THREE months more elapsed. Mrs. Marion was still an inmate of the family. Up to this time, not a word had come from her husband, and she had not been able to pay Mrs. Darlington a single dollar.
Painfully did she feel her dependent situation, although she was treated with the utmost delicacy and consideration. But all the widow's means were now exhausted in the payment of the second quarter's rent, and she found her weekly income reduced to thirty-five dollars, scarcely sufficient to meet the weekly expense for supplying the table, paying the servants, etc., leaving nothing for future rent bills, the cost of clothing, and education for the younger children. With all this, Mrs. Darlington's duties had been growing daily more and more severe. Nothing could be trusted to servants that was not, in some way, defectively done, causing repeated complaints from the boarders. What proved most annoying was the bad cooking, to remedy which Mrs. Darlington strove in vain. One day the coffee was not fit to drink, and on the next day the steak would be burnt or broiled as dry as a chip, or the sirloin roasted until every particle of juice had evaporated. If hot cakes were ordered for breakfast, ten chances to one that they were not sour; or, if rolls were baked, they would, most likely, be as heavy as lead.
Such mishaps were so frequent, that the guests of Mrs. Darlington became impatient, and Mr. Scragg, in particular, never let an occasion for grumbling or insolence pass without fully improving it.
"Is your coal out?" said he, one morning, about this time, as he sat at the breakfast table.
Mrs. Darlington understood, by the man's tone and manner, that he meant to be rude, though she did not comprehend the meaning of the question.
"No, sir," she replied, with some dignity of manner. "Why do you ask?"
"It struck me," he answered, "that such might be the case. But, perhaps, cook is too lazy to bring it out of the cellar. If she'll send for me to-morrow morning, I'll bring her up an extra scuttleful, as I particularly like a good cup of hot coffee."
His meaning was now plain. Quick as thought, the blood rushed to the face of Mrs. Darlington.
She had borne so much from this man, and felt towards him such utter disgust, that she could forbear no longer.
"Mr. Scragg," said she, with marked indignation, "when a gentleman has any complaint to make, he does it as a gentleman."
"Madam!" exclaimed Scragg, with a threat in his voice, while his coarse face became red with anger.
"When agentlemanhas any complaint to make, he does itasa gentleman," repeated Mrs. Darlington, with a more particular emphasis than at first.
"I'd thank you to explain yourself," said Scragg, dropping his hands from the table, and elevating his person.
"My words convey my meaning plainly enough. But, if you cannot understand, I will try to make them clearer. Your conduct is not that of a gentleman."
Of course, Mr. Scragg asked for no further explanation. Starting from the table, he said, looking at Mrs. Scragg—
"Come!"
And Mrs. Scragg arose and followed her indignant spouse.
"Served him right," remarked Burton, in a low voice, bending a little towards Miriam, who sat near him. "I hope we shall now be rid of the low-bred fellow."
Miriam was too much disturbed to make a reply. All at the table felt more or less uncomfortable, and soon retired. Ere dinner time, Mr. and Mrs. Scragg, with their whole brood, had left the house, thus reducing the income of Mrs. Darlington from thirty-five to twenty-three dollars a week.
At dinner time, Mrs. Darlington was in bed. The reaction which followed the excitement of the morning, accompanied as it was with the conviction that, in parting with the Scraggs, insufferable as they were, she had parted with the very means of sustaining herself, completely prostrated her. During the afternoon, she was better, and was able to confer with Edith on the desperate nature of their affairs.
"What are we to do?" said she to her daughter, breaking thus abruptly a silence which had continued for many minutes. "We have an income of only twenty-three dollars a week, and that will scarcely supply the table."
Edith sighed, but did not answer.
"Twenty-three dollars a week," repeated Mrs. Darlington. "What are we to do?"
"Our rooms will not remain vacant long, I hope," said Edith.
"There is little prospect of filling them that I can see," murmured Mrs. Darlington. "If all our rooms were taken, we might get along."
"I don't know," returned Edith to this, speaking thoughtfully. "I sometimes think that our expenses are too great for us to make any thing, even if our rooms were filled. Six hundred dollars is a large rent for us to pay."
"We've sunk three hundred dollars in six months. That is certain," said Mrs. Darlington.
"And our furniture has suffered to an extent almost equivalent," added her daughter.
"Oh, do not speak of that! The thought makes me sick. Our handsome French china dinner set, which cost us a hundred and fifty dollars, is completely ruined. Half of the plates are broken, and there is scarcely a piece of it not injured or defaced. My heart aches to see the destruction going on around us."
