Chapter VIII: Part II: Courtship (1)

Sonnets and serenades,
Sighs, glances, tears, and vows,
Gifts, tokens, souvenirs, parades,
And courtesies and bows.

A purpose and a prayer;
The stars are in the sky--
He wonders how e'en hope should dare
To let him aim so high!

Still hope allures and flatters,
And doubt just makes him bold;
And so, with passion all in tatters,
The trembling tale is told.

Apologies and blushes,
Soft looks, averted eyes,
Each heart into the other rushes,
Each yields, and wins a prize.

A gathering of fond friends,--
Brief, solemn words, and prayer,--
A trembling to the fingers' ends,
As hand in hand, they swear.

Sweet cake, sweet wine; sweet kisses,
And so the deed is done;
Now for life's waves and blisses,
The wedded two are one.

And down the shining stream,
They launch their buoyant skiff,
Bless'd, if they may but trust hope's dream,
But ah! Truth echoes--"If!"

THE SEQUEL.--"IF."

If health be firm--if friend be true--
If self be well-controlled,
If tastes be pure--if wants be few--
And not too often told--

If reason always rule the heart--
If passion own its sway--
If love--for aye--to life impart
The zest it does to-day--

If Providence, with parent care,
Mete out the varying lot--
While meek contentment bows to share,
The palace, or the cot--

And oh! if Faith, sublime and clear,
The spirit upwards guide--
Then bless'd indeed, and bless'd for ever,
The bridegroom and the bride!

ELMA'S MISSION.

"EVER, evermore!" repeated a young man, bending with a smile over the fair face that rested on his breast.

"Yes! evermore!" softly breathed the smiling lips upon which he gazed, and evermore shone from the melting, heavenly eyes.

"And you believe all these bright fancies you have been telling me of, darling?" asked the young man.

"Ah! yes--they are truth to me; they dwell in my heart of hearts--they belong to the deepest and sweetest mysteries of my being. I gaze out through the glory upon life, and I see no coldness, no darkness--everything is coloured with bright radiance from the eternal world. It is happiness that gives me this beautiful view. I have known that the world was filled, with love, but I have never so clearly seen it before. And sure I am that if I were to die now, this same splendour of love would still be poured through my soul; for it is myself, and I cannot lose it. If you were next week in Europe, far from me, would not your inner world be illumined with love and hope?"

"It certainly would!

"And can you doubt the durability, the truth and reality of this inner-life? Can this clay instrument be of any moment farther than it serves to develop life, in this, our first school?--we should not confound the earthly dwelling with the free man who makes it his temporary home. Ah! Horace, I feel, I am, sure, you will some day enjoy all these ennobling thoughts with me, and then existence will also be to you sublime."

An expression of radiant hope flitted over the young man's face, and he kissed the soft lips and eyes of his betrothed, while he murmured, "I would suffer the loss of all happiness on earth, I would bear every stroke the Almighty might inflict, if I _could_ believe as you do, of a life beyond this. I am no unbeliever, you know. I read my Bible daily, but beyond this world everything to me is misty and dark. I shudder at the ghastliness of the grave, and would forget that I cannot always clasp your warm heart to my own. You were surely sent to be my good angel, to teach me all that is gentlest and best in my nature, and this holy love _must_ last evermore. I have always smiled at the idea of love, at first sight, but when I first saw your face, Elma, none ever was so welcome; yet if you had not proved all that your face and manner promised, I should not have fallen in love. I half-believe matches are made in Heaven--ours will be Heaven-made, if any are. You think human beings are made for each other, as the saying is, do you not?"

"Yes!" returned Elma, smiling, "I _hope_ we are made to be partners in this world, and a better one, but how can I know it? When my happy womanhood first dawned, I had wild, sweet dreams that here on earth I and many others would surely meet the true half that belonged to us--one with whom every thought would find a response. I have met many whose views are like mine, and yet whose natures are so different that we could not see each other's souls; perhaps if they had loved me, I could have seen more clearly--but my rebellious heart went forth to meet you, although I tried so long to turn away--although I trembled to think the religion of our natures was so unlike."

