THE FEAR OF DEATH.

———

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

———

It is not that I shrink to yieldMy soul to God, whose claim is just;I know my spirit is his own,And that this human frame is dust;To Him my higher powers I owe,The light of mind, the faith of love;Too mean the service of a lifeMy ceaseless gratitude to prove;But still I pause in mortal fear,For life is sweet—and death is drear.The ties that bound me close to earthWith deep affection’s tender chain,Were severed by his sovereign will,And tears and agony were vain;And blighted hope and withering careTheir shadows o’er my soul have cast;And sunny dreams, that fancy woveOf rainbow hues,too soon have past;But still I pause in mortal fear,And life is sweet—and death is drear.For memory brings to me againThe dear ones that are laid to rest,And scenes ’mid which they bore a partIn lovely visions haunt my breast;Their looks, their words, their beaming smiles,Soft tears from out my eyelids press;They’re with me through the waking day,My nightly slumbers gently bless;And still I pause in mortal fear,For life is sweet—and death is drear.My faithful friends whose gentle deedsOf kindness words were poor to tell;My daily walks, my favorite flowers,The page where genius throws its spell,And Nature with its varied hues,Where spring and summer brightly glows,By many a fine and subtle linkOf custom round my being grows;And still I pause in mortal fear,For life is sweet—and death is drear.Kind Lord! subdue this trembling dread,My spirit nerve with firmer zeal,Death is the portal of our life,Its promised good Thou wilt reveal;And in thy word I read with joyThe blessings that believers share,And peace within my bosom steals,The heavenly peace that springs from prayer;No more I pause in mortal fear,The grave is sweet when Thou art near.

It is not that I shrink to yield

My soul to God, whose claim is just;

I know my spirit is his own,

And that this human frame is dust;

To Him my higher powers I owe,

The light of mind, the faith of love;

Too mean the service of a life

My ceaseless gratitude to prove;

But still I pause in mortal fear,

For life is sweet—and death is drear.

The ties that bound me close to earthWith deep affection’s tender chain,Were severed by his sovereign will,And tears and agony were vain;And blighted hope and withering careTheir shadows o’er my soul have cast;And sunny dreams, that fancy woveOf rainbow hues,too soon have past;But still I pause in mortal fear,And life is sweet—and death is drear.

The ties that bound me close to earth

With deep affection’s tender chain,

Were severed by his sovereign will,

And tears and agony were vain;

And blighted hope and withering care

Their shadows o’er my soul have cast;

And sunny dreams, that fancy wove

Of rainbow hues,too soon have past;

But still I pause in mortal fear,

And life is sweet—and death is drear.

For memory brings to me againThe dear ones that are laid to rest,And scenes ’mid which they bore a partIn lovely visions haunt my breast;Their looks, their words, their beaming smiles,Soft tears from out my eyelids press;They’re with me through the waking day,My nightly slumbers gently bless;And still I pause in mortal fear,For life is sweet—and death is drear.

For memory brings to me again

The dear ones that are laid to rest,

And scenes ’mid which they bore a part

In lovely visions haunt my breast;

Their looks, their words, their beaming smiles,

Soft tears from out my eyelids press;

They’re with me through the waking day,

My nightly slumbers gently bless;

And still I pause in mortal fear,

For life is sweet—and death is drear.

My faithful friends whose gentle deedsOf kindness words were poor to tell;My daily walks, my favorite flowers,The page where genius throws its spell,And Nature with its varied hues,Where spring and summer brightly glows,By many a fine and subtle linkOf custom round my being grows;And still I pause in mortal fear,For life is sweet—and death is drear.

My faithful friends whose gentle deeds

Of kindness words were poor to tell;

My daily walks, my favorite flowers,

The page where genius throws its spell,

And Nature with its varied hues,

Where spring and summer brightly glows,

By many a fine and subtle link

Of custom round my being grows;

And still I pause in mortal fear,

For life is sweet—and death is drear.

Kind Lord! subdue this trembling dread,My spirit nerve with firmer zeal,Death is the portal of our life,Its promised good Thou wilt reveal;And in thy word I read with joyThe blessings that believers share,And peace within my bosom steals,The heavenly peace that springs from prayer;No more I pause in mortal fear,The grave is sweet when Thou art near.

Kind Lord! subdue this trembling dread,

My spirit nerve with firmer zeal,

Death is the portal of our life,

Its promised good Thou wilt reveal;

And in thy word I read with joy

The blessings that believers share,

And peace within my bosom steals,

The heavenly peace that springs from prayer;

No more I pause in mortal fear,

The grave is sweet when Thou art near.

A YEAR AND A DAY:

OR THE WILL.

———

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

———

(Concluded from page 199.)

We will take a brief retrospect of the last two years in the life of Crayford.