"I was in Mr. Scragg's room to-day," said Edith.
"Well, what of it?" asked her mother.
"It would make you sick in earnest to look in there. You know the beautiful bowl and pitcher that were in her chamber?"
"Yes."
"Both handle and spout are off of the pitcher."
"Edith!"
"And the bowl is cracked from the rim to the centre. Then the elegant rosewood washstand is completely ruined. Two knobs are off of the dressing-bureau, the veneering stripped from the edge of one of the drawers, and the whole surface marked over in a thousand lines. It looks as if the children had amused themselves by the hour in scratching it with pins. Three chairs are broken. And the new carpet we put on the floor looks as if it had been used for ten years. Moreover, every thing is in a most filthy condition. It is shocking."
Mrs. Darlington fairly groaned at this intelligence.
"But where is it all to lead, Edith?" she asked, arousing herself from a kind of stupor into which her mind had fallen. "We cannot go on as we are now going."
"We must reduce our expenses, if possible."
"But how are we to reduce them? We cannot send away the cook."
"No. Of course not."
"Nor our chambermaid."
"No. But cannot we dispense with the waiter?"
"Who will attend the table, go to market, and do the dozen other things now required of him?"
"We can get our marketing sent home."
"But the waiting oh the table. Who will do that?"
"Half a dollar a week extra to the chambermaid will secure that service from her."
"But she has enough to do besides waiting on the table," objected Mrs. Darlington.
"Miriam and I will help more through the house than we have yet done. Three dollars a week and the waiter's board will be saving a good deal."
Mrs. Darlington sighed heavily, and then said—
"To think what I have borne from that Scragg and his family, ignorant, low-bred, vulgar people, with whom we have no social affinity whatever, who occupy a level far below us, and who yet put on airs and treat us as if we were only their servants! I could bear his insolence no longer. Ah, to what mortifications are we not subjected in our present position! How little dreamed I of all this, when I decided to open a boarding-house! But, Edith, to come back to what we were conversing about, it would be something to save the expense of our waiter; but what are three or four dollars a week, when we are going behind hand at the rate of twenty?"
"If Mrs. Marion"—
Edith checked herself, and did not say what was in her mind. Mrs. Darlington was silent, sighed again heavily, and then said—
"Yes; if it wasn't for the expense of keeping Mrs. Marion. And she has no claim upon us."
"None but the claim of humanity," said Edith.
"If we were able to pay that claim," remarked Mrs. Darlington.
"True."
"But we are not. Such being the case, are we justified in any longer offering her a home?"
"Where will she go? What will she do?" said Edith.
"Where will we go? What will we do, unless there is a change in our favour?" asked Mrs. Darlington.
"Alas, I cannot tell! When we are weak, small things are felt as a burden. The expense of keeping Mrs. Marion and her two children is not very great. Still, it is an expense that we are unable to meet. But how can we tell her to go?"
"I cannot take my children's bread and distribute it to others," replied Mrs. Darlington, with much feeling. "My first duty is to them."
"Poor woman! My heart aches for her," said Edith. "She looks so pale and heart-broken, feels so keenly her state of dependence, and tries so in every possible way to make the pressure of her presence in our family as light as possible, that the very thought of turning her from our door seems to involve cruelty."
"All that, Edith, I feel most sensibly. Ah me! into what a strait are we driven!"
"How many times have I wished that we had never commenced this business!" said Edith. "It has brought us nothing but trouble from the beginning; and, unless my fears are idle, some worse troubles are yet before us."
"Of what kind?"
"Henry did not come home until after two o'clock this morning."
"What!" exclaimed the mother in painful surprise.
"I sat up for him. Knowing that he had gone out with Mr. Barling, and, finding that he had not returned by eleven o'clock, I could not go to bed. I said nothing to Miriam, but sat up alone. It was nearly half past two when he came home in company with Barling. Both, I am sorry to say, were so much intoxicated, that they could scarcely make their way up stairs."
"Oh, Edith!" exclaimed the stricken mother, hiding her face in her hands, and weeping aloud.
Miriam entered the room at this moment, and, seeing her mother in tears, and Edith looking the very image of distress, begged to know the cause of their trouble. Little was said to her then; but Edith, when she was alone with her soon after, fully explained the desperate condition of their affairs. Hitherto they had, out of regard for Miriam, concealed from her the nature of the difficulties that were closing around them.
