, graduating with high honors, and he was notlong in establishing a practice equal to that of many older advocates. 

Although without any hope of ever taking her place again asMerrick's wife, the poor woman whom he had so basely desertedinstituted a thorough search for him in England, and was enabled todiscover all his history, and also so gain an insight into hisproceedings whilst away from her. It seems that he had married herunder an assumed name, his real patronymic being Stephens, and thathis people were purse-proud and overbearing. On his arrival inEngland his father, who had heard of the young man's escapades inCanada peremptorily ordered him to have no more correspondence withhis Canadian wife, but to marry a noble lady whom he had purchased(through money lent; to her father) for the ennobling of the Stephensfamily. 

When the deserted woman became assured of the truth of thesedisclosures she made up her mind to give no more thought to thewretch who had left her in such a predicament, and determined tocentre her hopes and her affections in her son, who had by this timebecome a distinguished lawyer, and was quite as proud of his motheras his mother was of him. He took a house for himself and onlyparent in the Western suburbs, and they lived in quiet comforttogether, the young man going little into society, except on publicoccasions, on all of which he was invariably asked to take aprominent part in the proceedings. 

When William Merrick had been in practice about two or three yearshe was entrusted with an important case connected with the endowmentof some church in Lower Canada, which was appealed from one court toanother, until, finally, it was decided to carry it to the House ofLords. Accordingly the young advocate made preparations for a tripto England, and, being unwilling to leave his mother alone for sucha lengthened period, he decided to take her along with him. Theysailed from Quebec one fine Saturday in June, arriving at Liverpoollate on the following Saturday night, a strong westerly wind blowingthem rapidly across the Atlantic! They stayed but a few days inLiverpool, and then went on to London, putting up temporarily at theLangham, at that time the most fashionable hotel in London. Themorning after their arrival the young lawyer, having occasion to goto the Courts on business, Mrs. Merrick was left for a time to herown devices, she occupied a half-hour or so in reading the newspapers, and then made up her mind to go for a stroll before luncheon. Attiring herself rather gaily (she was still remarkably good-looking, only a little over 40 years then) she set out with a sprightly stepdown the main staircase, humming to herself a lively air which sheused to sing in happier days. Just as she was descending the lastflight of stairs, a gentleman having a delicate-looking lady on hisarm began to ascend, and on hearing the melody, faint though it was, which the approaching lady, was unconsciously humming, glancedsuddenly and swiftly upwards; then, as if a thunderbolt had struckhim, he came to a sudden halt, having a dazed expression on hisfeatures and littering a half suppressed oath or imprecation. Mrs. Merrick had not noticed the approaching couple, her thoughtsbeing far away, but the suddenness of the gentleman's movementarrested her attention, and she looked him fully in the face for amoment; then, uttering a wild shriek, she fell backward and wouldhave been probably severely injured, had not a gentleman, whohappened to be close behind her, caught her as she fell, and carriedher to the landing-place, where restoratives were applied, and theunfortunate woman speedily came to her senses. 

It is scarcely necessary to say that the lady and gentlemanwhose advent so upset Mrs. Merrick were none other than Mr. AndMrs. Stephens who had come up to London for the operatic seasonand were staying at the Langham Hotel. Taking advantage of theconfusion, Stephens hurried his wife along to her room, giving nofurther answer to her many and wondering enquiries than: "Oh, it'sonly the heat; don't mix yourself up with all these people, " and, without allowing time for remonstrance or further enquiry, he put astop to all questioning by hurrying the delicate creature along tillhe deposited her, breath less, in an easy chair. Going out into thecorridor he tried to discover how matters stood, but the woman hedreaded to meet had been borne to her room and medical attendancehad been summoned. This Mr. Stephens learned from a waiter; so, determined to deport himself as if he knew nothing of the cause ofthe lady's illness, and was as much puzzled at the occurrence as therest of those who had either witnessed it or come on the scene soonafterwards, he returned to his wife, and, throwing himself into achair, pretended to read. But his wife, obtuse though she possiblywas with regard to the fainting lady, something had struck her aboutthe manner her husband assumed. She could not get over it, and whenat the table d'hote with her husband listened attentively to theconservation of two gentlemen who were sitting vis-à-vis. Oneenquired after the health of the lady who had taken so suddenly illon the landing in the morning. The younger of the two gentlemenexpressed his gratitude to the other for assisting his mother sokindly, who would have, but for his assistance, fallen down stairs, but was somewhat better now. He said the Doctor had not been able toascertain the cause of her sudden illness, and, as his mother hadalways been blessed with such good health, he himself could notaccount for it. In the meantime Mr. And Mrs. Stephens had beenlisteners to the conversation when all of a sudden a curious, gurgling noise was heard, a chair was overturned, and Mr. Stephenswas stretched on the floor in a dying condition, blood streamingfrom his mouth. There was a great commotion in the dining-room, andit was thought at first he had swallowed a bone and was choking; butthe physicians who arrived, three in number, pronounced it a ruptureof a blood-vessel and applied at once the necessary remedies, butgave little hope of his recovery. As soon as his condition permitteda removal, he was carried, by the advice of the doctor, to a privatehospital near by, where his delicate wife also preferred to go, andnothing more was heard of the dying stranger, for a while anyhow. 

Our young lawyer, Willie Merrick, had been successful in his lawaffairs, and had arranged a trip to the continent with his mother, when a cablegram was sent to them from Canada, saying: "Don't leaveEngland; wait for letters; good news. " This was rather annoying toMr. Merrick, as he had only a few weeks more at his disposal; and heanticipated this trip as so necessary to restore his mother'scheerfulness. Mrs. Merrick was also puzzled as to what couldpossibly detain them any longer in London. At last the Canadian postarrived, and with it large documents and letters which had been sentfrom England to Canada and were now returned, informing Mrs. Merrickthat a certain W. Merrick Stephens had died, leaving a large fortune, and that half of this estate was bequeathed to Mrs. Merrick in Canada, whose maiden name had been Emma Caldwell, or, in case of her death, to her heirs. Young Mr. Merrick being at this time a well-knownyoung lawyer in Montreal it was not hard to find him. Both he andhis mother could not imagine who had left them such a fortune. Welldid Mrs. Merrick think of the man whom she had loved so dearly andtruly and who had pretended to be so fond of her. But, she knew toowell that she had been deceived, that he had married her under afalse name, and had she not recognised him at the hotel with a ladywho was his wife!--She had never told her son the cause of hersudden illness when first at the hotel; and her son had nevermentioned the affair of the dying stranger at the dinner-table, thinking his mother still too weak to be disturbed by such shockingcalamities. His partner from Montreal wrote; "You had better stayand see about this large fortune at once. Every one is not such alucky fellow as you. " A Mr. Tidal was mentioned as executor of theestate of W. M. Stephens, and our hero prepared at once to call onthat gentleman, who received him very friendly, but requested him tocall the next day with his mother at the family residence of thedeceased, which visit had been particularly desired by the deceasedgentleman's widow. Our young gentleman of coarse promised to complywith the wish, and was very much surprised when, on returning to hismother, he found her hesitating, --but for a moment only, a secondthought, as she promised to accompany him, feeling in her heart that, whatever Mrs. Stephens might wish to see her for, she wouldcertainly not blame her for anything, as all the wrong that had beencommitted had been committed towards her, but still her heart washeavy when at two o'clock they started in one of those stage coachesof which London has so many. After about two hours' drive theyalighted in front of an old-fashioned family mansion, surrounded bywell cultivated grounds. The gentleman, Mr. Vidal, on whom youngMr. Merrick had called the day previous, came to the portal togreet them, and begged Mrs. Merrick to have the kindness to seeMrs. Stephens in her own apartments, as she was in delicate healthand very much crushed down through the sudden loss of her husband. Amaid who had appeared at the time was ordered to direct Mrs. Merrickto the boudoir of her mistress and, announcing the visitor, withdrew. Mrs. Stephens, attired in deep mourning, looked very pale. Onseeing Mrs. Merrick enter, she rose from her chair and holding bothhands out to greet the astonished lady, said: "Oh, you wronged, wronged woman, " but then tears smothered her words, and it was quitea while before she could speak again. "How can I atone for thewrongs committed on you, but I promised him. His last request wasthat I would see you and beg your forgiveness for him. He hadrecognised you at once at the hotel, and he felt his Consciencetroubling him very much. But the sight of your son--his son--was toomuch for him. He felt he could not live to meet the son he had sowronged and the woman he had so loved and so betrayed. He told me allwhen the blood was streaming and smothered his words. He had marriedme by the command of his father for my money, but had afterwardslearned to love me when he saw I was so devoted to him, but he hadnot the courage to tell me of you and his child. I often noticed himlooking sad, and when I asked him to tell me what was troubling himhe would say: 'Don't be so kind to me, I don't deserve it, I am very, very wicked. '"

"We have no children, our first-born, a boy, only lived one hour;the second, a girl, only three days. Since then my health has neverbeen good, but he was so kind, so indulgent with all my weaknesses, that I can hardly realize he was ever unkind to any one. But hisfather was a stern old man of iron will who made him leave you andmarry me for my father's money. All this I could not tell to yourson nor to anybody else than to you. Will you tell me you forgive him?I know your heart is pure and good or you would have troubled himwhile alive. Don't sit so mute, you frighten me; shall I call yourson--the servants?"