Upon a pleasant summer evening, two gentlemen, mounted on fine, spirited steeds, came gayly cantering down the gentle slope of a hill, and across the rustic bridge which formed the entrance to a small village in the interior of Pennsylvania, just as a party of merry milk-maids were returning the same way from the green pastures beyond. The road, or rather lane, was here quite narrow, and observing the rapid approach of the equestrians, the girls hastily stepping aside into the deep grass, stood still for them to pass by. Instead of doing so, however, they slackened their pace, and one of themreining in his steed, gazed impertinently into the blushing faces of the village girls.

“By heavens!” he exclaimed, in a low voice to his companion, “what a pair of eyes that little witch has in the blue petticoat—and what a shape! look at her, Hastings.”

The damsel thus pointed out could not have been more than sixteen. In face and form a perfect Hebe, with a most superb pair of laughing black eyes, shaded by long curling lashes. Her little sun-bonnet was thrown off, but rested loosely upon her shoulders; her hair, which was as black and brilliant as her eyes, was cut short to her beautiful neck, and clustered in tight ringlets over her finely formed head, upon the top of which sat her pail of foaming milk. With one hand she held it lightly poised, while the other rested upon her hip, in an attitude most graceful and picturesque. Her petticoat was of dark-blue bombazet, set off by a white muslin short-gown reaching half way to the knees, where it was finished with a narrow frilling—a dress still in vogue among the farmers’ daughters both in Pennsylvania and New England—and a very pretty dress it is, too. Her little feet were bare, hiding themselves modestly in the tall grass.

“The girl is an angel—a perfect divinity!” replied Hastings, after a rude stare at the young maid, “What a sensation she would make—eh, Crayford!”

“I say, Hastings,” added the other, with a devilish leer, “it will be worth our while to stay here a day or two—what say you?”

To this Hastings returned a significant wink, which was responded to by the other in the same way.

During these remarks they had rode slowly on, but now suddenly wheeling his horse, Crayford once more approached the little group, and lifting his hat, bowed most gracefully as he said,

“Can you tell me, fair maidens, where my friend and myself may be so fortunate as to find a night’s lodging? We are somewhat fatigued with a long day’s ride, and would fain rest our weary limbs, as also our jaded steeds. Can you direct us, then, to some public house in your village?”

A sprightly blue-eyed girl, delighted to be of service to the polite stranger, stepped quickly forward, and said, while her cheeks grew redder and redder, and her eyes rounded with every word:

“O, yes, sir, there is a good tavern at the other end of the village, and here is Effie Day, she lives there, you know, for it is her grandfather who keeps the house; here, Effie, you will show the gentleman the way, wont you Effie?”

“By all the saints, how lucky!” whispered Crayford, to his friend—Effie proving to be no other than the identical maiden who had so charmed him.

Springing from his horse, and throwing the reins to Hastings with a meaning glance, Crayford lifted the pail from the head of the blushing girl, and begged the privilege of assisting her with her burden, while she acted as his guide to the inn. The girls all laughed merrily at this, but Effie, blushing still deeper, drew her sun-bonnet closely over her face, and tripped lightly on before him, so fleetly, too, whether from bashfulness or mischief, that her gallant could scarcely keep pace with her twinkling feet. On reaching the inn, his fair guide suddenly disappeared, leaving Crayford to dispose of the milk-pail as he could, to the no small delight of Hastings, who highly enjoyed the evident discomfiture of his friend.

The old landlord welcomed the strangers heartily, and gave them the best rooms his house could boast, and soon placed before them an excellent supper. But what gave it its true zest was the attendance of the pretty milk-maid—and a more lovely cup-bearer never served the gods.

Poor Effie Day was but an infant when both her parents were taken from her by death, and no other home had she ever known than the roof of her kind old grandfather. With a tenderness far exceeding that which they had felt for their own children did her grandparents regard her, and in pity for her orphan state, indulged her in every wish which it was in their power to grant. As she grew up her beauty and vivacity was their pride, and no theme could sooner reach their hearts than the praises of their darling Effie. She was brought up in all the simplicity of country life; a circuit of ten miles the boundary of her little world, and from books her knowledge was scarcely more. Yet the birds which sang at her window, or the lambs with whom she skipped in the meadows, were not more gay or happy than was the old inn-keeper’sbright darling child, when like the serpent in Paradise, Crayford came. He found the honest old couple and the artless Effie of the very sort whom his cunning could most easily dupe, and with skill which would not have disgraced a demon, set about his fiendish work—for most cogent reasons of his own disguising his name under that of Belmont, while his worthy coadjutor assumed that of Jervis.

Feigning to be charmed with the locality of this little town, they made known their intention of passing several weeks in its vicinity. But why enter into the details of a plot such as should call down the avenging bolt of heaven. Suffice it, alas! to say, that sin and villainy triumphed, and as pure a child as ever the finger of God rested upon, was enticed from her home, from her poor old doting grandparents.