"I once thought, love, that I should never win you--it was your pale lips and the mournful intensity of your look, when we met after a long absence, that gave me new hope; and I have often wondered, Elma, why you gave so unhesitating an assent, when you had for months at a time avoided me at every opportunity."

"It was because my views had changed in a manner--although still believing in the fitness of two out of the whole universe for each other, I began to think that on earth these very two might each have a mission to others, and others to them, which would more fully call out their characters, and perhaps develop the dark traits necessary to be conquered--so that perfect harmony might be evolved from chaos. It once seemed to me, with the views I held, that it would be a sin for me to unite my destiny with one who did not sympathize with me on all points. But the sad fate of Augusta Atwood made me reflect deeply. She was my bosom friend, and never did mortal go to the altar with brighter hopes--never did human being love more unreservedly. She whispered to me as I arranged her hair on the morning of her bridal:--'This seems to me like the beginning of my heavenly life--there is not a height or depth of my soul that Charles's nature does not respond to--I _know_ that we two are truly one." And so it seemed for two happy years--his character took every one by surprise, perhaps himself, and now Augusta is a miserably neglected wife, toiling on like an angel to reap good from her desolated earth-life. Yet we see that her mighty love was not a true interpreter. No doubt her lover was sincere at the time in believing that they not only felt, but thought alike. I have known many instances, very many, where two, perhaps equally good and true, have thought themselves fitted for each other and none else; yet on the death of one, they have found a companion who was still more especially made for them. Thus we see that this is a matter where there appears to be little certainty and many mistakes. Doubtless, there are some few blessed ones who truly find their better--half; but in this sinful, imperfect state of life, we cannot believe that we are in an order sufficiently harmonious to have this a sure thing. Perhaps one-third of the women in the world never even loved half as well as they felt themselves capable of loving, simply because no object presented himself who could call forth all the music of a high and noble nature.

"So many a soul o'er life's drear desert faring,
Love's pure congenial spring unfound, unquaffed,
Suffers, recoils, then thirsty and despairing
Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught."

But, Elma, my child, it is not pleasant to me that you should have a single doubt that _we_ are not dearer to each other than any other mortals could ever be in this world, or the beautiful one you love to dream of."

"I am telling you, Horace, the thoughts that have been in my mind--I only feel now that you are good and gifted, and I love you more than I ever dreamed of loving."

"And you, sweet, are the breath of my life. It is heavenly to know that God has given you, and you alone, to be the angel ministrant of my oft tempestuous life: you have risen like a star over my cloudy horizon--may the light of the gentle star shine on my path, until it leads me unto the perfect day!"

"Only the light of the Sun of Righteousness can do that," returned Elma; then, with a tear glistening on her lash, she added, "I hope God will help me to be good and pure, that I may be a medium of good, and not evil to you."

Most blessedly passed the days to that hopeful maiden; it was a treasure full of all promise to have, not only the happiness of her lover, but as she trusted, his best good committed to her charge, next to God. When she knelt in the morning hour, her prayer was ever a thanksgiving--she lifted up the gates of her soul that the King of Glory might come in, and His radiant presence permeated her whole being--she left to Him the control of her life, all the strange mysteries of heavenly policy, which she felt and knew would ultimate in perfecting her too worldly nature; and she went forth, angel-attended, to her duties, fusing into them this effluent life that dwelt so richly within her. Every word of kindness and love that dropped from her soft, coral lips, bore with it a portion of the smiling life that overflowed her spirit. When she arose, her constant thought was, "Another day is coming, in which the work of progress may go on: I may perhaps this day conquer some evil, or do some humble good, that will fit me to be a still better angel to Horace, and which shall beautify my mansion in the Heavens."