"No, no, don't call anybody, " was her response, "but speak of him, of him you loved, the only one I have ever loved save my child. " Atthe thought of her son she broke out into sobs, and the blessedtears brought balm to her heart. Silence prevailed for a long time, save the sobs of both. At length a knock was heard, and a servantinquired if the ladies wished to take refreshments with the gentlemen. Both would have declined but for appearance sake, and, after bathingtheir faces, descended to the room where the gentlemen hadtransacted their business. 

On entering Mrs. Stephens approached Willie saying: "I hope you haveconsented to take, in addition to the name which you bear already, the name of Stephens, which was the last desire of my dear husbandand also my sincere wish. "

"If my mother consents to assume that name also I shall, butotherwise I must decline, as I shall never bear any other name thanmy mother whom I love and honor, and who can, if she prefer, refusethis bequest and need never tell me why. I know she will do all forthe best if it combine with honor. "

"She will not refuse, " was Mr. Vidal's reply; "and now, ladies, Ihave to beg you to sign those deeds that we are able to congratulatethe new lord of the estate. "--(All signed). 

The end of this story is very short now. Mr. W. Merrick Stephens andmother never returned to Montreal, but are living with Mrs. Stephens(the widow) on the same estate and never has there existed a moreperfect harmony and friendship--both trying to make each other happyand those around them. The last I heard from them was the followingletter:

 LONDON, December 18. 

 MY DEAR OLD FRIEND, Don't be angry that I call you old. I know you are not much older than myself, but it seems you are nearer to me when I address you so. How my life has changed! You used to tell me the evening will be better than the morning How true! She is so good (his wife), both Willie and I cannot help loving and admiring her. She thinks Willie looks like him and has many of his ways. If her health is good next spring we shall all three visit Canada, I think the sea-voyage will do her good. I shall be so proud to introduce her to you, and so glad to see you again who helped and advised me always for the best. You can write the history of my life it you like. Why did you ask my permission? You well knew I would do more for you if you let me I know you will not say anything to harm us, and I shall forever consider myself in your debt, but you must send us one of your books when out. Willie joins with me in sending his best regards to your husband and children and believe me for ever your grateful friend. 

 EMMA MERRICK STEPHENS

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Tale of Bigamy. 

Lillie Malcolm was the daughter of Scotch parents who had emigratedto Montreal about the year 1835. Her father was a schoolmaster, having a private school in the neighborhood of St. Antoine street, and at the tune of their arrival in this city Lillie was about theage of ten. The little girl was precocious and talented, and verypretty, and was also, as regards both these characteristics, admiredand made much of. As the girl grew older she became a little vainand conceited, her principal aim being to gain the plaudits of thevisitors at her father's house for her singing or other performances, which were many and various, the versatility of the girl beingremarkable. By the time she was seventeen, Lillie Malcolm becameknown as the prettiest and most accomplished young lady in theneighborhood, and no church or Sunday-school gathering was completewithout a song or recitation by her. 

But Lillie aspired somewhat higher than Sunday-school concerts andsuch circumspect circles. She longed for an entree into the innerand higher circles of Montreal society where she felt that she couldrise above the common level, and take a position in keeping with hereducation and accomplishments. Unfortunately for the ambitious girlher father, though highly respectable, was very poor, and soaltogether debarred from participating with his family in the roundof social pleasures in which the _bon ton_ of Montreal indulge;added to this, he was a strict Presbyterian, and was averse toconsenting even when his daughter _did_ receive an invitation tosome of the houses of her limited number of acquaintances. 

The poor girl fretted and repined at her lot. She could manage thehousehold affairs if required, but her mother or sister invariablyattended to that, and so her talents were not brought intorequisition; she could speak fluently and, as a clergyman or lawyer, would certainly have distinguished herself, but women were notrequired or even tolerated as clergymen or lawyers; she would(so she imagined) have made an excellent wife for a fairly richyoung man, but the young men did not seem to want wives withoutmoney or social rank, and so poor Lillie fretted and fumed, occasionally attending the many brilliant weddings which werecelebrated in the fashionable churches, and wondering how it wasthat so many plain and unattractive girls got husbands, while shewas without even a proposal. It is true she had no lack of admirers;these flocked round her like bees in a flower-garden, but few ofthem were eligible as suitors; and the few who were, although theyadmired her openly, and paid her great attention, never approachedthe subject of marriage. 

Things went on in this way till Miss Malcolm was twenty-three, whenshe made the acquaintance of Captain FitzMarshall, an officer of HerMajesty's army, who was stationed in Montreal. FitzMarshall was veryhighly connected, being the grandson of an English Duke, and wasgreatly sought after by the belles of Montreal; but he, having metLillie Malcolm by chance at the house of a mutual acquaintance, vowed that she was the only beauty in Montreal, and was even, markedin his addresses to her. Lillie's heart fluttered with delight atthe thought of actually out-doing the acknowledged society belles, and she would have been in ecstasy if she could only have appearedon the arm of her admirer at one of the public assemblies to whichhe had offered to bring her, but her father would not permit her toenter a circle unfitted for his means and her station, particularlyas neither he nor her mother would be present to look after her. 

Before the close of FitzMarshall's second year in Canada he had madeLillie Malcolm's heart glad by offering his heart and hand; he alsocommunicated the matter to Mr. Malcolm, but the latter gentlemanshook his head dubiously, and asked him if he had consulted hisfriends in England. When he replied that he had not, the oldgentleman gently but firmly informed him that, although he esteemedhim highly, yet he would not have his friends say that he had beenentrapped into a marriage with one who was socially his inferior, and that, till he had written to his relatives and obtained theirconsent to his marriage, it would be better for him to discontinuehis visits to the house. FitzMarshall pleaded strongly, but the oldman was firm, and so the poor love-sick Captain had to contenthimself with the assurance that, if his friends consented to hismarriage (for although a Captain he was only twenty-four), he wouldbe only too happy to confide his daughter to his keeping. Accordingly the young officer took his departure from the house, with the understanding that when the return mail arrived fromEngland he was to call at once, and, if agreeable to his family athome, to be formally betrothed to the fair Elizabeth. 

The weeks rolled by as if they were years, and at the expiration ofthat time FitzMarshall received letters from home, ordering him toobtain leave of absence and to take the next steamer for England. With a heavy heart he disclosed the contents to Mr. Malcolm, who ofcourse expected something of the kind, and told him that he must nowdiscontinue all communication with his daughter. The order came, unfortunately, too late, as the young couple had already metfrequently clandestinely and forestalled their expected honey-moon. 

However, to England FitzMarshall must go or be disinherited, so, bidding his inamorata to cheer up, that he would soon be back toclaim her as his lawful wife, he set sail, and left the poor girl, soon to become a mother alone with her austere father andunsympathetic mother. Weeks went by without a word from him for whomthe girl would have laid down her life, and her letters, written wemay say with her tears, were returned to her unopened. The truthflashed quickly on the young girl--she was deserted! Thearistocratic friends of the young man would never allow him to seeher more, and he was weak enough to be put in pupilage. Quicklymaking up her mind how to act, with indomitable courage she gatheredup what little trinkets and jewellery she possessed, she convertedthem into money which yielded her nearly two hundred dollars (forshe had received valuable presents from her lover and some money), and, one evening slipping out quietly, she took the train for Toronto, proceeding from thence to Detroit, where she established herself asthe widow of an English officer, prepared to receive pupils inlanguages and music. 

But she was prepared for more than this. Her heart had becomethoroughly steeled by the harsh treatment which she considered shehad received from her father and others, so she laid herself out tomake what capital she could, not only out of her accomplishments butalso of her beauty, and with such success that she obtained anelegant establishment at the hands of a wealthy Michigan shippingmerchant, the public being led to believe that she had becomepossessed of an estate in trust for her child (a boy) who wasjust then born. For several years she lived in this way, alwaysmoving along quietly and respectably, when the old gentlemandied, leaving her but a few hundred dollars capital, for he hadneglected to provide for this contingency, and she, with lessforethought than one would imagine, had never considered such apossibility. Mrs. McClintock, as she now called herself, began tothink of returning to her old business as a teacher, but there waslittle necessity, for an old gentleman who had made a fortune as adistiller, an acquaintance of the deceased merchant, soon madeexcuse for calling upon her, and made undoubted advances to her. It may be that he knew something of his friend's arrangements, orthat he only suspected them; however, the widow managed matters soadroitly that he imagined he must have been mistaken, and that thereports he had heard were not true. The house was elegantly andtastefully furnished, the lady was modestly, yet richly attired, the little boy and his nurse lending an air of respectability tothe whole establishment only to be out-done by the conversation anddemeanor of the lady herself, who was not only the peer, but thesuperior of any lady among the large circle of the old gentleman'sacquaintances. He called about some lessons for his eldest daughter, but was informed that Mrs. McClintock no longer gave lessons; hethen suggested that she might recommend a teacher of French, andendeavored to prolong the interview, but the lady sedately answeredall his queries with a sad and pensive expression far removed fromwhat he had expected, and rising politely, rang the bell for herservant to show him out. 