Under a solemn promise of marriage the unfortunate Effie eloped with her base betrayer.

Upon reaching Philadelphia, the form of marriage was gone through with by a convenient priest, and the sacrifice of innocence completed. For some months, but for the memory of the aged couple, in the silent shades of her native valley, she was as happy as a young confiding wife could be in the love, nay, adoration of her husband. The lodgings Crayford rented were in an obscure part of the city, and furnished most meagerly for the taste of one accustomed to fashionable display, yet Effie, who had never seen any thing more grand than the parson’s parlor at home, thought even a queen could not be more sumptuously lodged, and she was very sure could not be more happy.

Poor, poor Effie!

This devotion on the part of Crayford continued while his humor lasted—no longer; nor did one gleam of pity for the unfortunate girl lead him to wear the mask only as long as suited his own pleasure. The heart sickens to dwell upon the anguish of poor Effie, thus abandoned by one for whom she had sacrificed all—one so friendless, so forlorn, so young and so beautiful.

The woman with whom she lodged allowed her to remain under her roof until she had stripped her of the little she possessed—of her clothing, and the few ornaments Crayford had given her; then, when no more was to be gained, she thrust her forth into the streets to die, or live by a fate worse than death!

Alas! that in a world so fair as this, such things really are, needing no aid from fancy to portray their atrociousness.

All day did the poor girl wander through the busy crowd, gazing piteously into the faces of the multitude, and if by chance one more kindly than others bent an eye upon her, she would ask them for Belmont. But no one could tell her aught. And then night came—dark, desolate night. On, from street to street passed the unfortunate, shrinking from the rude stare, and still ruder speech of brutes calling themselves men; no one offering a shelter to the houseless wanderer, and even her own sex meeting her appeals with coarse, unfeeling laughter.

Blame her not, that suddenly yielding to the despair of her young heart, she sought in death relief.

It was near the hour of midnight when she found herself upon one of the wharves. Dark and cold stretched the river before her; dark and cold was to her the world she was leaving. For a moment she paused, and gazed despairingly around her; tears trickled down her pallid cheeks, for she felt she was young to die; and she wept still more when she thought upon her aged grandparents, who would never know her sad fate. Then arose before her, floating as it were upon the heaving mass of waters, on which her eyes were fixed, that peaceful valley, with the green hills sweeping around it, and the rustic dwellings of her playmates and friends looking out upon her beseechingly from their pleasant shades as she stood there in her loneliness; and as a far-off symphony of sweet sounds came floating by, the glad voices which Nature had sang to her in childhood. Poor Effie Day! what pleasant memories were crowded into those few brief moments.

“Belmont!” she shrieked, suddenly starting from that far-off dream, “Belmont, may God forgive you the deed I am about to do!”

Then falling on her knees, she clasped her trembling hands, murmuring a prayer for pardon and mercy. Now casting one long, shuddering look upon the cold, dark river, she was about to plunge therein, when a strong arm was thrown around her, and she was forcibly drawn back several feet from the verge on which she had stood poised.

“Wretched girl, what would you do!” said a voice in her ear.

She heard no more, for a faintness came over her, and but for the arm still around her, she would have fallen insensible to the ground. When she recovered, she found herself upon a bed in a small, neat apartment. A woman of mild countenance was leaning over her, chafing her hands and temples, and at the foot of the bed stood a gentleman dressed in deep mourning, with his full, dark eyes fixed upon her with pity and kindness.

“Poor child!” she heard the woman say, just as she opened her eyes; “I’ll warrant some of those gay gallants have broken her heart! Bless her, she is coming to—there, there darling, how does thee feel now?”

But ere poor Effie could reply, the gentleman placed his finger on his lips, as if to caution her from speaking, then preparing some soothing anodyne, he bade the woman administer it as quickly as possible, and promising to be back at an early hour in the morning, took leave.

When the morning came, however, the unfortunate girl was raving in all the delirium of fever, which for weeks baffled medical skill. Youth at length triumphed over disease, and she was once more able to leave her bed. During this time she had made known at intervals, her sad history to the good woman of the house, and the benevolent stranger who had snatched her from a watery grave.

Every where the latter sought to discover the perfidious Belmont, and on pursuing his inquiries for the grandparents of the wretched girl, he learned that grief at the desertion of their child, had broken the old people’s hearts; first the father, then the mother, hadbeen borne to their long homes. A distant relative had seized upon the little homestead, and already a flaunting sign usurped the head of good old Penn, which for more than half a century had smiled benignly down upon travelers.