"I dreamed not of this," said Miriam, in a voice of anguish. "My poor mother! What pain she must suffer! No wonder that her countenance is so often sad. But, Edith, cannot we do something?"
Ever thus, to the mind of the sweet girl, when the troubles of others were mentioned to her, came, first, the desire to afford relief.
"We can do nothing," replied Edith, "at present, unless it be to assist through the house, so that the chambermaid can attend the door, wait on the table, and do other things now required of the waiter."
"And let him go?"
"Yes."
"I am willing to do all in my power, Edith," said Miriam. "But, if mother has lost so much already, will she not lose still more if she continue to go on as she is now going?"
"She hopes to fill all her rooms; then she thinks that she will be able to make something."
"This has been her hope from the first," replied Miriam.
"Yes; and thus far it has been a vain hope."
"Three hundred dollars lost already," sighed Miriam, "our beautiful furniture ruined, and all domestic happiness destroyed! Ah me! Where is all going to end? Uncle Hiram was right when he objected to mother's taking boarders, and said that it was the worst thing she could attempt to do. I wish we had taken his advice. Willingly would I give music lessons or work with my hands for an income, to save mother from the suffering and labour she has now to bear."
"The worst is," said Edith, following out her own thoughts rather than replying to her sister, "now that all our money is gone, debt will follow. How is the next quarter's rent to be paid?"
"A hundred aid fifty dollars?"
"Yes. How can we pay that?"
"Oh dear!" sighed Miriam. "What are we to do? How dark all looks!"
"If there is not some change," said Edith, "by the close of another six months, every thing we have will be sold for debt."
"Dreadful!" ejaculated Miriam, "dreadful!"
For a long time the sisters conferred together, but no gleam of light arose in their minds. All the future remained shrouded in darkness.
THE man named Burton, to whom reference has been made as being particularly attentive to Miriam, was really charmed with the beautiful young girl. But the affection of a man such as he was comes to its object as a blight instead of a blessing. Miriam, while she did not repel his attentions, for his manner towards her was ever polite and respectful, felt, nevertheless, an instinctive repugnance towards him, and when she could keep out of his way without seeming to avoid him, she generally did so.
A few evenings after the conversation held with Edith, as given in the last chapter, Burton, in passing from the dining room, said to Miriam,—
"Come. I want you to play for me some of those beautiful airs in Don Giovanni."
"Indeed you must excuse me Mr. Burton," replied Miriam. "I don't feel like playing to-night."
"Can't excuse you, indeed," said Burton, smiling pleasantly, and, at the same time, taking Miriam's hand, which she quickly withdrew from his touch. The contact sent an unpleasant thrill along her nerves. "So come. I must have some music to-night."
Miriam yielded to the request, although she felt in no mood for touching the piano. After playing several pieces, she lifted her hands from the instrument, and, turning away from it, said,—
"There, Mr. Burton, you must really excuse me. I cannot play to-night."
"Excuse you! Certainly. And for the pleasure you have given me, accept my thanks," replied Mr. Burton. There was a change in his tone of voice which Miriam did not comprehend. "And now," he added, in a low voice, bending to her ear, "come and sit down with me on the sofa. I have something particular that I wish to say."
Miriam did as she was desired, not dreaming of what was in the mind of Burton.
"Miriam," said he, after a pause, "do not be startled nor surprised at what I am going to say."
But his words and manner both startled her, and she was about rising, when he took her hand and gently detained her.
"Nay, Miriam," said he, "you must hear what I wish to speak. From the day I entered this house, you have interested me deeply. Admiration was followed quickly by profound respect; and to this succeeded a warmer sentiment."
A deep crimson instantly mantled the face of Miriam, and her eye fell to the floor.
"Can you, my dear young lady," continued Mr. Burton, "reciprocate the feeling I have expressed?"
"Oh, sir! Excuse me!" said Miriam, so soon as she could recover her disordered thoughts. And she made another effort to rise, but was still detained by Burton.
"Stay! stay!" said he. "Hear all that I wish to utter. I am rich"—
But, ere he could speak another word, Miriam sprang from the sofa, and, bounding from the room, flew rather than walked up the stairs. The instant she entered her own room she closed and locked the door, and then, falling upon the bed, gave vent to a flood of tears. A long time passed before her spirit regained its former composure; and then, when her thought turned towards Mr. Burton, she experienced an inward shudder.