After a little time, however, the old man returned to the charge. Hehad bought the terrace in which Mrs. McClintock lived, and calledto know what he could do, in the way of repairs, etc. He pressed hissuit in various ways, but the widow pretended not to see it at alltill she had the old man down on his knees; then she played with himmost adroitly, explaining that her lonely position left her open tothe tongue of rumor, and that she could not allow him to call sofrequently. She played her cards so well that the old man firmlybelieved she was a modest and retiring widow, and did not the lawforbid him, he would have married her. As it was, she led him tohand her the deed of the house she lived in, and to settle a largeamount on both herself and his child (a beautiful girl), who wasborn about a year after his first visit to her house in his capacityof landlord. 

Notwithstanding all her precautions Mrs. McClintock was the subjectof much gossip in the neighborhood in which she resided, and manywere the guesses (many of them wide of the mark) which were madeabout her past history. But they could only talk vaguely and shrugtheir shoulders at the mention of the lady's name; for she livedvery circumspectly, had a pew in St. Paul's Church, and stood wellwith the minister and leading church people; her children too weremodels of neatness and propriety, and though as unlike as childrenhaving _one_ common parent could well be (Jessie being dark andpetite with piercing brown eyes, while Charlie was tall andexceedingly fair), yet they had both the enviable reputation ofbeing the best bred and best behaved children on Jefferson Avenue. 

As the children grew up they were sent to school, and both, thoughof different temperament, were distinguished for their superiorability. Jessie was quick at anything requiring an amount of readytalent and acute comprehension, such as Arithmetic, Geometry, andModern Languages, but Charlie excelled in Classics and what aregenerally considered the heavier sciences, and was particularlytalented as regards music. He would sit for hours playing theexquisite _Lieder Ohne worte_ of Mendelssohn, while Jessie wouldshrug her shoulders if asked to play, and call on her brother, saying she could not bear "that nasty practising. " In spite, however, of her neglect of this accomplishment (for which she had greatnatural talent), Jessie McClintock was in great demand in society, and notwithstanding the equivocal position held by her mother(for although not openly expressed there was a general feeling thatall was not right with that lady), the young people were askedeverywhere, and their mother kept them carefully in the _very best_circles, for which their natural talents and excellent educationeminently fitted them. 

The children, who had seen a gentleman supposed to be their fathercome at intervals and then disappear, naturally were inquisitive, and from an early age were taught that their father was a captain onan Atlantic Steamer, and of course was frequently away from home. Asthe children grew up the story told by them concerning that gentlemandid not coincide with that of the mother, who had always pretendedthat her husband was dead, so it was thought advisable for her toremove to Montreal (her parents having long since died), and assumethe rôle of a grass widow whose husband seldom got off his ship, andthen but for a short time, coming generally at night and remainingindoors during his brief stay. Mrs. McClintock bought a house inUniversity street, and rarely went out; her children, however, wentto the best schools, and, having made acquaintances, soon began togo out in the best society as they had done in Detroit. Charlie soonbecame entered as a Law Student in the McGill University, and Jessiehad a visiting governess engaged to finish her, a resident young lady, for obvious reasons, being considered out of place. Jessie grew up abeautiful young lady, and was the acknowledged belle in many adrawing room; Charlie went little into society, being engaged inprosecuting his studies in the University, applying himself soassiduously that in a few years he graduated with honors, carryingoff a gold medal. 

The people who lived opposite Mrs. McClintock on University streetwere curious to know all about that lady's proceedings, and set awatch on all her movements. They discovered that at times a carriagewas driven hastily up to the door, generally late at night, fromwhich an elderly gentleman alighted and entered the house; but, although on the alert, they were never able to make out his featuresor even his general appearance, so quickly was the door of the houseopened and closed behind him. Yet even this discovery was hailedwith delight by the gossips; and as after each visit Jessie appearedwith a new watch, locket, brooch, or other trinket (sent, she said, from England by her father), the tongue of evil report wagged freely, and was not at all times strictly confined to the truth. 

Mrs. McClintock was much annoyed when she learnt (from asympathizing friend) of the reports which her neighbors werecirculating concerning her; and, as she knew their eyes wereconstantly upon her house, she managed to invite the clergyman andhis wife, with a few others whom she had met in church circles, todinner, and manifested such an interest in the sewing society thatthe principal ladies of the congregation called on her in succession;and although they never got beyond an interchange of formal visits, yet it served to puzzle the gossips in the streets, and one or twowho had "forgotten" to call on Mrs. McClintock when she first cameto the locality paid her a formal visit; their shaky position insociety being secured by the fact that all the best people calledthere, including the Bishop and clergy, and so _of course_ therecould be nothing wrong. For all this plausible reasoning theyinwardly believed that there was "something wrong, " and many ofthose who called did so mainly under the apprehension that theywould discover something, or read in the countenance of theirnotorious neighbor something that would give a clue to her past orpresent career. 

But those who called from curiosity were sadly disappointed. Thehouse was neat and well-ordered, yet not extravagantly furnished;those who met the children were astonished at their appearance andapparent good breeding, while the hostess received them with thecool courtesy of an English gentlewoman. The callers went awaypuzzled more completely than ever, and to add to their mortificationthe lady _did not return one of their calls_, shewing thereby thatshe did not care for their acquaintance. Thus their imaginarycondescension was the means of their being snubbed by one whom theyconsidered scarcely fit to be allowed to inhabit the same street. 

When Jessie was nineteen her Mother gave a large party, invitingmost of the young lady's school friends, also a number of Charlie'sfellow-students, besides the Rector of the church and his wife and afew of the neighbors who had always been friendly to Mrs. McClintock, although having their own ideas regarding her pretensions. All wentmerry as a marriage bell, and they beguiled the time with music, whist, bezique, and like recreative amusements, after which supperwas announced, and the party sat down to a spread such as few ofthem had ever been partakers before, and all served in the mostelegant style. 

The viands having been thoroughly discussed, the Rector rose andproposed the health of the young lady in whose honor they were thenassembled, and in a highly moral speech wished her many happy returns, and all the joys this world (and also the next) can afford. Thetoast was honored with acclamation, and then one of the guests stoodup and proposed "the health of Captain and Mrs. McClintock. "

A damper was thrown suddenly on the whole company. Every one seemedto feel embarrassed, and though no one dared to look at his neighbor, and the toast was immediately drank by all, yet there came apeculiar feeling over each person present, as if some spiritualisticinfluence were at work restraining their speech and laughter, ayeand even forbidding them to breathe freely. 

For a time the silence remained unbroken. At length Mrs. McClintockmotioned to Jessie to rise, thus giving the signal for a generaldeparture to the drawing-room. Here the music was again brought intorequisition, and a few of the young people enjoyed themselves with agame of casino, but the hilarity of the early part of the eveningwas conspicuously absent, those assembled taking an early leave anddeparting homeward. The gentleman who had unwittingly worked on thefeelings of the remainder of the guests felt that there wassomething oppressive in the atmosphere, and tried to elicit anexplanation from a neighbor; but he could get no reply excepting atongue thrust into that gentleman's cheek as much as to say--"You've put your foot in it, old fellow, " and a significant squeezeof the left arm near the elbow. He had essayed a solo of the harp, and, unfortunately had struck the one cord [not chord] which was outof tune. 

Mrs. McClintock preserved an even demeanor throughout the entireevening; indeed, it is questionable if one of the whole party(the young people excepted) there, was one so fully self-possessed;and she had such command over her facial muscles that she bid herguests adieu with a smile as gracious as that with which she hadreceived them. She gave no more parties, however, but, confinedherself to inviting a few of her most intimate acquaintances to teaor an informal dinner, to which they were ever ready to accept aninvitation; as, whatever might be the antecedents of the McClintocks, they were certainly refined and elegant people, and _kept the besttable in the city_. In time the old gentleman went the way of allflesh, leaving Mrs. M. Independent in every respect. She continuedto pass for some time as a grass widow, but after a few months shecoolly inserted in the Montreal fit papers the following:--"AtCalcutta, on the 18th ult. , Captain Charles McClintock, in the 56thyear of his age. " Then she went into deep mourning, the childrenalso dressing in mourning and refusing to go into society for a time. In about eighteen months after they donned their ordinary attire, and, as many of those now forming the circle known as the "upper ten" didnot know, and others did not care to remember, anything concerningtheir past history, they were received with open arms, being young, accomplished, and, best of all, tolerably wealthy. 