At length the bridal day came, and fled also like other days, save that a sweeter brightness enwrapped the soul of Elma; so six months or more flitted away in delicious dream-life, for outward things made comparatively slight impression; Elma lived and loved more than she thought. But one morning reflection and pain came together; the latter led in the former, a long-forgotten friend, and the young wife asked herself how far she had travelled onward and upward since the bridal days, since her path had been all sunshine;--she bowed her head and wept bitterly. "Not for me, at least," she sighed, "is constant happiness a friend,--not yet am I fitted to enjoy the highest harmony of life. 'Therefore, burn, thou holy pain, thou purifying fire!' It is meet I should be wounded where my deepest joys are lodged. I see that it is the lash of pain which must drive me through the golden gates. Yes! I will arise, and thank my Father that He has not been as unmindful of my eternal well-being as I would be myself, if left to wander only among flowers of love and gladness."

And what was this grief that awoke the bride from her blissful dream? It would seem the merest nothing to the strong man of the world, to the gay woman who glides, superficially through existence. But many a young bride will understand how it might be more sorrowful than the loss of houses and lands. It was the husband's first frown, his first petulant word; it was the key that opened Elma's understanding to the true estate of the past. She could no longer blind her eyes, as she had done, to a certain worldliness in her husband, and which had also reached her through him. This morning, that revealed so much, Horace had impatiently exclaimed as Elma held forth her Bible to him, as usual,--

"I have not time for that now, child!" and hastily kissing her, he put on his hat, and went forth to his business.

A pale anguish settled on Elma's face as she sunk upon a chair.

"Is this the beginning of sorrows?" she murmured; "he never spoke to me so before, perhaps he will often do so again. If it had been about anything else, I think I could have borne it better! Oh God! is the angel leaving our Paradise?"

And she thought over and over again of this worldliness in her husband, and his want of the high standard in religion that was so dear to her; she felt that she was, in a measure, deceived in him,--surely once he seemed to dwell in an atmosphere that was more spiritual. Yes! Elma was deceived in him, but Horace had not deceived her. In the happy glow of his successful love, he had caught the warmth of Elma's thoughts; they had charmed his imagination, in a measure commended themselves to his understanding, and made a temporary impression upon him heart, so that he went out among men with a more benevolent spirit than he had ever done before. But truth, to be abiding, must be sought after with an eager thirst; and it came to Horace crowned with flowers; he condescended to take the charmer in, and obeyed her for awhile, then she was forgotten, he thought not why, and he imperceptibly returned to the real self, which Elma had never before had an opportunity to become acquainted with.

Three years went by. Horace was a devoted husband, no being on earth was to him so perfect as his wife--no human being had ever exerted over him the quiet, holy influence that belonged to Elma. She had gradually accomplished infinitely more than she suspected, yet many a time, and oft, had he caused her grieved tears to fall like rain. Many a time had despairing prayers risen from her soul for him, while she breathed out to her God a cry for strength. She felt that she saw through a glass darkly; but she sought with most earnest heart for every duty, knowing that thus her pathway would lead continually to a more sure and steady light.

Elma often wondered that so much joy was given to her earthly life; but she understood the true philosophy, for her every grief was regarded as a special messenger from the spirit-land, and amid her tears she looked up, and resolutely answered to the call, "Excelsior!" She was ever receiving with gratitude the blessings that clustered about her lot, and, as it were, transmuting all common things into pleasures, by seeking out a brightness in them.

But a heavier trial was in store for the wife than she had anticipated. Horace had been very unfortunate in business; he bore it with more gentleness than Elma had expected, but it wore upon his spirits; day after day he was busied in settling up, and came home with a look of sadness and anxiety. One evening he came in with a brighter look.

"What is the news?" asked his wife, as she read his face.

"I have an offer of a clerkship, at a very good salary, eighteen hundred dollars a year!"

"We can get along admirably with that!" said Elma, with a bright smile. "You know we are retrenching our expenses so much, that we can live on half that, and the rest can go towards your debts. In a few years you will be able to pay all you owe, will you not?"

"Perhaps so, by exerting every faculty, and living on less than you propose!"