Of what had occurred, she breathed not a syllable to Edith when she joined her in the chamber to retire for the night.
"How my heart aches for mother!" sighed Edith, as she came in. "I have been trying to encourage her; but words are of no avail. 'Where is all to end?' she asks; and I cannot answer the question. Oh dear! What is to become of us? At the rate we are going on now, every thing must soon be lost. To think of what we have sacrificed and are still sacrificing, yet all to no purpose. Every comfort is gone. Strangers, who have no sympathy with us, have come into our house; and mother is compelled to bear all manner of indignities from people who are in every way her inferiors. Yet, for all, we are losing instead of gaining. Ah me! No wonder she is heart-sick and utterly discouraged. How could it be otherwise?"
Miriam heard and felt every word; but she made no answer. Thought, however, was busy, and remained busy long after sleep had brought back to the troubled heart of Edith its even pulsations.
"I am rich." These words of Mr. Burton were constantly recurring to her mind. It was in vain that she turned from the idea presented with them: it grew more and more distinct each moment. Yes, there was a way of relief opened for her mother, of safety for the family, and Miriam saw it plainly, yet shuddered as she looked, and closed her eyes, like one about to leap from a fearful height.
Hour after hour Miriam lay awake, pondering the new aspect which things had assumed, and gazing down the fearful abyss into which, in a spirit of self-devotion, she was seeking to find the courage to leap.
"I am rich." Ever and anon these words sounded in her ears. As the wife of Burton, she could at once lift her mother out of her present unhappy situation. Thus, before the hour of midnight came and went, she thought. He had offered her his hand. She might accept the offer, on condition of his settling an income upon her mother.
This the tempter whispered in her ears, and she hearkened, in exquisite pain, to the suggestion.
When Edith awoke on the next morning, Miriam slept soundly by her side; but Edith, observed that her face was pale and troubled, and that tears were on her cheeks. At breakfast time, she did not appear at the table; and when her mother sent to her room she returned for answer that she was not very well. The whole of the day she spent in her chamber, and, during all the time, was struggling against the instinctive repulsion felt towards the man who had made her an offer of marriage.
At supper time, she reappeared at the table with a calm, yet sad face. As she was passing from the dining room after tea, Burton came to her side and whispered—
"Can I have a word with you in the parlour, Miriam?"
The young girl neither looked up nor spoke, but moved along by his side, and descended with him to the parlour, where they were alone.
"Miriam," said Burton, as he placed himself by her side on the sofa, "have you thought seriously of what I said last evening? Can you reciprocate the ardent sentiments I expressed?"
"Oh, sir!" returned Miriam, looking up artlessly in his face, "I am too young to listen to words like these."
"You are a woman, Miriam," replied Burton, earnestly—"a lovely woman, with a heart overflowing with pure affections. Deeply have you interested my feelings from the first; and now I ask you to be mine. As I was going to say last evening, I am rich, and will surround you with every comfort and elegance that money can obtain. Dearest Miriam, say that you will accept the hand I now offer you."
"My mother will never consent," said the trembling girl, after a long pause.
"Your mother is in trouble. I have long seen that," remarked Mr. Burton, "and have long wanted to advise and befriend her. Put it in my power to do so, and then ask for her what you will."
This was touching the right key, and Burton saw it in a moment.
"Yes, you have said truly," replied Miriam; "my mother is in great trouble. Ah! what would I not do for her relief?"
"Ask for your mother what you will, Miriam," said Burton.
The maiden's eyes were upon the floor, and the rapid heaving of her bosom showed that her thoughts were busy in earnest debate. At length, looking up, she said—
"Will you lift her out of her present embarrassed position, and settle upon her an income sufficient for herself and family?"
"I will," was the prompt answer. "And now, my dear Miriam, name the sum you wish her to receive."
Another long silence followed.
"Ah, sir!" at length said the maiden, "in what a strange, humiliating position am I placed!"
"Do not speak thus, Miriam. I understand all better than words can utter it. Will an income of two thousand dollars a year suffice?"
"It is more than I could ask."
"Enough. The moment you are mine, that sum will be settled on your mother."
Miriam arose up quickly, as Burton said this, murmuring—
"Let me have a few days for reflection," and, ere he could prevent her, glided from the room.