Jessie is now married to a wealthy dry goods merchant, and one ofthe leaders of fashionable society. Charlie is making headway as alawyer, but, having an independent allowance, does not exert himselfvery much. The old lady lives pretty much to herself, and, it is said, not unfrequently takes a glass of Curacoa or Moraschino to drownunpleasant reflections. Let us, however, before sitting in judgmentupon her, put ourselves in her place, and consider if we would havedone half as well (morally) under the circumstances. Although adisobedient daughter, she has proved herself a true wife tillshamefully deserted, and a self-denying and tender-hearted mother, who, though giving herself up to shame for their sake, kept herchildren from every breath of even scandalous report, and placedthem as well-educated and respectable members of society. At such aone let only he who is without guilt among us cast a stone. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Unfortunate Sailor. 

Among the many thousand pretty girls that might be seen any fineafternoon walking down the shady side of Buchanan Street, Glasgow, few would be found possessing more attractive features and pleasingexpression than Agnes Malcolm. Not that she was the most beautifulgirl in Glasgow, for Agnes was hardly what one would call a beauty;but there was a something in her face that made it particularlyattractive, and caused every passer-by involuntarily to turn andlook after her, although, were the pedestrian cross-questioned as towhat he found to admire in the young lady, he would have beenpuzzled what to reply. Agnes had regular features, good hazel eyes, but not unusually bright ones, a high intellectual forehead, andtresses of a light auburn hue; her cheeks were soft as peaches andas delicately tinted, and when she smiled, which was often, shedisplayed a complete set of teeth for which no dentist had everreceived a fee. Her sister Alice was the acknowledged belle of thecircle in which the Malcolm family revolved, and was already of amuch more decided type, but Agnes had a frank, lovable expression ofcountenance that brightened everywhere she went like a sunbeam, andalthough she was not particularly witty (being indeed ratherreserved and shy in her manner), yet she had such a sweet voice, andtalked so naturally and with such a lack of affectation, that it wasa pleasure to hold converse with her. 

Mr. Malcolm, the girl's father, had been Captain of an ocean steamerrunning between Glasgow and Baltimore and adjacent ports, he hadgone down in the good ship Cyclops, or rather the _bad ship_ Cyclops, for she proved herself to be utterly unseaworthy, and foundered onher first trip out, Mrs. Malcolm, being near her confinement at thetime, was taken prematurely ill, and, although she rallied for a time, she never got fairly well again, and finally followed her husband tothe grave, leaving the two girls to the care of a married sister oftheir late father, who, having educated them as became their station, was at the time of which my narrative treats debating whether shewould send them out to earn their living, or, keeping them a littlelonger, bring them out in the hope of getting them married. 

Alice saved her all further deliberation by announcing in hercareless, happy style that she had engaged to marry a young shipchandler who had frequently came to the house, but had paid so muchattention to _both_ the young ladies that it was difficult to tellwhich, if any, of them he was going to marry. Having made up his mind, however, he did not wish to delay matters, so, as Alice was only toohappy to start an establishment of her own immediately, he gavenotice at the kirk for the following week, and the wedding wascelebrated amidst much rejoicing. Alice was glad to get a husband, and to be independent of her aunt. Mr. Taylor, her husband, wasdelighted to get such a beautiful and accomplished bride, and theold lady, Alice's aunt, was heartily glad to get rid of them both, so that never was rejoicing more universal. 

But poor Agnes was not so elated. She did not mind her sister beingpreferred by Mr. Taylor, for she did not want Mr. Taylor, andbesides Alice was two years her senior, and it was to be expectedthat she would be married first. It was her position at home thatmade her feel miserable. Whereas the work had been divided betweenthe two girls, it now was supposed to be done by one; moreover, Mrs. Whitcher, Agnes's aunt, began to bully her more than ever, wondering _aloud_ why she could not get a husband as her sister haddone, after so much money had been spent on her education, and soforth. 

Agnes could have had her choice not of one, but of _ten husbands_, had she wished to do as her sister had done and taken the firsteligible man who offered. But the idea of marrying for anestablishment never entered her unsophisticated brain, and, as shehad not yet met her _beau ideal_ of a husband, she waited patiently, bearing the scoffs and jeers of her unsympathetic aunt without amurmur, and giving in return for her daily bread labor that in anyother establishment would have yielded her no small remuneration. Had any time in the past two years paid attention to Agnes Malcolm, was a young man named George Fairfield, second mate of the ship"Glenalpine, " a good looking young fellow about twenty-three yearsold, who was the son of respectable English parents residing atLiverpool. Agnes, though rather partial to the young man, had paid adeaf ear to his addresses, not caring to marry a man unless shecould give him her whole heart, but after her sister had gone, andshe was left in utter loneliness, the rude but honest sympathy andlove of the handsome sailor went to her heart, and she consented tomarry him on his return from his next trip. 

George Fairfield went off as happy as if he had been suddenlyappointed Port Admiral. He felt not the ground he walked on, solight was his heart and also his tread as he stepped home with hiseyes fixed on the stars, but his mind picturing that happy scenewhich had been all too short. He whistled a bar or two of "Love'sYoung Dream" as he stepped gaily along, hoping to receive orders tosail on the morrow; not, as he tried to explain to his lady-love, that he was anxious to get away from her, but because he wished tobe soon back again, when, receiving a berth as first mate, he wouldbe in a position to claim her as his bride. The ship did not sailfor a week, and when it did George would have pleaded for one daymore in spite of his previous hurry to be off, however, there was nohelp for it, "For men must work and women must weep, though stormsbe sudden and waters deep, " and so Mr. George took his position atthe taffrail, and contented himself with flying a blue handkerchiefover the stern of the vessel till the forms on shore were no longervisible. Agnes returned to her every day occupation as householddrudge, sad at losing her lover, yet not so sad as she would havebeen had she really given, him her whole heart unconstrainedly; sheshed a few tears as the vessel left the quay, then turning homewardsshe mentally counted the weeks which were to elapse ere she shouldagain see the tapering masts of the "Glenalpine. " She made herpreparations for her wedding methodically and without excitement, and, following her suitor's instructions, bought furniture according toher taste for the little cottage he had rented in anticipation of hisexalted rank as first officer of a clipper. 

At length the _Shipping Gazette_ announced the Glenalpine as"homeward bound, " and in due time she was entered at the Custom House. George rushed with all speed to Mrs. Whitcher's, and was met withopen arms by his intended bride. She was not very demonstrative, itis true, but she was glad to see him, and as her face lit up at hisapproach, the poor weather-beaten tar forgot all about a fearfulgale he had just came through and its attendant perils, and wonderedwhether Heaven could possibly be an improvement on Mrs. Whitcher'sfront garden. 

The wedding took place (as previously arranged) the next day, andthe young couple took up their quarters at their new abode, Georgevoting the cottage a decided improvement on the ship and Agnessmiling with delight at the thought of leaving Mrs. Whitcher's forever. The ship remained in port about three weeks, and during thattime the young couple lived not only figuratively but literally"in clover, " as the cottage they had taken was on the margin of aclover meadow, the sweet perfume of which pervaded the atmospherewith its health-giving gases, gladdening the hearts and adding tothe vitality of all who came under its influence. 

But no earthly joys can last forever. George received a telegramordering him to be in readiness to sail at any moment and finally anorder for embarkation. 

With a heavy heart he parted from his young and beautiful wife, thehope, however, of returning a richer man, better able to make hercomfortable, cheered his manly spirit, and, clasping her once morein his fond embrace, he jumped into the boat and gave the men theorder to pull to his vessel. His wife stood on the shore wistfullygazing at the ship till she was no longer visible, then, with aheavy step, she turned slowly homewards. She thought of the longweary hours she would have to count ere she would see him again, and, although she had never loved him passionately, she felt hisdeparture so keenly that she wept long and bitterly. For days shesat moodily looking out at the sea in the direction his vessel hadtaken, and a sad foreboding filled her heart that she would never seehim more. Her comforter in her fitful hours was her maid, aFrench-Canadian girl, who had some years previously come to Englandin the capacity of stewardess on an ocean steamer, but, having takenfever during the vessel's stay in port, and been conveyed to thehospital, she was obliged to take service till she could againprocure a situation on board ship. This girl--she was named ArlineBertrand--was a native of Montreal, and at this time abouttwenty-four years of age and rather good-looking. Bending over hermistress she would say: "Ah, Madame, Monsieur Fairfield he come back_riche, riche_, with plentee nice thing for you!"