"Oh! well, we can!" was the eager response. "I'll manage to get along on almost nothing; as small a sum as you choose to name. Every trifling deprivation will be an actual delight, that helps to discharge those debts. It will, indeed!" she added, as Horace smiled at her enthusiasm.

"I believe you, little one, every word you say!" and, with an air of cheerful affection, such as he had not shown for weeks, the husband drew his wife's head upon his breast, and, forgetful of cold business cares and the world, they were gay, tender, and happy.

It was with a different look that Horace entered his home the next evening; a shadow fell on Elma's heart when she saw him, and the evening meal passed in silence.

"What are you thinking of, Horace?" she timidly asked, some time after, approaching him as he stood by the window, gazing out gloomily into the star-lighted street.

"I have received a better offer, and have determined to accept it." It must be known that Horace came quickly to a decision, and then persevered in it; none knew the vanity of striving to change him, when fairly resolved, better than Elma; but in small matters he was yielding as Elma herself. She stood in a fearful silence, looking into his face, which he had turned towards her.

"I am going to California!" he said, almost sternly, for he feared Elma's tenderness might unman him.

"Not without me?" she asked, with pleading eyes.

"Yes! Elma, I cannot take you, for I shall be constantly travelling, and subject to the greatest hardships,--you could not bear it! I shall be back in a year and a half."

"I could bear anything better than to be left behind--you do not know as well as I what would be the greatest hardship for me. Ah! Horace, do not put me to this dreadful trial. Let me go with you, and you will find that I will not utter a complaint. You can leave me at some place, while you travel over the roughest country--you may be sick, and need me. I fear men grow hard and selfish there, and what you gain in purse, you may lose in what is dearest to me. 'It is not good for man to be alone.'"

"Hush, darling; every word is vain!" answered Horace, clasping her to his breast, and kissing her with passionate vehemence. For the first time in his life he wept without any restraint over her. "Do you think anything but duty would tear me from you? It is my duty to be just to all men, and to pay what I owe as soon as I can."

"But take me!" sobbed Elma.

"Dear child! you must be reasonable. I know that you fear the influence about me will not be as angelically pure as your own, and I love you for that fear. I shall go where no man will care for my soul as you do; but I shall not forget you, Elma. Now, cheer up, and show me the ready resolution you have always had at hand."

"I never had such a cruel blow as this before!" returned Elma, in an entire abandonment of grief. "Oh! take me with you, Horace, and nothing in the world will be hard for me."

The wife's pleadings were vain, and in a week she parted from her husband. After he had gone, she won back a spirit of resignation; indeed, as soon as she found her doom was sealed, she gathered up her strength, and strove to cheer Horace, whose spirits sunk miserably when he had no longer to support Elma. She laid out a plan for her life during her widowhood, as she called it, and this plan was after the example of One who went about doing good. The weary time passed slowly, but each day added a little gem to Elma's heavenly life, and when, at length, she received her husband's last letter before his return, her thanks gushed forth in gladness, as they had so often before done, in holy confidence. Part of his letter ran thus:--

And now, dear love, having told you of the outward success which has met my efforts, let me tell you a little of the heart that belongs to you--which you have won from darkness to light. It is filled with images of hope and love, and a light from your spirit shines through all--have been ever with me, ever leading me to that 'true light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.' I often gave you pain, my darling, when we were together; it was unintentional, and sprang from the evil of my nature; and a thousand times, when you did not suspect it, your gentle look and touch brought to my spirit better thoughts, and the thoughts brought better words and deeds. You have been the angel of my life still more during our separation; for my soul has yearned for your dear presence constantly, and every day I have said to myself, 'Would this please Elma?' and when I have been enabled to do a kindness, my heart glowed at the thought of Elma's approval. Your blessed spirit never seems so near to me as when I lift up my soul in prayer. I sometimes fancy your prayers, beloved, have unlocked the Kingdom of Heaven for me. Good bye, dearest life, we shall soon meet.

HORACE."