Two weeks more went by, and the pressure upon Mrs. Darlington was heavier and heavier. Her income was below her table expenses and servant-hire, and all her reserve fund being exhausted, she felt the extremity of her circumstances more than at any time before. To bear longer the extra weight of poor, deserted Mrs. Marion and her two children was felt to be impossible. With painful reluctance did Mrs. Darlington slowly make up her mind to say to Mrs. Marion that she must seek another home; and for this purpose she one day waited upon her in her room. As tenderly and as delicately as possible did she approach the subject. A word or two only had she said, when Mrs. Marion, with tears upon her face, replied,—
"Pardon me that I have so long remained a burden upon you. Had I known where to go, or what to do, I would not have added my weight to the heavy ones you have had to bear. Daily have I lived in hope that my husband would return. But my heart is sick with hope deferred. It is time now that I began the work of self-dependence."
"Where can you go?" asked Mrs. Darlington.
"I know not," sadly returned Mrs. Marion. "My only relative is a poor aunt, with scarcely the ability to support herself. But I will see her to-day. Perhaps she can advise me what to do."
When Mrs. Marion returned from this visit to her aunt, she looked very sad. Mrs. Darlington was in the passage as she came in; but she passed her without speaking, and hurried up to her chamber. Neither at tea time on that evening nor at breakfast time on the next morning did she appear, though food for herself and children was sent to her room. Deeply did Mrs. Darlington and her daughters suffer on account of the step they were compelled to take, but stern necessity left them no alternative. During the day, Mrs. Marion went out again for an hour or two, and when she came back she announced that she would leave on the next day. She looked even sadder than before. Some inquiries as to where she was going were made, but she evaded them. On the day following, a carriage came for her, and she parted with her kind friends, uttering the warmest expressions of gratitude.
"I have turned her from the house!" said Mrs. Darlington, in a tone of deep regret, as she closed the door upon the poor creature. "How would I like my own child treated thus?"
For the rest of the day she was so unhappy, owing to this circumstance, that she could scarcely attend to any thing.
"Do you know where Mrs. Marion went when she left our house?" said Edith to her mother, about two weeks afterwards. There was a troubled look in Edith's face as she asked this question.
"No. Where is she?"
"At Blockley."
"What!"
"In the Alms-house!"
"Edith!"
"It is too true. I have just learned that when she left here, it was to take up her abode among paupers. She had no other home."
Mrs. Darlington clasped her hands together, and was about giving expression to her feelings, when a domestic came in and said that Mr. Ellis was in the parlour, and wished to see her immediately.
"Where is Miriam?" asked the brother, in a quick voice, the moment Mrs. Darlington entered the parlour, where he awaited her.
"She's in her room, I believe. Why do you ask?"
"Are you certain? Go up, Edith, quickly, and see."
The manner of Mr. Ellis was so excited that Edith did not pause to hear more, but flew up stairs. In a few moments she returned, saying that her sister was not there, and that, moreover, on looking into her drawers, she found them nearly empty.
"Then it was her!" exclaimed Mr. Ellis.
"Where is she? Where did you see her?" eagerly asked both mother and sister, their faces becoming as pale as ashes.
"I saw her in a carriage with a notorious gambler and scoundrel named Burton. There was a trunk on behind, and they were driving towards the wharf. It is ten minutes before the boat starts for New York, and I may save her yet!"
And, with these words, Mr. Ellis turned abruptly away, and hurried from the house. So paralyzed were both Mrs. Darlington and Edith by this dreadful announcement, that neither of them had for a time the power of utterance. Then both, as by a common impulse, arose and went up to the chamber where Miriam slept. Almost the first thing that met the eyes of Mrs. Darlington was a letter, partly concealed by a book on the mantel-piece. It was addressed to her. On breaking the seal, she read—
"MY DEAR, DEAR MOTHER: I shall be away from you only a little while; and, when I return, I will come with relief for all your present troubles. Do not blame me, dear mother! What I have done is for your sake. It almost broke my heart to see you so pressed down and miserable. And, then, there was no light ahead. Mr. Burton, who has great wealth, offered me his hand. Only on condition of a handsome settlement upon you would I accept of it. Forgive me that I have acted without consultation. I deemed it best. In a little while, I will be back to throw myself into your arms, and then to lift you out of your many troubles. How purely and tenderly I love you, mother, dear mother! I need not say. It is from this love that I am now acting. Take courage, mother. Be comforted. We shall yet be happy. Farewell, for a little while. In a few days I will be with you again.
"MIRIAM."