A few weeks after the vessel's departure Mrs. Fairfield receivednews from the agents of the safe arrival of the vessel at Montreal, and shortly afterwards she received a letter from her husband, fullof joy at the prospect of seeing her again, and of clasping her inhis arms. But, though "man proposes, God disposes, " and the programmewhich poor George Fairfield had so fondly laid out and hoped toexecute was destined to be sadly altered. Weighing anchor late onSaturday night they proceeded slowly down the river, and on thefollowing Tuesday were out at sea. The wind was blowing a littlefresh, but that suited Captain Fairfield admirably, for as it was astrong westerly wind, and blowing right astern it only sent his shipon all the faster, so, crowding on nearly all the canvas hisexperience had taught him was safe, he bent over the taffrail andwhistled for more wind to bear him joyously along. 

All day long they scudded gaily onward, and although towards eveningthe wind moderated a little still they went along at a pretty fairpace, and Captain Fairfield and his ship's company drank their grogheartily, anticipating a pleasant and speedy voyage. At bedtime theCaptain went on deck, and, ordering the mate to keep a good lookout, went below and "turned in. " He was not long in his berth when heheard a great running and shouting over his head, and then the cryof "Ice ahead!" from the look-out met his ears. With one bound herushed on deck, and gave the order, to "'Bout ship, " which the matehad already given; but there was no time to do more than port helm, and so avoid the direct shock from the massive iceberg, into whichat that moment they rushed with terrible force, the water pouring intorrents, and many of the men being killed by falling pieces of icewhich towered several feet above the mast-head. The boats werelowered with all speed, and were hardly clear of the "Glenalpine"when she went down with a plunge head first, and not a vestige ofhull, spars or masts was to be seen. A few of the men had jumped orfallen into the water; these were all picked up, and on countingheads it was found that none were missing except the mate and twosailors, who had been killed by the falling ice. 

So great had been the hurry of shoving off that they foundthemselves without chart, compass, or provisions, save a little kegof water and a small flask of brandy. However, judging by thedirection of the wind, which the Captain had noted carefully beforeretiring, the boats' heads were put in the direction of the islandof Anticosti, and, keeping as nearly as possible together (therewere three boats' crews), they pulled hard all night for shore. Whenthe morning broke they fancied they observed the loom of the land inthe distance, and a shout of joy involuntarily burst from the wholecompany; they were doomed, however, to disappointment, for, on themist clearing away, they could observe nothing but sky and sea formiles on every hand. The Captain was completely puzzled how to act, so, summoning a council of war in the gig, they came to theconclusion that, as they might, instead of pulling toward the land, pull farther away from it, there was no use wasting their strengthpulling at all, and that they had better keep a careful look out forvessels either going to or coming from America, and trust inProvidence. The water was served carefully out, and the Captain tookthe brandy into his own charge, the men encouraging each other withtales of their past experience in situations equally trying andstill more dangerous. 

All day they bobbed about on the dancing waves, the oarsmen pullingjust sufficiently to keep headway on their respective boats, but nota sign of either land or passing vessel was visible. The last roundof water was served out, and the men tried hard to induce theCaptain to hand them over the brandy, some of them sullenly, andintimating an inclination to take the bottle by force; but theCaptain cocking his revolver, which he had fortunately retained, they subsided into silence, and lay moodily at the bottom of the boat. They passed the night with heavy hearts, and when morning dawneddespair seized every man of them, for not a vestige of land was tobe seen, neither was there a boat of any kind in sight. Fortunatelythe weather was remarkably calm and clear, so they had no difficultyin keeping together, and in sharing equally their little supply ofwater, but now that that was gone what were they to do?

Just as they were about to give up all hope a cry of joy from theboat further to windward caused the occupants of the other two boatsto rest on their oars, and turn in that direction; they strainedtheir eyes in the endeavor to descry something beyond, but could seenothing. However, those nearest the point in question evidently could, and so they turned back and pulled against the wind with all theirmight, and in a few minutes the boatswain sung out, "A sail ahead"!causing their hearts to jump for joy. It was indeed a vessel whichwas rapidly coming towards them. It proved to be an American brigcalled "Frances Smith, " which was bound for the Mediterranean, andthe Captain no sooner sighted the signals of distress which werewaved from the boats than he immediately hove to and picked theexhausted party up. The brig was rather crowded, as she was of smalltonnage; however, the crew never murmured at the new-comers, butconsented to accept a reduction in their rations, so that thehalf-famished men might receive a daily allowance. 

The brig proceeded on her way, the rescued men insisting on doingtheir share of the work, and greatly lightened the labors of the crew. Within a few days, however, their powers were tried to the uttermost;the wind freshened to a gale, and threatened to annihilate the poorold brig, which was not in extra seaworthy condition. They were bythis time more than half-way across the Atlantic, where the seas runsometimes as high as the yard-arm, and take several days to calmdown when they have once been lashed into fury. The ship's timberscreaked and groaned, and the carpenter and his men had much ado tostop the numerous leaks which sprung in her sides. The next day itblew a hurricane, taking the fore mast and mainmast away, togetherwith most of the rigging, and leaving the vessel almost a total wreck. As they were not far from the southern coast of Ireland, the Captainordered the boats to be got ready with sails, arms and provisions;he also took with him a chart and compass, by which he was enabledto steer for the Fastnat Rock. There was scarcely room for the largeparty in the boats, but they all got safely in, a few minutes beforethe waterlogged brig went down like a lump of lead. They had notmuch to eat, but they had a good supply of water, and, as all theboats were well fitted with sails, the Captain hoped to make theIrish coast within a few days, the wind being much more moderate andin their favor. 

Poor George Fairfield was sick at heart. He was so anxious to gethome to his darling wife, and there he was for the second time atsea in an open boat, without the means of communicating with hisloved Agnes, or of telling her why he was not at her side. Nevertheless he accepted the state of affairs with calm resignation, and he and the American Captain laid their heads together to findout exactly where they were and what course they had best pursue. 

As they had had time to take with them a sextant chromometer andPalinurus, they had no difficulty next day in taking observations, and found themselves about five hundred miles W. N. W. Of Mizen Head. As it was no use depending on being picked up they made all sail inthat direction, and so rapidly did the strong west wind propel themthat on taking observations the next day they found themselvesnearly one hundred and fifty miles nearer land. It was fortunatethat they made such headway, for they had only one day's provisionsleft, and the water was getting pretty scarce; however, the windcontinued favorable, and in less than three days more, half famishedand thoroughly chilled from exposure, they found themselves atmidnight a few miles from the entrance of Queenstown Harbor. 

Furling their sales, they took to the oars with a will and pulledwildly towards the landing-place, where they were pleased to hearvoices in conversation. Just then a long whistle was heard from shore, and a husky voice half whispered, "Boat ahoy!" "Aye, aye, " was theglad response as the shipwrecked men threw the painter to the ownerof the voice, and taking their arms and instruments, bounded on shore. Imagine their surprise to find themselves surrounded, their musketsknocked from their hands, and the latter speedily encircled with apair of manacles. The Captain of the Brig tried to remonstrate withthe commander of the party, but a navy revolver was pointed at hishead, and he was forbidden to utter a word. Finding resistance andremonstrance altogether out of the question, the unfortunate menmarched on silently as directed, mentally endeavoring to explainthis sample of Irish hospitality, and confident that there must be amistake somewhere, but of the precise nature of that error they hadnot the faintest idea. 

Arrived at the gaol, they were severally incarcerated and theirhandcuffs taken off. Then, as they signified that they were hungry, they were liberally supplied with buttermilk and oatmeal porridge, which many of them thought the best and most sensible part of thewhole proceeding. As it was past midnight, and they were all nearlyexhausted they allowed their curiosity to wait till the morrow, and, without any questioning or speculation, fell fast asleep, most ofthem remaining quiescent unfed late the following afternoon. Whenthey awoke they found a warm meal awaiting them, but no reply as tothe reason for their detention could be got out of the turnkey, whoseemed to think their question one of the greatest jokes everperpetrated within the precincts of that edifice. At last Fairfieldsummoned the turnkey. There was something commanding in his tonewhich bade the gaoler treat him with respect, and to his enquiry asto whether he could see a lawyer the man replied that he could sendfor one immediately, but would vouchsafe no information. 

In a short time Councillor Quinn called in answer to CaptainFairfield's summons, when the latter asked him to explain whatreason the authorities had for treating him in this fashion. Theeminent legal practitioner evidently thought this as great a joke asdid Mr. Fitzgerald, the turnkey, for he thrust his tongue in hischeek, and remained silent. On Fairfield reiterating the question ina stern tone he became more serious and said affably "My dear sir, do you not know what you are arrested for?"

Fairfield then became angry and said "If I did, why would I send foryou to tell me? Is this your boasted Irish hospitality, in theexercise of which you lock up every man who happens to be cast awayon your shores, and then laugh at him when he asks you a civilquestion?"

On seeing that Fairfield had really lost his temper, the astonishedbarrister said "Did you not command the party of armed men who werecaptured last night in the harbor?"