And when they met, the joy of their first wedding days seemed doubled. Elma rejoiced at the discipline she had been through, for it had better fitted her for the joyful existence that was before her. It had now become more of a habit for her soul to dwell in a heavenly atmosphere--she had learned to rely steadfastly upon her God for the good gifts of her life, and they were showered upon her abundantly; doubly beautiful, they were shared by a heart in unison.

LIVING LIKE A LADY.

MR. HAMILTON BURGESS was a man of limited means, but having married a beautiful and amiable woman, he resolved to spare no expense in surrounding her with comforts, and in supporting her, as he said, "like a lady."

"My dear Ammy," said Mrs. Burgess, to her indulgent husband, about a year after their marriage--"My dear Ammy"--this was the name she called him by _at home_--"you are too kind to me, altogether. You are unwilling that I should work, or do anything towards our support, when I actually think that a little exertion on my part would not only serve to lighten your expenses, but be quite as good for my health and spirits as the occupations to which my time is now devoted."

"Oh, you industrious little bee!" exclaimed Mr. Burgess, "you have great notions of making yourself useful, I declare! But, Lizzie, I shall never consent to your propositions. I did not marry you to make you my slave. When you gave me this dear hand, I resolved that it should never be soiled and made rough by labour--and it never shall, as long as I am able to attend to my business."

Mrs. Burgess would not have done anything to displease her husband for the world, and she accordingly allowed him to have his way without offering farther remonstrance.

But Hamilton's business was dull, and it required the greatest exertion on his part, and the severest application, to raise sufficient money to meet the daily expenses of his family.

"My affairs will be in a better state next year," he said to himself, "and I must manage to struggle through this dull season some way or another. I will venture to run in debt a little, I think; for any way is preferable to reducing our household expenditures, which are by no means extravagant. At all events, Lizzie must not know what my circumstances are, for she would insist upon a change in our style of living, and revive the subject of doing something towards our support."

Mr. Burgess then ventured to run in debt a little; he did not attempt to reduce the expenses of his housekeeping; he never gave his wife a hint respecting the true state of his business matters, but insisted upon her accepting, as usual, a liberal allowance of funds to meet her private expenses.

Lizzie seemed quite happy in her ignorance of her husband's circumstances, never spoke again of assisting to support the establishment, but seemed to devote herself to the pursuit of quiet pleasures, and to procuring Hamilton's happiness. But Mr. Burgess's circumstances, instead of improving, grew continually worse. His venture of "running in debt a little," resulted in running in debt a great deal. Thus the second year of his married life passed, and the dark shadows of disappointed hope and the traces of corroding care began to change the aspect of his brow.

One day a friend said to Hamilton--

"I am surprised at your conduct! Here you are, making a slave of yourself, while your wife is playing the lady. She is not to blame; it is _you_. She would gladly do something for her own support, if you would permit her; and it would be better for her and for you. Remember the true saying--

'Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do!'"

"What do you mean?" demanded Hamilton, reddening.

"I mean that, _generally speaking_, young wives of an ardent temperament, when left to themselves, with nothing but their pleasures to occupy their minds, are apt to forget their husbands, and find enjoyment in such society as he might not altogether approve."

"Sir, you do not know my wife," exclaimed Hamilton. "She, thank Heaven, is not one of those."

"I hope not," was the quiet reply.

Although Hamilton Burgess had not a jealous nature, and would never have entertained unjust suspicions of his wife, these words of his friend set him to thinking. He remembered that Lizzie was always happy, however he might be oppressed with cares; and now he wondered how it was that she could be so unmindful of everything except pleasure, while he was so constantly harassed. The consistent Mr. Hamilton Burgess undoubtedly forgot that he had taken the utmost pains to conceal his circumstances from his wife.

It was in this state of mind that Mr. Burgess one day left his business, and went home unexpectedly. It was at an hour when Lizzie least thought of seeing him, and on this occasion she appeared considerably embarrassed; nor did Mr. Burgess fail to observe that she was very tardy in making her appearance in the sitting-room.