Effie begged to remain with Mrs. Wing, who kept a small thread and needle store in —— Lane, near the river; and the kind woman felt so much pity for her lonely, unprotected situation, that she readily granted her request. She was soon able to assist in the labors of the shop, and to make herself in many ways useful. Of the kind stranger she saw but little, but from Mrs. Wing she learned that he had generously defrayed all the expenses of her illness. He came but seldom, but when he did, he spoke to her so kindly, encouraged her with so much gentleness, soothing her sorrows, and leading her mind to that Higher source where alone she might look for comfort, that Effie regarded him in the light of a superior being.

Thus months rolled on, and no tidings of Belmont reached Effie. One morning, as she stood arranging a few fancy articles upon the broad window-seat in a manner which might display their beauty to the best advantage, she threw up the sash for a moment to inhale the fine breeze which came sweeping up from the river. The day was lovely. The gentle undulating surface of the Delaware, cleft by a hundred flashing oars, with the keels of many noble vessels buried in her sparkling tide, their white sails swelling to the breeze, stretched before her in beauty, while above, cloudless and serene was the blue vault of heaven.

A pleasure yacht had just neared the wharf, and from it a party of gentlemen sprung to land, and with rather boisterous mirth, crossed the street directly opposite where Effie still stood at the window. Suddenly her eyes rested upon one of that gay group, and for a moment it seemed as if breath and motion were suspended in the intensity of her gaze. She could not be mistaken—she knew she was not—it was Belmont, her husband; and scarcely knowing what she did, she rushed to the door, and with a wild scream of joy, threw herself upon the breast of Crayford.

“Ho, ho, Crayford, you are in luck, my boy!” shouted one of the party; “by Jove she’s an angel!”

Overwhelmed with confusion, and taken by surprise at the sudden appearance of one whom he had hoped never to see more, Crayford for half a minute stood irresolute, then struggling to disengage himself from her embrace, he exclaimed angrily,

“Off, woman—none of your tricks with me; off, I say!”

Casting roughly aside those tender arms which clung to him so despairingly, poor Effie would have fallen to the ground but for another of the party, who, seizing her just as she was sinking, cried with mock pathos,

“Here, pretty one, the fellow is a monster; here, I will take care of you—come, kiss me!”

But Effie sprung from his arms, and clasping the knees of Crayford as she saw the heartless wretch moving on,

“Belmont, my husband!” she cried, in tones of piercing anguish, “do not, O, do not leave me again; no, you will not be so cruel—take me with you!”

“That’s cool, by heavens!—ha! ha! ha!” shouted Crayford, with infernal daring, “you are crazy, child! I am not your Belmont; perhaps this is he—or this,” pointing from one to the other of his companions.

The look of wo with which the poor girl received this cruel speech, did not escape their notice, and, hardened as they were, they were moved to pity, and the rude jests died on their lips.

Effie rose from her knees, and tottering a step forward, placed her trembling hand upon the outstretched arm of Crayford. With an oath he spurned her from him, when in his paththere suddenly arose one whose cold, searching glance, struck terror to his guilty soul.

“Crayford, I know you!” exclaimed the stranger. “This, then, is your infernal work; ay, tremble, thou base destroyer of innocence. Away, I say, ere I am tempted to do a deed shall shame my manhood!”

Livid with rage, Crayford drew a dirk from his bosom, and rushed suddenly upon the stranger; but in an instant it was wrenched from his hand, then seizing the wretch by the collar, as he would a dog, he hurled him off the curb-stone, and with such force, as sent him half across the street, and then lifting tenderly the form of the fainting girl in his arms, bore her into the house.

The reader will, of course, infer that Crayford and the stranger had met before. They had; nor was this the first dark deed to which the latter knew Crayford might lay claim.

To draw our long digression to a close, suffice it to say, that it was the unfortunate Effie Day whom Florence had met while walking with Crayford, and that the gentleman whom she had pointed out to him in the picture gallery, was no other than the stranger of whom we have just spoken, and whose appearance had so perceptibly agitated her companion.

——

We will now return to Florence, whom we left in a state of such cruel suspense, and it would be difficult to say, perhaps, which of the two at the moment she hoped to find the most sincere—Crayford or the unknown.

She felt she had gone too far to recede, and that it had now become her duty to probe this enigma thoroughly. Her confidence in Crayford was too much impaired for her to receive him again into her presence so long as such doubts hung around his character. “I will obey the instructions of this unknown Mentor,” said she, “it cannot be that he is false; no, to this Mrs. Belmont, then, will I go, and go alone.”

Ordering a carriage, therefore, and directing the driver to No. 7 —— Lane, she set forth upon an errand which, for a young, unprotected female, was certainly rather hazardous. Of its locality she had no knowledge; and when she found herself gradually approaching the opposite side of the city from her own residence, passing through narrow streets, and at every turning drawing nearer to the river, she would have felt more apprehension but for the words of the unknown: “Fear not,” urged the note, “one will be near you who will protect you with his life.” These words reassured her, for she had so long accustomed herself toregard him in the light of her protector and friend, that even now, when her doubts almost distracted her, she still gave herself up to the pleasing thought that he was near, and no danger could befall her.