"I commanded a crew of shipwrecked sailors, as also did my companionin ill-treatment, Captain Westover. "

"Ah! Well of course you can put in that plea if you wish at yourtrial, but I am afraid it will avail you little. Your arms, too, areof an American pattern, similar to that known to be used by theFenians. "

"Good Heavens! do they take me for a Fenian?" said Fairfield, --"why, I am an English officer, captain of a merchant vessel of the port ofGlasgow. "

"Have you any papers to prove this?" said the lawyer. 

"No, they all went down with the vessel, but they can easily findout whether my statements be correct by communicating with the agents. "

"That will be for you to do, when you are brought to trial, whichmay not be for some time, as there is a surplus of work on hand thissession. "

"But can I not demand a trial?"

"No, the _Habeas Corpus_ Act is suspended, and you must just makeyourself as comfortable as you can under the circumstances. "

Poor Fairfield wrung his hands and stamped the floor with rage. Hecursed Ireland and her people and laws, or rather the want of them;then, as reason took the place of passion, he sat down and wrote aletter to his wife, informing her of his deplorable condition, andurging her to communicate with the agents of his vessel immediately. This letter never reached her, for, having heard of the wreck ofthe Glenalpine (some portions of the bows being found by ahomeward-bound steamer imbedded in a large block of ice), she neverdoubted for an instant but that her husband had gone down with thevessel. The poor girl now felt almost broken down. But for the sakeof the child which she expected she would have likely died with grief. The Canadian girl, Arline Bertrand, had told her so much of Canada, especially of Montreal, that she decided to follow the girl to hernative land, and try to earn a living for herself and child, shouldGod spare it, there, particularly as her aunt, Mrs. Whitcher, seemedto be afraid poor Agnes should return to her. Mrs. Fairfieldaccordingly sold her little household goods, and soon after bid heraunt and sister farewell, and took passage on a Montreal steamer, Bertrand having secured for herself a place as stewardess. Arrivedin Montreal, she visited the girl's parents, hoping to findreasonable lodgings during her approaching sickness, but the girl'smother did not believe her daughter's story about her young mistress, but thought her a young unfortunate girl who had come to Canada tohide her shame. She offered kindly to bring and introduce her to thenuns of St. Pélagie as the most proper place for her in her condition. Mrs. Fairfield, thanking her, was glad to find so suitable a shelter. Paying her board a week in advance, she retired to her room, butfound to her surprise that room had several more occupants all inthe same condition. The manner and language of those unfortunatecreatures did not suit Mrs. Fairfield at all, and as she mentionedher disappointment at not having a room to herself to one of the nuns, she was informed that a private room was three times the amount. Thesister also told her that the babe when born could not be cared forthere, but would have to be sent to the Grey Nunnery, and that shehad better part with it as soon as born. This frightened poor Agnesso much that she resolved not to stay there, come what might. Askingthe next morning permission to take a walk, she had great trouble toget it granted, the nun informing her that the people in Montrealwere so very bad, and that she would run great danger to go out alone. But Agnes thought she would risk this danger. She accordingly wentup Campeau street, at which corner St. Pélagie is situated. Shewalked and walked till she came to St. Mary street. There inquiringfor the residence of a physician, some kind person directed her toDr. P----'s drug store on Notre Dame street. To him she told her storyand her desire to find a more suitable place. He gave her theaddress of my house, and advised her to come under my care. Onhearing her story I could not for a moment doubt her truthfulness, and received her gladly at, my place, sending the servant with a notefor Mrs. F----'s things to St. Pélagie in the afternoon, which were, after some little delay and trouble, handed out to her, no doubt thesisters feeling sorry that the fair young English lady did not return. Her former servant, Arline Bertrand, having returned as stewardessto England again, Mrs. Fairfield did not care to let the girl'smother know that she had left the convent, hoping to find means tolet Arline know her whereabouts later, as the old lady had certainlymeant well enough when bringing her to St. Pélagie. Mrs. Fairfieldwas only three weeks at my house when a baby boy was born to her. Then her sorrows seemed to be greater than ever. She thought ofhaving lost her husband, the father of the innocent baby, so earlyseemed almost to kill her, and I frequently heard her implore God totake them both. But it was not in his wise ordination to grant herwish. She regained her strength gradually, and with it grew the lovefor her child which in all unconsciousness grew quite a stout littlefellow who wanted to be fed, clothed and cared for, whichobligations fell alone on its mother, and as her means became alwayssmaller, she decided to take a situation with a wealthy family fromSavannah who were staying at this time at my house, the Southernlady having taken a great interest from the beginning of theirmeeting in Mrs. Fairfield, offered her a comfortable home and faircompensation if she would accompany them, attend to the wants of thelady and her baby during their travels, and act as companion andhousekeeper when at their Southern home. Mrs. Fairfield took it veryhard to part from her little boy, but leaving it with a reliablenurse, and under my special observation, she was reconciled at last. Hoping to return in one year, she left. Every thing went on well. Her letters were full of gratitude. Her Southern friends neverallowed her to feel her subordinate position for a moment. She alsoremitted regularly the wages for the nurse, and little George was, when fifteen months old, a lovely fair boy, and as large as a childtwo years old. 

Some months passed during which I did not hear from Mrs. Fairfield, nor did the nurse receive her payment. I wrote to Savannah, butreceived no answer. The nurse, poor woman, naturally could not keepthe child without payment, and brought him one fine afternoon to myhouse to leave him, and also demanding the back pay. My own children, being delighted with the dear little fellow, we decided to keep andbring him up as our own child should his mother never return. Andmany of my fair patients will remember the lovely, littlecurly-headed fellow who would run into the parlor uninvited, butwhose large blue eyes would appeal so sweetly to be allowed to stay. Indeed we all became so attached to him that we hoped nobody wouldever claim him. And, as twelve months had passed, I gave up all hopeof ever hearing from Mrs. Fairfield again. 

Fairfield had been confined in Pentenville, having been convicted ona charge of felony-treason, and sentenced to five years' imprisonment. His wife and, friends not having heard of his trial, no one waspresent to bear testimony in his favor, and both he and his men(many of whom happened to be Irishmen) were imprisoned. The Americansclaimed the protection of their flag, a covering which provedsufficiently substantial to protect them, but the only flag whichcould have been claimed by poor unfortunate George was the very onehe was accused of attacking. 

As the British Government did not wish to deal harshly with Fenianprisoners, or, as its enemies said, was afraid to trample any longeron the Irish people, George Fairfield and his companions, in commonwith many real Fenians, were liberated some years before theexpiration of their term of servitude. Fairfield at once sought hislate home, hoping to find his wife and child still alive, andcursing his fate, which had cast him twice on the pitiless ocean, only to be arrested and imprisoned as soon as he got to land. Butthe worst had yet to come. When he arrived at his old home and foundit occupied by strangers his heart sank within him; on enquiring forMrs. Fairfield he was informed that she had gone to America with herservant Bertrand. Grasping the railings to keep himself from falling, the poor stricken man gazed wildly at his informant, as thoughstunned by a severe blow; then gasping out an apology of some kindhe rushed along the street like a madman, stopping not till he hadgot far out into the open country. There, throwing himself headlongon the grass, he shed tears of anguish, moaning as if in bodily pain. "Why did I not go down with the ship?" he cried bitterly; "Was itfor this I toiled twice over on the open sea? Ah, why was I everborn to be tossed about, imprisoned, and deserted?"

For hours he lay insensible on the grass, till the cool evening air, bringing his mind once more into activity, he arose with a groan, and slowly retraced his steps, not caring whither he went. Passingalong the quay he looked at the dark, sullen water, and for a momentwas impelled to cast himself in and so put an end to his misery, butsomething in his better nature restrained him, and he walked moodilyalong to where an ocean steamer lay preparing for sea. Anything wasbetter than inaction, so, as his money was all gone and he wouldhave some difficulty in obtaining a position as Captain or even asmate, he shipped as a foremast hand, and took his place with the crew. Right glad would he have been to have changed places with any one ofthe jolly tars around him; their songs and jests, however, divertedthe current of his thoughts and kept him from his bitter reflectionsfor a time at least. 

In a short time they were out at sea and, having plenty of work todo handing sails, reefing and steering, he almost forgot his greatand deep heart-wound, and, although he could not be prevailed uponto sing a song or even to join in a chorus, yet he listenedattentively to the yarns of the sailors, and always applauded theirsongs. 