As Mrs. Darlington read the last sentence of this letter, Henry, her son, who had not been home since he went out at breakfast-time, came hurriedly into the room, and, in an excited manner, said—
"Mother, I want ten dollars!"
The face of the young man was flushed, and his eyes unsteady. It was plain, at a glance, that he had been drinking.
Mrs. Darlington looked at him for a moment, and then, before Edith had seen the contents of Miriam's letter, placed it in his hands.
"What does this mean?" he exclaimed, after running his eyes over it hurriedly. "Miriam gone off with that Burton!"
The letter dropped upon the floor, and Henry clasped his hands together with a gesture of pain.
"Who is Mr. Burton? What do you know of him?" asked Edith.
"I know him to be a man of the vilest character, and a gambler into the bargain! Rich! Gracious heaven!"
And the young man struck his hands against his forehead, and glanced wildly from his pale-faced mother to his paler sister.
"And you knew the character of this man, Henry!" said Mrs. Darlington. There was a smiting rebuke in her tone. "You knew him, and did not make the first effort to protect your young, confiding, devoted sister! Henry Darlington, the blood of her murdered happiness will never be washed from the skirts of your garments!"
"Mother! mother!" exclaimed the young man, putting up his hands to enforce the deprecation in his voice, "do not speak so, or I will go beside myself! But where is she? When did she go? I will fly in pursuit. It may not yet be too late."
"Your Uncle Hiram saw her in a carriage with Mr. Burton, on their way, as he supposed, to the steamboat landing. He has gone to intercept them, if possible."
Henry drew his watch from his pocket, and, as he glanced at the time, sank into a chair, murmuring, in a low voice of anguish—
"It is too late!"
WHEN Mr. Ellis left the house of his sister, he called a carriage that happened to be going by, and reached the wharf at Walnut street in time to spring on board of the steamboat just as the plank was drawn in at the gangway. He then passed along the boat until he came to the ladies' cabin, which he entered. Almost the first persons he saw were Burton and his niece. The eyes of Miriam rested upon him at the same moment, and she drew her veil quickly, hoping that she was not recognised. Hiram Ellis did not hesitate a moment, but, walking up to where Miriam sat, stooped to her ear, and said, in a low, anxious voice—
"Miriam, are you married yet?"
Miriam did not reply.
"Speak, child. Are you married?"
"No," came in a half audible murmur.
"Thank God! thank God!" fell in low accents from the lips of Mr. Ellis.
"Who are you, sir?" now spoke up Burton, whom surprise had till now kept silent. There was a fiery gleam in his eyes.
"The uncle of this dear girl, and one who knows you well," was answered, in a stern voice. "Knows you to be unworthy to touch even the hem of her garment."
A dark scowl lowered upon the face of Burton. But Mr. Ellis returned his looks of anger glance for glance. Miriam was in terror at this unexpected scene, and trembled like an aspen. Instinctively she shrank towards her uncle.
Two or three persons, who sat near, were attracted by the excitement visible in the manner of all three, although they heard nothing that was said. Burton saw that they were observed, and, bending towards Mr. Ellis, said—
"This, sir, is no place for a scene. A hundred eyes will soon be upon us."
"More than one pair of which," replied Mr. Ellis, promptly, "will recognise in you a noted gambler, who has at least one wife living, if no more."
As if stung by a serpent, Burton started to his feet and retired from the cabin.
"Oh, uncle! can what you say of this man be true?" asked Miriam, with a blanching face.
"Too true, my dear child! too true! He is one of the worst of men. Thank God that you have escaped the snare of the fowler!"
"Yes, thank God! thank God!" came trembling from the lips of the maiden.
Mr. Ellis then drew his niece to a part of the cabin where they could converse without being overheard by other passengers on board of the boat. To his inquiry into the reasons for so rash an act, Miriam gave her uncle an undisguised account of her mother's distressed condition, and touchingly portrayed the anguish of mind which had accompanied her reluctant assent to the offer of Burton.
"And all this great sacrifice was on your mother's account?" said Mr. Ellis.
"All! all! He agreed to settle upon her the sum of two thousand dollars a year, if I would become his wife. This would have made the family comfortable."
"And you most wretched. Better, a thousand times better, have gone down to your grave, Miriam, than become the wife of that man. But for the providential circumstance of my seeing you in the carriage with him, all would have been lost. Surely, you could not have felt for him the least affection."
"Oh, uncle! you can never know what a fearful trial I have passed through. Affection! It was, instead, an intense repugnance. But, for my mother's sake, I was prepared to make any sacrifice consistent with honour."