“This is No. 7 —— Lane,” said the coachman,reining in his horses before the thread and needle store of Mrs. Wing, “whom shall I ask for?”

“Never mind, I will go in myself,” answered Florence.

Mrs. Wing was sitting in a little back room, but seeing a lady enter the shop, arose and came forward to the counter.

“Is there a Mrs. Belmont lodges here?” inquired Florence.

“There is a young woman of that name in my employ, friend—would thee like to see her? If thee does, thee can go to her room—she has been very ill.”

Florence bowing assent, the good woman led the way up a narrow staircase, and opened the door of a neat little chamber, saying, as she motioned Florence to go in,

“Here is a young woman to see thee, Effie,”then immediately withdrew.

Near the bed, in a large easy-chair, propped up by pillows, sat poor Effie Day. Not a tinge of the rose, once blooming so freshly there, could be traced on that pale cheek, and of the same marble hue were her lips and brow. These, contrasted by her jet-black hair, and eyes so large and brilliant, imparted a strange ghastliness to her appearance. At the first glance Florence recognized her as the young woman whom Crayford had pointed out to her as a fortune-teller.

This at once opened a new channel for thought, and supposing, therefore, that she had been directed thither for the purpose of consulting her art, she said, half timidly approaching her,

“Can you tell my fortune for me?”

Poor Effie, too, had recognized the lovely girl whom she had seen walking with him she still believed to be her husband, and looking up with a sad earnestness of expression, made answer,

“Your fortune! O, my beautiful young lady, may it never be so wretched as mine!” Then noticing the evident perturbation of Florence’s manner, she continued, “Can I serve you in any way?”

“I was sent to you for the purpose, as I suppose, of having my fortune told,” answered Florence.

“There is some mistake,” replied Effie, a half smile flitting over her pale face, “I am not a fortune-teller.”

“But I thought—I understood—that is—Mr. Crayford told me you were. Did I not meet you one day in Chestnut street?” asked Florence.

A faint color tinged the cheek of Effie, and her beautiful eyes drooped low as she answered,

“You did—too well do I remember it—you looking so happy, and I so sad! Yes, I saw you point me out to Belmont.”

“Belmont!I know no such person,” said Florence, “it was Mr. Crayford who was with me—it was Mr. Crayford who told me you were a fortune-teller.”

“Did he—did he tell you so?” said Effie, bursting into tears, “for, alas! young lady, it was Belmont—it was my husband you were walking with!”

“Your husband!” cried Florence, aghast.

“Yes, my husband. Dear young lady, think not I am mistaken—would that I were! I saw those eyes, so full of love, fixed on your blushing face—heard the soft tones of his voice as he bent low to address you. Yes, I saw all—heard all; and then, ah then!” cried Effie, with a shudder, and raising her tearful eyes to heaven, “what a look he cast uponme! But did he—did Belmont send you to me?” she eagerly demanded.

“No, he did not—it was another who directed me here. And now, my poor girl,” said Florence, drawing her chair close to Effie, and kindly taking her hand, “I see that you have been cruelly treated—will you then tell me your history—will you tell me of Crayford, or Belmont, for I now see they are one and the same.”

“Do you love him?” asked Effie, sadly.

“No, I do not love him, nor is it probable we shall ever meet again,” replied Florence.

“But he has sought your love—and yet you love him not—how strange!I love him!O, would to God I did not!” and here the poor girl sobbed aloud, while Florence, overcome by emotion, threw her arms around the unfortunate, and resting her head on her bosom, mingled tears with hers.

When both were a little more calm, Florence again urged her to reveal her sorrows, which Effie did in language so simple and earnest as carried conviction to the mind of her listener, who shuddered as the fearful abyss in which she had been so nearly lost, thus opened before her.

“And do you know the name of the person who has been so kind to you?” asked Florence, referring to the preserver of Effie.

“I know not,” answered Effie, “neither does Mrs. Wing, but to me, dear young lady, he has been an angel of goodness!”

“Strange!” thought Florence, “this benevolent stranger can surely be no other than my unknown friend. He is, then, all I first imagined him—kind, noble, disinterested—and yet I have doubted him; how am I reproved! but for him, my own fate might, perhaps, have resembled that of the unfortunate girl before me!”

While lost in these reflections, she was suddenly startled by a slight scream from Effie, who, grasping her arm tightly, said, while her pale face crimsoned, and her bosom heaved tumultuously,

“Hark!hisvoice—itishis voice!”

“Whose voice—what is the matter?” demanded Florence.

“Do you not know,” continued Effie, as half rising she bent her little head, and raised her finger in an attitude of deep attention, “Do you not know Belmont’s voice? Ah, I see now very well you do not love him.”