The vessel was trading between Glasgow and Montreal, and within ashort time they were anchored at the latter port; the sailors allwent ashore as soon as the vessel was safely moored, and Fairfieldhaving nothing else to occupy his mind, went up the wharf in searchof Bertrand's parents house. He was directed to a house on St. Bonaventure street, where he found the mother of Arline Bertrand allright, but her daughter was not at home. She had gone as stewardessabroad again and married there. She had promised to visit herparents at some future time. When Captain Fairfield enquired aboutthe lady she had come out with three years previous, the old ladybroke out into sobs, and told him that the lady had died during herconfinement in St. Pélagie, but that the nuns would give him moreinformation about it if he would go there. If the babe had lived shedid not know, but the sisters had offered to give to her daughterthe lady's clothes and trunk if she came herself to demand it. Thislast blow seemed to be the hardest in all his sorrow. Thinkinghimself so near to find his beloved wife, and now all gone andforever, it seemed to hard. But he would go and see the nuns andhear how she had died, and if his child had lived or was alive now. This thought gave him new hopes, and, Madame Bertrand offering toaccompany him, they proceeded to St. Pélagie to obtain an interviewwith the Lady Superioress. He had never thought of the child before, but now it was his whole thought and hope to find it alive. 

Arriving at the convent he had not to wait very long to see thedesired lady, and on informing her of his wishes she most kindlyconsented to search all records, but, as the number of patientsreceived every year is very large he had to content himself till thefollowing day when she would give him all the information he desired. The next day seemed never coming. But at last poor George felt as ifhis worst doom would be sealed now. The lady in waiting informed himthat she felt happy to be able to tell him that his child (a littlegirl) was alive and at that present moment at a convent in Cemeterystreet, where he could see it and take it out on payment of itsmaintenance. The lady's clothes had been disposed of. As alreadystated, a long time had elapsed since her death. Capt. Fairfield, with a few lines from the sisters of St. Pélagie, proceeded to the St. Joseph's Home, on Cemetery street, and, on handing the note, alittle girl about three years old was shown to him to be his child. The poor little girl seemed afraid to look at him, and as the childcould only speak French he felt as if a board was between him and thechild; but her looks, he thought, were somewhat like his belovedAgnes. The child's little curls had been cut a few days before, so anun told him. What was he to do with the child? He was not a Captainnow, and would have to make first a position for himself again, andthen he could claim his child. The child seemed happy, and the nunsoffering to keep it for a moderate price he decided to give whatmoney he had earned during his passage and come again and again tillthe little girl could speak English to him, which the nuns promisedto teach her, and then, to take her horde to his native land. He hadno parents alive, but he thought when going back to England he wouldcall and see Mrs. Taylor, Agnes' sister Alice. He had never visitedher, and he felt so bad to think that she had not helped her sisterin distress. He well remembered his wife's spirit and independence, and that made him think that his wife had never made her wants knownto them. However, the ship sailed again. He brought toys andsweetmeats to his darling little girl, to whom he felt with everyvisit more and more attached, and the parting was harder than hecould have imagined. 

Returned to Glasgow. On a later voyage, he proceeded at once toMrs. Taylor's house, and was struck at the happy appearance of hissister-in-law, who, when she recognized him, became quite alarmedand was near fainting. When Mr. Taylor, who was struck for a momentalso, regained his self-possession, he allowed poor George to tellhis sad story, both listening with interest. But when he related howhis wife had died and he had at last found his child--Alice broke out, "She is not dead! She is not dead, George! We had a letter only aweek ago. She is in Paris. " George Fairfield was thunderstruck atthis revelation. Alice brought the letter, which he saw was from hisAgnes. But how could be this mistake with the deceased lady in theconvent and the child, --whose child was it!

Agnes wrote to her sister that she had intended travelling with theSouthern family to the Continent. When on the oceans theFranco-Prussian war was declared. They had to stop at Southampton and, instead of going to Germany, they went to the South of France, and, as she had no letters from me for some time, she was almost besideherself. The Southern lady being in such delicate state of health shecould not think of leaving her, but had to accompany her. Allletters sent from or sent to France were carefully inspected by theGovernment, and thus it happened that I had not received anycommunication for a long time. She had at last expected thather letters had gone astray, then she had written to her sister, Mrs. Taylor, asking her to write to me and try to obtain in thisway information about her boy. 

Captain Fairfield would have liked to start at once in search of hisdarling wife, but Mr. Taylor, who saw the danger for him in going toFrance at this time, prevented him from acting rashly, also fearingthat the sudden shock to Agnes in seeing her husband whom she hadbemoaned so long would be of great injury to her health, so it wasdecided that Alice should write first, saying in her letter thatthere were some hopes of Captain Fairfield being alive. The nextmail should bring a letter from the Captain himself to his wife. Both letters were duly posted, but when the steamer on which GeorgeFairfield was mate was ready to sail again no answer had beenreceived from, France, and George had to cross the ocean again. 

Having received my address from Mrs. Taylor he intended to come andsee me on his arrival in this port, and this time he was morefortunate: the ship made a quick voyage, and as Mrs. Taylor hadwritten to me by a previous steamer, informing me of all thesestrange incidents, I looked out for him. 

One afternoon in the month of August, 1871, when I was driving alongthe wharf, I saw a steamer coming in, and on enquiring the name ofit I found it was the one with which I expected Mr. Fairfield. Idrove home with all speed, and as it was late in the afternoonMaster George had his little white frock pretty well soiled; but, ontelling him his papa would soon, be here to see him, he consentedreadily to leave his play and undergo an extra bathing--his littleskin being so fair the least speck would show--and scarcely had wefinished the operation when the door-bell rang and a weather-beatengentlemen inquired for me. His surprise was great when he found Ihad expected him, and on seeing his beautiful child his happinessknew no bounds. 

As soon as he had a little rested he related to us all his trials andmiseries, which seemed like a fairy tale. But when would Mrs. Fairfieldreturn and meet her husband, was the next question, and where? Hecame every day and spent many an hour at our house playing withhis child and wishing for his wife to return. He often said itwould be almost too much happiness for him; that he was afraidsomething might cross his plans again. I had written to Savannahagain to hear if the family would return from Europe soon. At last aletter came informing me that the family, as also Mrs. Fairfield, had embarked on a New York steamer, and would be expected homewithin a short time. When Captain Fairfield heard the good newshe made arrangements not to return with his vessel to Glasgow butawait the arrival of his long lost wife. He telegraphed to theagents in New York, desiring them to deliver a telegram at onceto Mrs. Fairfield on her arrival. The message read thus: "Mrs. Capt. Fairfield is wanted in Montreal immediately. Important business. Answer. " In two days we had an answer which read: "Will start at once, hope all well, Agnes Fairfield. " Late in the evening the same daythe New York train arrived rather late, but with it CaptainFairfield's wife. When the Captain saw his wife approaching hedropped the boy and ran towards her, calling her by her name, butshe no sooner saw him than she fell senseless just inside the halldoor. I would have raised her; but shoving me aside he took hertenderly in his arms and carried her upstairs. Then calling her byall sorts of endearing terms he conjured here to open her eyes andspeak to him. After a time she revived. When she came to herself, she gazed wildly around the room, enquiring eagerly, Where is he? Ihad persuaded Captain Fairfield to retire to an adjoining room fora while, and then brought little George to her pretending herenquiries were meant for him; but her mind was perfectly clear, andshe demanded an explanation. I then told her in short what hadoccurred, when she broke out in an hysterical cry. I called CaptainFairfield to her, imploring him to try and dry her tears. But he lethis head sink into his hands and wept like a child himself. LittleGeorge did not care for this proceeding at all, so he said he ratherwould keep me for his mamma because I did not cry. I hope he neverwill have the tenth part of the trial both his parents had. 

For some time the now happy family stayed at Montreal, but at lastCaptain Fairfield had to resume his duties, but as he would neverpart from his wife and child again, he took both on the steamshipwith him. The parting from the dear little child George nearly brokemy children's hearts, who had looked upon him as their baby brother, and I promised to myself then never to take a strange child into myhouse if I could not keep it for ever, for even my old heart frettedafter him. 

The little girl in the asylum whom Captain Fairfield thought hischild he did not forget, but took with him to England on a later trip, where Mr. And Mrs. Taylor, who had no family, adopted her. The nunsat St. Pélagie were surprised when they heard of the mistake whichwas made, but could never find out who was the young English girlwho died alone there. God has certainly taken care of her child, forit is in a good home, well provided for, and much beloved. Captain, Mrs. , and little George Fairfield visited, before their finaldeparture, the parents of Arline Bertrand, on Bonaventure street, and informed them of their existence. The old lady was so surprisedthat it took a long time to explain, but she promised to let herdaughter know all about it. 

Captain Fairfield is not crossing the ocean any more, havingreceived the appointment as harbor-master in an English port. Hedoes not want his son George, who is in College yet, to show anyliking for the sea. But I hope to see once more before I die theyoung man whom we all loved so dearly when a baby-boy. 

 * * * * *

The Night Bell. 

My night-bell was pulled very hastily, it was about two o'clock, thenight was bright, it was autumn, and, as I hastened to see whowanted me in such a hurry, I saw two young girls sitting on myhouse-door steps: both had been running very fast, the case wasurgent, and the little rest they took before the door was openedwould enable them to return all the faster. I had hardly opened thedoor when both commenced to beg me in the most imploring manner togo at once with them to see a young woman who, as they thought, mustbe in great distress. 