"Of all others, my dear child," said Mr. Ellis, with much feeling, "a sacrifice of this kind is the worst. It is full of evil consequences that cannot be enumerated, and scarcely imagined. You had no affection for this man, and yet, in the sight of Heaven, you were going solemnly to vow that you would love and cherish him through life!"
A shudder ran through the frame of Miriam, which being perceived by Mr. Ellis, he said—
"Well may you shudder, as you stand looking down the awful abyss into which you were about plunging. You can see no bottom, and you would have found none. There is no condition in this life, Miriam, so intensely wretched as that of a pure-minded, true-hearted woman united to a man whom she not only cannot love, but from whom every instinct of her better nature turns with disgust. And this would have been your condition. Ah me! in what a fearful evil was this error of your mother, in opening a boarding-house, about involving her child! I begged her not to do so. I tried to show her the folly of such a step. But she would not hear me. And now she is in great trouble?"
"Oh yes, uncle. All the money she had when she began is spent; and what she now receives from boarders but little more than half pays expenses."
"I knew it would be so. But my word was not regarded. Your mother is no more fitted to keep a boarding-house than a child ten years old. It takes a woman who has been raised in a different school, who has different habits, and a different character."
"But what can we do, uncle?" said Miriam.
"What are you willing to do?"
"I am willing to do any thing that is right for me to do."
"All employment, Miriam, are honourable so far as they are useful," said Mr. Ellis, seriously, "though false pride tries to make us think differently. And, strangely enough, this false pride drives too many, in the choice of employments, to the hardest, least honourable, and least profitable. Hundreds of women resort to keeping boarders as a means of supporting their families when they might do it more easily, with less exposure and greater certainty, in teaching, if qualified, fine needle-work, or even in the keeping of a store for the sale of fancy and useful articles. But pursuits of the latter kind they reject as too far below them, and, in vainly attempting to keep up a certain appearance, exhaust what little means they have. A breaking up of the family, and a separation of its members, follow the error in too many cases."
Miriam listened to this in silence. Her uncle paused.
"What can I do to aid my mother?" the young girl asked.
"Could you not give music lessons?"
"I am too young, I fear, for that. Too little skilled in the principles of music," replied Miriam.
"If competent, would you object to teach?"
"Oh, no. Most gladly would I enter upon the task, did it promise even a small return. How happy would it make me if I could lighten, by my own labour, the burdens that press so heavily upon our mother!"
"And Edith. How does she feel on this subject?"
"As I do. Willing for any thing; ready for any change from our present condition."
"Take courage, then, my dear child, take courage," said the uncle, in a cheerful voice. "There is light ahead."
"Oh, how distressed my mother will be when she finds I am gone!" sighed Miriam, after a brief silence, in which her thoughts reverted to the fact of her absence from home. "When can we get back again?"
"Not before ten o'clock to-night. We must go on as far as Bristol, and then return by the evening line from New York."
Another deep sigh heaved the troubled bosom of Miriam, as she uttered, in a low voice, speaking to herself—
"My poor mother! Her heart will be broken!"
MEANWHILE the hours passed with the mother, sister, and brother in the most agonizing suspense. Henry, who had been drawn away into evil company by two young men who boarded in the house, was neglecting his studies, and pressing on towards speedy ruin. To drinking and association with the vicious, he now added gaming. Little did his mother dream of the perilous ways his feet were treading. On this occasion he had come in, as has been seen, with a demand for ten dollars. When he left home in the morning, it was in company with the young man named Barling. Instead of his going to the office where he was studying, or his companion to his place of business, they went to a certain public house in Chestnut Street, where they first drank at the bar.
"Shall we go up into the billiard-room?" said Barling, as they turned from the white marble counter at which they had been drinking.
"I don't care. Have you time to play a game?" replied Henry.
"Oh, yes. We're not very busy at the store to-day."
So the two young men ascended to the billiard-room, and spent a couple of hours there. Both played very well, and were pretty equally matched.
From the billiard-room, they proceeded to another part of the house, more retired, and there, at the suggestion of Barling, tried a game at cards for a small stake. Young Darlington was loser at first, but, after a time, regained his losses and made some advance on his fellow-player. Hours passed in playing and drinking; and finally, Darlington, whose good fortune did not continue, parted with every sixpence.
"Lend me a dollar," said he as the last game went against him.