“Belmont! good heavens, what shall I do!” exclaimed Florence, starting up, “is there no way for me to escape—not for worlds would I have him find me here!”

“Go in there,” said Effie, pointing to a small door; “but you will be obliged to remain there—there is no other way.”

“Then I must, of course, hear all you say,” said Florence, shrinking instinctively from thus intrudingupon the young girl’s privacy. Effie looked up confidently and answered,

“It is well; if this meeting is to restore me my happiness, you will rejoice with me; if it plunge me in still greater wo, then, dear lady, it is better for you to know it!”

Florence had no time to reply, for now a man’s step was heard quickly ascending the stairs. Springing into the little room adjoining, she closed the door, and panting with agitation, awaited the result. Again the words of the unknown recurred to her, “Fear not! one will be near you, who will protect you with his life.”

Scarcely had Florence withdrawn, when the other door was opened, and a man wearing a cloak, with his hat drawn far down over his face, entered, then closing it, and carefully turning the key, he advanced toward Effie, who had risen, and stood clinging to the easy-chair to support her trembling limbs.

“You are surprised to see me, I suppose, child,” said he, throwing off his cloak and hat, and revealing the form and features of Crayford.

“My dear husband, do we then meet again!” cried Effie, feebly extending her arms, as she sunk back into the chair.

Crayford folded his arms across his breast, and throwing himself carelessly upon a seat, said,

“I have come to settle matters with you, that’s all. What the d——l are you doing here!”

“Don’t speak so cruelly to me—don’t, Belmont!” cried poor Effie, bursting into tears. “O, if you knew the anguish I have endured since you left me; if you knew, that, driven to despair, I even sought to take my own life, you would pity me! If you knew how I have watched for you—sought for you—how I have waited for you, you would at least have compassion on me!”

“You’re a fool!” exclaimed Crayford, brutally. “Why I thought you would have learned better by this time; but since you have not, why you must not be in my way, that’s all. Now listen to me; you must go out of the city—and look you, on condition that you will never come back again, I will give you a thousand dollars; come, that’s generous, now—most men would let you go to the —— before they would do as much for you. The fact is, child, I am going to be married, and to a beautiful, rich lady.”

“Married!” shrieked Effie, starting to her feet, and catching his arm, “married—am I not your wife?”

“Ha! ha! ha!—come, that’s a good one; not exactly, child, you are only my wife,pour passer letemps, as the French say. No, that was all a hoax—you are free, and with a thousand dollars to buy you a husband! Now is not that better?” said Crayford, chucking her under the chin.

Effie did not reply. It needed not—those eyes, more eloquent than words, fastened upon his guilty countenance, told plainly a villain’s work of wo wrought in her young, trusting heart. Crayford, hardened as he was, quailed under their reproach.

At length she spoke, but there was an unnatural calmness in her voice,

“Who is the lady you will marry?” she said.

“Well, I will tell you—and, by the way, you came near ruining my prospects there. She saw you in Chestnut street one day, as we were walking, and you looked so —— queer at me, that, faith, I were put to my trumps, and mumbled over something about your being a crazy fortune-teller—was not that well done?”

“Itwaswell done,” answered Effie, in the same tone; “but her name—tell me her name.”

“Her name is May—a young, pretty widow; though, on my soul, Effie—why I declare, now I look at you, you are almost as handsome as ever; if it was not for her money, she might look further for a husband. But come, I am in a hurry; I want you to sign this paper, pledging yourself to leave the city never to return, upon which condition I also pledge myself to give you a thousand dollars—will you sign it?”

“I will,” answered Effie; “but I require a witness.”

“A witness—nonsense! well, bring up the old woman, then.”

“It is not necessary—here is one,” said Effie, advancing with a firm step to the inner door, and throwing it wide.

“Severe in youthful beauty,” Florence came forth.

Had a thunderbolt suddenly fallen from heaven, Crayford could not have been more paralyzed. Florence paused upon the threshold.

“Go!” said she, waving her hand, “go, Mr. Crayford, this innocent girl is under my protection. I have heard all—I know all—begone, sir!”

And, incapable of uttering one word, the guilty wretch, awed by the majesty of virtue, stole away as a fiend from the presence of an angel.

The over-tasked firmness of poor Effie now gave way; and piteous it was to witness the agony of her grief and shame.

“Poor, unhappy child!” cried Florence, taking her to her bosom, and tenderly soothing her, “you have been basely, cruelly dealt with! Heavens! I shudder when I think what my fate might have been but for this discovery!”

She remained some hours with the wretched girl, nor left her until she had become more tranquil, when, with the assurance that she would see her again in a very few days, she took an affectionate leave of poor Effie Day, and returned home.