On another occasion, Mr. Burgess returned home under similar circumstances, and going directly to his wife's room, found, to his astonishment, that he could not gain admittance. After some delay, however, during which Hamilton heard footsteps hurrying to and fro within, and whispering, Mrs. Burgess opened the door, and, blushing very red, attempted to apologize for not admitting him before.

"Who was with you?" demanded Hamilton.

"With _me_?" cried Lizzie, much confused.

"Yes, madam. I heard whispering, and I am sure somebody just passed through that side door."

"Oh, that was nobody but Margaret!" exclaimed Mrs. Burgess, hastily.

Hamilton could ill conceal his vexation; but he did not intimate to his wife that he suspected her of equivocation, nor did she see fit to attempt a full exposition of the matter.

Nothing was said of this incident afterwards; but for many weeks it occupied Hamilton's mind. All this time he was harassed with cares of business, and his brow became more darkly shrouded in gloom as his perplexities thickened. At last the crisis came! Mr. Burgess saw the utter impossibility of longer continuing his almost profitless trade, under heavy expenses, which not only absorbed his small capital, but actually plunged him into debt. But one honest course was left for him to pursue; and he resolved to close up his affairs, and sell off what stock he had to pay his debts.

It was at this time that Mr. Burgess saw in its true light the error of which he had been guilty, in opposing his wife's desire to economize, and devote a portion of her time to useful occupation.

"Had I allowed her to lighten our expenses in this way," thought he, "I might not have been driven to such extremities. And what has been the result of my folly? Why, I have kept her ignorant of our poverty until the very last, and now the sudden intelligence that we are beggars, will well nigh kill her!"

Satisfied of the danger, if not the impossibility, of keeping the secret longer from his wife, Mr. Burgess went home one day, resolved to break the intelligence to her without hesitation. Entering the house with his latch-key, he went directly to Lizzie's room, which he entered unceremoniously. To his surprise, he found on the table a gentleman's cap, of that peculiar fashion which he had seen worn by postmen and dandies about town. Anxious for an explanation, he looked around for his wife; but Lizzie was not in the room. Then hearing voices in another part of the house, he left the room by a different door from that by which he had entered, and hastened to the parlour, where he expected to find Mrs. Burgess in company with the owner of _that cap_. To his surprise, he found the parlour vacant, and meeting Margaret in the hall a moment after, he impatiently demanded his wife.

"She is in the room, sir," said the domestic.

Without saying a word, Hamilton again hastened to Lizzie's room, where he found her reading a late magazine with affected indifference!

"Madam," cried he, angrily, "what does this mean? Here I have been chasing you all over the house, without being able to catch you. What company have you just dismissed?"

"What company?" asked Lizzie.

"Yes, madam, what company?"

"Do not speak so angrily, dear Ammy. Why are you so impatient?"

"Because I wish to know what gentleman has been favouring you with such a confidential visit!"

Hamilton remembered other occasions when, on his coming home unexpectedly, his wife had shown signs of embarrassment; and, added to this, her present equivocation rendered him violently jealous. She appeared to shrink from him in fear, and became alternately red and pale, as she answered--

"There has been no gentleman here to see me!"

"No one?"

"No one, dear Ammy!"

Mr. Burgess was on the point of demanding to know who was the owner of the cap which he had seen on his wife's table, and which had now mysteriously disappeared; but emotion checked him, and he paced the floor in silence.

"This is too much!" he muttered, at length, in the bitterness of his heart. "I could endure poverty, without uttering a complaint for myself; I could endure anything but this!"

"Why, Ammy, what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Burgess, in alarm.

"Nothing--only we are beggars!" answered Hamilton, abruptly.

"Have you been unfortunate?" calmly asked his wife, affectionately taking him by the arm.

"Yes--the most unfortunate of men! I am ruined--we are beggars--but"--

"Dear Ammy, you must not let this cast you down. Business failures frequently happen, but they ought never to destroy domestic happiness. Come, how bad off are we? Are we really beggars?"