The dollar was lent, and the playing renewed. Thus it went on, hour after hour, neither of the young men stopping to eat any thing, though both drank too frequently. At last, Darlington was ten dollars in debt to Barling, who, on being asked for another loan, declined any further advances. Stung by the refusal, Henry said to him, rising as he spoke—
"Do you mean by this that you are afraid I will never return the money?"
"Oh, no," replied Barling. "But I don't want to play against you any longer. Your luck is bad."
"I can beat you," said Darlington.
"You hav'n't done it to-day certainly," answered Barling.
"Will you wait here a quarter of an hour?" asked Henry.
"For what?"
"I want to pay you off and begin again. I am going for some money."
"Yes, I'll wait," replied the young man.
"Very well. I'll be back in a few minutes."
It was for this work and for this purpose that Henry Darlington came to his mother just at the moment the absence of Miriam and her purpose in leaving had been discovered. The effect of the painful news on the young man has already been described. From the time he became aware of the fact that Miriam had gone away with Burton for the purpose of becoming his wife, until ten o'clock at night, he was in an agony of suspense. As the uncle could not be found at the office where he wrote, nor at the house where he boarded, it was concluded that he had reached the boat before its departure, and gone on with the fugitives in the train to New York. Nothing was therefore left for the distressed family but to await his return.
How anxiously passed the hours! At tea time Edith only made her appearance. Henry and his mother remained in the chamber of the latter. As for the young man, he was cast down and distressed beyond measure, vexing his spirit with self-accusations that were but too well founded.
"Oh, mother!" said he, while they were alone, starting up from where he had been sitting with his face buried in his hands—"oh, mother! what evils have come through this opening of our house, for strangers to enter! Miriam, our sweet, gentle, pure-hearted Miriam, has been lured away by one of the worst of men; and!"—the young man checked himself a moment or two, and then continued—"and I have been drawn away from right paths into those that lead to sure destruction. Mother, I have been in great danger. Until Barling and Mason came into our family, I was guiltless of any act that could awaken a blush of shame upon my cheek. Oh, that I had never met them!"
"Henry! Henry! what do you mean by this?" exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, in a voice full of anguish.
"I have been standing on the brink of a precipice," replied the young man with more calmness. "But a hand has suddenly drawn me away, and I am trembling at the danger I have escaped. Oh, mother, will you not give up this mode of life? We have none of us been happy. I have never felt as if I had a home since it began. And you—what a slave have you been! and how unhappy! Can nothing be done except keeping boarders? Oh, what would I not give for the dear seclusion of a home where no stranger's foot could enter!"
"Some other mode of living must be sought, my son," replied Mrs. Darlington. "Added to all the evils attendant on the present mode, is that of a positive loss instead of a profit. Several hundred dollars have been wasted already, and daily am I going in debt."
"Then, mother, let us change at once," replied the young man. "It would be better to shrink together in a single room than to continue as we are. I will seek a clerkship in a store and earn what I can to help support the family."
"I can think of nothing now but Miriam!" said Mrs. Darlington. "Oh, if she were back again, safe from the toils that have been thrown around her, I think I would be the most thankful of mortals! Oh, my child! my child!"
What could Henry say to comfort his mother? Nothing. And he remained silent.
Long after this, Mrs. Darlington, with Henry and Edith, were sitting together in painful suspense. No word had been spoken by either for the space of nearly an hour. The clock struck ten.
"I would give worlds to see my dear, dear child!" murmured Mrs. Darlington.
Just then a carriage drove up to the door and stopped. Henry sprang down stairs; but neither Edith nor her mother could move from where they sat. As the former opened the street door, Miriam stood with her uncle on the threshold. Henry looked at her earnestly and tenderly for an instant, and then, staggering back, leaned against the wall for support.
"Where is your mother?" asked Mr. Ellis.
"In her own room," said Henry, in a voice scarcely audible.
Miriam sprang up the stairs with the fleetness of an antelope, and, in a few moments, was sobbing on her mother's bosom.
"Miriam! Miriam!" said Mrs. Darlington, in a thrilling voice, "do you return the same as when you left?"
"Yes, thank God!" came from the maiden's lips.
"Thank God! thank God!" responded the mother, wildly. "Oh, my child, what a fearful misery you have escaped!"
In a few minutes, the mother and sisters were joined by Henry.
"Where is your uncle?" asked Mrs. Darlington.
"He has gone away; but says that he will see you to-morrow."
Over the remainder of that evening we will here draw a veil.