I put on my outer garments, took the street and number of the house, as the party was entirely unknown to me, and then accompanied themon their way, which led us through Craig street East, past abeautiful field--the same where Viger Garden is now. A few morecrossings were passed, and we arrived at the scene where my help waswanted. In front of the house was a policeman walking to and fro. The house was medium size, built of wood, was gray, freshly painted, and so were the green blinds. On the road going the two girls hadtold me that the house where I was wanted was not a very good one, but, if I had a heart and was a mother, for Gael's sake not torefuse but to go with them. The presence of the guardian of thepeace encouraged me; and if I felt a little chilly at entering a denof vice as this was it must be excusable as, till then, I only knewof them by name and what little I had heard of them. 

I was at once ushered into a little bed-room, from where the shrieksof a female voice had come as if in great agony and in great pain. Ifound a young girl not past her seventeenth year, yet in the laststate of labor, --it was a sight I shall never forget as long as Ilive: years have past since then but it is as fresh in my memory asif it were yesterday, and in my ears are the sound of her voice tohelp and protect her from the inhuman abuse which another inmate ofthe house showered down upon the poor victim. 

I discovered that the poor young creature--we will call her Martha--had only come to Montreal, the day previous, and, on, inquiring fora boarding house, was driven by a carter to this den. The housebeing full of occupants the landlady had made her occupy the sameroom with another bad character, a great bony female about fortyyears of age, with painted face, and attired in disgusting finery. This great, big, hardened creature then gave the greatest trouble, would have me remove my patient out of her room, even at the risk ofher life, and I was obliged to call the assistance of the policemanto have her quieted. 

After a while all was quiet except the feeble cry of a little girlwho had been born. Born in a house of vice, what will became of itand its child-mother? I such were my thoughts then, and now, aftermany years, I can tell the reader what has become of them, of someof the inmates anyhow. 

The woman who kept this house I must, in truth, confess was agood-hearted person herself, being led astray when quite young, hadnever thought of the wrong she was committing by keeping a place ofthis sort. She had a widowed mother living in the States and afamily of smaller brothers and sisters who depended mostly on theill-gotten money this unfortunate eldest sister would send them fortheir support. This _Madam Flora_, then, was very kind in her way toMartha, and offered to take the baby and bring it up if I waswilling to place it out to nurse with a respectable woman until sucha time that she could take the child herself, as she intended togive up this life of shame. 

Martha was a girl well brought up, had been in school till shortlybefore this episode of her life, but it was not her mother who hadbeen her companion during the last two years. 

Her mother who was too much occupied with her smaller children andother household affairs had thought it better to send her daughterto a boarding-school to finish her education, and this was the endof it. If all mothers would only take the care of their girls whenfourteen years old into their own hands a great deal of troublemight be spared to them. The three years from the 14th to the 17this such a critical time for most girls, and should be passed underthe care of the mother and under her care alone, and every motherought to try to become the best friend of her daughter, not thestern mother who has forgotten that she herself was young once, andwho finds it too much trouble to listen to her daughter's littletales, by which she alone is able to guide her child, and save herin many instances from eternal destruction. Thus poor Martha had nomother who would listen to her girlish stories. She found plentycompanions in school and very bad advisers. When the truth of hermisfortune dawned upon her, she thought of nothing but to fly fromthe place to where she did not know, till the destroyer of hervirtue advised her to go to Montreal, where he would in short joinand marry her. To confess to her mother she could never, and herfather she knew would never look at her again, so she followed hisadvice, left her home under some pretence, and came to the placewhere I found her. She was very glad to get somebody to take thechild from her, for she was fully resolved to lead a better life, and how could she ever do it with a baby; she was hardly fit to earnher own living. She told me that an aunt of hers was living inHalifax, the wife of a sea captain who had no children, and who hadoften written to her mother to send one of her children to her. Soshe resolved to visit this aunt if some kind person would help herto get there. I consulted with some of my wealthy and at the sametime charitable Christian friends, who have been, always ready tohelp me when I had some needy patients, and with their assistanceshe was sent for some weeks after her recovery, to a nice widow ladyin the country, and after receiving satisfactory information abouther aunt in Halifax she was sent there, and has, so far as we haveascertained, never overstepped the bounds of morality again but wasmarried four years later to a friend of her uncle, also a sea captain. She has a large family now, and whenever she writes to me she alwaysprays that God may forgive her and guide the little girl she partedso easy from some years before. 

The wife of a private soldier in the Canadian rifles, named Rice hadat the same time lost her own baby only six weeks old, and as herquarters at the barracks were good and healthy I proposed to sendthe child there, Madame Flora offering to pay all necessary expenses. I made arrangements accordingly, and little Emma (the baby) was soonan inmate of the barracks. But now a new trouble arose. Mrs. Ricewas a sobre, clean, industrious woman, who with the pay she receivedfor nursing the baby could make herself and place very comfortable. This made the less fortunate soldiers' wives jealous, and theirthoughts were bent on nothing else for awhile but how to get the poorlittle waif out of barracks. The baby thrived well under Mrs. Rice'scare, but cried at times, as all healthy babies will; but as thebabies of the other soldiers' wives never cried--so their motherssaid--they would not suffer a crybaby in the room, and such amysterious child where nobody knew where it came from, and could notfind it out either. The larger rooms in the barracks were in generaloccupied by different families, and the one where Mrs. Rice had herquarters was a very large one. It was called the ship, and wasoccupied at this time by forty different families. Each had acertain space, say about 12 by 14 feet, allotted to them, and it wasindeed a surprise to me how neat it was kept, and how one womanwould try to have her place in better order than the other. Theirpacking boxes were converted into dressing tables, a little muslincurtain pinned around it, a looking glass in the centre, and a fewornaments, sea-shells or East Indian curiosities gave the whole anice appearance. The washing or cooking had to be done in out-houses, and at night each family had a large curtain drawn around theirrespective place, and it was really astonishing how little sicknessexisted among so many men, women and children. Every morning at 10o'clock the officers on guard accompanied by a sergeant on duty hadto visit each respective home, and report any irregularities; and soit happened that my baby was reported as being a great disturber ofthe peace. Poor Mrs. Rice was in great trouble. She had learned tolove the child, and was afraid she would have to part with it. Whatwas to be done? She was ordered to appear the next morning at 12o'clock before the commanding officer to receive sentence for heroffence. I had attended a great many officers' ladies in thisregiment, also the Colonel's lady, and was well acquainted with thatgentleman and his kind heart, so I bid Mrs. Rice to keep quiet butdress the baby (it was then three months old) in its little white furjacket and cap, and bring it with her before the officers, andpromising that I would meet her there also. 

On my way I met the Doctor of the Regiment, a very kind-heartedgentleman who, on seeing me, enquired what mischief I had done. Itold him of our trouble, and begged of him to intercede for the poorbaby, if possible, and, as he was well aware that the health ofMrs. Rice was so much improved by nursing the infant, he thought hewould be able to help us. 

Mrs. Rice entered the room, the infant in her arms, the Doctor andmyself following. The colonel, on seeing such a procession enter, could not help smiling, and as the Doctor with all his eloquencestated our case and of the necessity for Mrs. Rice's health to nursethe baby, and the danger to the little baby's life in changing itsnurse, the Colonel, as a father, and a true-hearted gentleman, gavenot only consent for the baby to stay in barracks, but ordered otherquarters to be given to Rice and his wife, --a whole room tothemselves, where the baby could not annoy anybody. 

But my story is growing too long, I will hasten to end it. The newquarters into which Mrs. Bice moved were near the rooms occupied bythe armor sergeant and his wife who had been long in service, andhad saved quite a little fortune, but children they had none. Bothbecame soon so attached to their little neighbor that they offeredquite a sum of money to Madame Flora if she would give the child overto them for adoption. I used all influence in my power to persuadeMadame Flora to give the child up, to which she at last consented. Ifelt a heavy burden lifted off my heart and conscience when thepapers were lawfully made out which gave the dear little baby intothe hands of good Christian people. Now the child had full rights tolive in barracks, but its adopted father's time was in, and heretired with a good pension which, along with his savings, enabledhim to buy a house and garden in New London, where the baby hasgrown up into a fine young woman, not knowing to this day that herdear father and mother are not her natural parents. 

Madame Flora has retired from her life of shame, trying to bring upher younger sisters in the path of virtue. One of the young girlswho had summoned me on that eventful night in such haste has alsoreformed, and is living with a family as helpful servant a good manyyears, and she has often told me that the events of that night werethe first cause to her for reflection. The other inmate of the housewhom I mentioned, who was so cruel and disgusting, fell lower andlower, --nothing could we do for her--she would listen to nothing, and a sudden death ended her life of shame. 

May the Lord have mercy on her and guide me, the narrator of theseincidents, in His ways, so that when the last bell will be rung tosummon me before Him I need not hesitate but answer joyfully: I amready, I am ready to go. 

THE END.