I will state here that the mysterious friend of Florence May knew nothing of Crayford’s visit to the victim of his wiles. He merely intended that from the lips of Effie, she might learn his baseness. Her meeting with Crayford, therefore, was one of those singular coincidences which often startle even the most skeptical.

Florence returned home with feelings difficult to analyze. The interest with which the unknown had from the first inspired her, now suddenly acquired new strength. She had proved him to be the friend he professed, while his kindness to the unfortunate Effie (for she doubted not his individuality) was another proof of his excellence, showing that his goodness of heart did not confine itself alone to her welfare, which might be attributable, perhaps, to his avowed attachment, but could find its way to succor where’er distress or wretchedness dwelt. She felt this love and kindness merited return—and her heart timidly awarded it.

Selecting a beautiful emerald ring from her jewels, she enclosed it with the following note:

“Generous, noble friend, I have proved your assertions true. O, pardon my doubts! You have said you love me; will you then deem it bold in me if I acknowledge the interest with which you have inspired me. Yet you say we may never meet; why is this? Accept the enclosed, and with it the gratitude of Florence.”

“You then acknowledge an interest in me,” wrote the unknown, in reply. “Thanks, a thousand thanks. The time approaches when the barrier now existing may be removed, and then I may hope to win your love! Where, now, are those despairing thoughts which crushed me with their weight of wo; one kind word from you, and as the soft moonbeams dispel the blackness of night, they have fled, and around me is the light of joy—hope—happiness.”

——

Ten months a widow—was there ever such folly!

To be sure, much might be done in two more, if one earnestly set about it—for Florence had a pair of eyes, and a tongue might “call an angel down.”

Yet to those about her, she seemed more reckless of her fate than ever—going out but seldom, and scarcely allowing any gentleman to approach her presence.

The old housekeeper, who was strongly attached to her young mistress, had fretted and scolded to herself for weeks and months. The only time when she managed to preserve her equanimity, was when Crayford visited the house, for then she saw plainly an offer of marriage, and a wedding-party in the bottom of her tea-cup, while love-letters and kisses sparkled in the candle! But when, like all others, he was also dismissed, the poor soul could contain herself no longer, but breaking in abruptly upon Florence one morning, she thus began:

“Does thee know what month it is?”

“Yes, dear Mrs. Hicks,” answered Florence, raising her eyes from her painting.

“And does thee know that in two more thee has been a widow one year?”

“Alas, yes! but why—why, Mrs. Hicks, do you remind me of it?”

“Truly, child—has thee forgotten thee must marry!”

“Mustmarry! O no, my good friend, not unless I please—and it is not my will to marry,” said Florence, smiling.

“Not thy will to marry!” exclaimed Mrs. Hicks, lifting up both hands; “and so thy will is to be poor!”

“Yes,” answered Florence, “if you call it being poor to be possessed of health and strength, added to three hundred dollars a year.Poor!why my dear Mrs. Hicks, I shall be rich—really rich!”

“Rich! Ah, thee talks like a simple child! What will thee do with thy health and strength and three hundred dollars!”

“O, much,” replied Florence. “With two hundred I can hire a neat little house—with the other I can furnish it comfortably, and with my health and strength I can teach music and painting; and, if you please, dear Mrs. Hicks, you shall live with me, and so shall poor Effie Day.”

“Child, thee knows nothing of life,” cried the good woman, wiping her eyes. “Verily, it makes my heart sad to see thee blindly throwing from thee the fortune that good old Abel May did give thee! Child, thee does not act in accordance with the wishes of that good man; for, truly, he did beseech thee to marry, that thee might retain the good gifts of the world!”

Florence threw her arms around the neck of the old lady.

“I thank you, dear Mrs. Hicks, for I know you mean all you have said for my good; but not to possess millions could I be tempted to barter my affections; and even if I loved, I would not marry within the prescribed year, when by remaining a widow, I can give to the relations of that excellent man, the fortune to which I have no claim, save in his kindness for one unfortunate. Could I have done so, I would long since have yielded up my rights.”

“Thee is a noble, good girl; and so long as these hands can work, they shall work for thee; but I am sorry, nevertheless, to see thee giving up to the lovers of Mammon what they have so long coveted. Verily it grieves me, too, that young Abel May does not return! Ah, child, child, I hope thee may never be sorry!” and affectionately kissing her young lady, Mrs. Hicks went back to her work, half pleased, half angry with the determination of Florence.

In the meantime, slowly, slowly, slowly, to the kindred of old Abel May, circled the twelve months, dating from the day of his death; suspiciously, anxiously, uneasily watching every movement of the young widow.

But joy, joy! The long looked-for morning at length dawned. To their eager gaze the sun seemed like a huge golden guinea, as he smiled from the eastern sky upon their hopes, and soft and silky as bank-note paper appeared the thin, vapory clouds floating o’er his path.

Again from marble-columned squares and by-lanes, from suburban cottages and distant villages they came, flocking in like vultures, all ready to pounce down upon the innocent little lamb whom old Abel May had sheltered in his bosom.

Nor were their torments ended here; even then a new fear seized upon them. Who knows what desperation might effect; the widow that very day might take it into her head to marry—they had no doubt she would.

Alas! each hour marking the twelve of that day of doom, was but a type of the preceding twelve month, which had finally brought around thejoyfulanniversary.

Midnight sounded. Hurra! hurra! The widow unmarried; and bright, sparkling dollars, like shooting stars, falling around them.

At twelve, M. precisely, the lawyers bowed themselves into the spacious parlor of the deceased, for it could no longer be called the widow’s, in order to read again the last will and testament.

Triumph sat again upon the countenances of those whom the occasion had called together, although somemade most woful faces in trying to squeeze out a few tears, thinking it would be judicious to consider the old man as just dead. But Florence was as provokingly cheerful and handsome as ever—why one would have thought she was about to receive a fortune instead of losing one; and it even seemed as if she could hardly suppress her laughter as she glanced around at the expectant heirs.

The man of law at length drew forth the will with an emphatic “Hem,” premonitory.

Then on all sides there was a general stir; the gentlemen pulled up their shirt-collars and elongated their faces; the ladies smoothed down their mourning robes and held their handkerchiefs ready to receive a tear when occasion should call it forth.

The reading commenced, and all eyes turned exultingly upon Florence as these words sounded audibly:

“To my beloved wife, Florence, I do bequeath all my property, both personal and real, consisting of,” etc., etc., “provided that within one year from the day of my death she marries. But if, at the expiration of that time she still remain a widow, then I do annul my will in her favor, and do bequeath the same to my nephew, Abel May, provided he returns within the said year. If not, then unto those who can bring good proofs of their consanguinity to me, do I direct my property to be equally distributed. Always excepting an annuity of three hundred dollars, to be paid to my beloved wife, so long as she lives, etc.”

“Nonsense!”

“Three hundred dollars!”

“An old fool!” echoed softly from lip to lip—the paltry sum already dashing their cup of joy.

“You have heard the will, ladies and gentlemen,” said the lawyer, addressing the company, “I believe Mrs. May acknowledges herself still a widow—will you signify the same, madam?”

Florence bowed.

“You observe, ladies and gentlemen, the lady admits herself a widow; then, of course, it only remains for me to announce young Abel May as sole heir to all the property, both personal and real, of which the testator died possessed.”

“But Abel May has not returned!” was the general exclamation.

“Abel May has returned—Abel May is here to claim his rights!” said the lawyer, screech owl that he was to their ears.

The folding doors were thrown open, and a gentleman slowly advanced within the circle.

Did Florence dream—was it no vision of her imagination! for as she looked upon the stranger, the same eyes she had seen so mournfully gazing upon her in the picture gallery, but which now, beaming with happiness, met hers, while upon his finger—a star of hope—glittered the emerald ring she had sent the unknown.

Slightly bowing to the astonished assembly, Abel May eagerly approached her. The happy girl looked up with a sweet smile as he drew near; what need of words, her beautiful eyes were far more eloquent, and with thrilling joy the young heir caught her to his bosom.

At first the discomfited relatives disputed the identity of the tall, elegant stranger, with the lad who so many years before went roving; but his proofs were indisputable. So out of the room, and out of the house, and back again to their homes, with unreplenished purses, they quickly dispersed.

It appears that young May returned only a few weeks subsequent to the death of his uncle from the East Indies, where he had accumulated a handsome fortune. By accident he saw Florence, and was deeply interested by her appearance. Aware that a lapse of so many years must have materially altered his person, he resolved to remain incognito. Frequent opportunities of seeing the young widow ripened the interest she had first inspired into affection. Yet he would not present himself to her notice amid the throng of fortune-hunters and idle flatterers who surrounded her. Rumor had made known to him the nature of the will, and he resolved to abide the year, taking upon himself, meanwhile, the pleasing office of acting as the protector and guide of the young, inexperienced widow. If, at the end of the year, she had so far evinced a soul above all sordid views as to remain unmarried, then, and not till then, would he seek to gain her love. With the fortune, however, which, in the event of her remaining single, would fall to him, he nobly resolved to have no share, and had therefore drawn up an instrument by which he relinquished all claim in favor of Florence, whether successful in obtaining her affection or not. This only awaited its proper time to be duly attested.

A year and a day brought results with which the reader is already acquainted, and a few weeks witnessed the happy union of Florence and young Abel May.

Under the roof of her benefactor and his lovely wife, the unfortunate Effie Day found a home and kind friends. Of Crayford nothing more was ever heard. It was supposed he had left the country for a field less obnoxious to the display of his peculiar attributes.

Back to Index Next