"My creditors will take everything," answered Hamilton, gloomily.

"They will not take us from each other," said Lizzie.

Mr. Burgess looked at his young wife with a bitter smile.

"Are you such a deceiver?" he muttered through his teeth. "Can you talk thus when you have just dismissed a lover?"

"Sir!" cried Mrs. Burgess, a glow of indignation lighting her fair face. "What do you mean?"

"Don't deny what I say!" replied Hamilton. "You were having an interview with a gentleman when I came in."

Lizzie trembled with indignation.

"I saw his cap on the table!"

Lizzie laughed outright. "Come here," she said, leading her husband away.

Hamilton followed her, and she went to a bureau, unlocked a deep drawer, and opening it, called her husband's attention to its contents.

It was half full of caps!

Hamilton looked at Lizzie in perplexity. Lizzie looked at Hamilton, and smiled.

"I suppose that you will now declare that there are twenty gentlemen in the house," said Mrs. Burgess.

"Lizzie!"' cried her husband, clasping her hands, "I am already ashamed of my suspicions. I ask your forgiveness. But explain this matter to me. I am dying in perplexity."

"Well", replied Lizzie, archly, "_I_ made those caps."

"_You_!"

"Certainly; that is, I and Margaret. I kept my work a secret from you, because you were opposed to my exerting myself, and although you have come near surprising me more than once, I have carried on my treasonable designs pretty successfully until to-day."

"But, dear Lizzie, how could you?"

"I can answer that question. I saw pretty clearly into your business affairs, and I knew that we could not live in this style long. So I thought I would disobey you. My cousin George, the hat manufacturer, seconded my designs, and privately sent me caps to make, nearly a year ago."

Hamilton opened his eyes in astonishment.

"Surprising, isn't it? But this isn't all. You insisted on my keeping Margaret, when I might just as well have done my housework myself; I thought I would make her useful, and made her help me work on the caps. Besides, you were not satisfied if I neglected to use all the spending money you allowed me, and I pretended to use that, just to please you. Now, before you scold me for my disobedience, witness the results of my industry and economy."

Lizzie opened her desk, and displayed to Hamilton's bewildered sight, a pile of gold which filled him with greater astonishment than anything else.

"There," continued Lizzie, without allowing him to speak--"there are three hundred dollars. Of course, this little sum wouldn't make anybody rich, but I hope it will convince you that a wife's economy and industry are not to be despised."

"Lizzie! dear Lizzie!"

"Oh, this is nothing--only a sample of what I can do. Come, now, acknowledge your error, and say that I may have my own way in future."

Hamilton replied by clasping his wife in his arms.

"There, say nothing more about it," she continued. "Don't think of your misfortunes, but remember that we can be happy even if we both have to work hard. Poverty cannot crush us; and I hope I have already convinced you that work will not make me lose attraction in your sight."

The young husband's heart overflowed with gratitude and joy.

"How have I misunderstood you, dear Lizzie!" he exclaimed. "You are worth more to me than southern riches; and now that I know poverty cannot crush you my mind is at ease. Lizzie, I am so happy!"

"And I may have my way?"

"Yes, always."

"Remember this!" cried Mrs. Burgess, archly.

With a lighter heart than he had felt for many months before, Hamilton went about the settlement of his business affairs, while Lizzie devoted herself to perfecting a new system of housekeeping.

When Mr. Burgess came home at night, he was surprised at the wonderful change which had taken place during his absence.

"Don't scold," said his wife, regarding him with a smile; "you said I might have my way."

"True--but what have you done?"

"I have been making arrangements to let half the house to Mr. Smith's family, who will move in next week. They are pleasant people, and as we had twice as much room as we actually needed, I thought it best to take them. Then again, we shan't need so much furniture, and if you like, you can sell Mr. Smith some of what we have, at a fair price."

Mr. Burgess neither frowned nor looked displeased, nor did he ever afterwards oppose his wife's designs. He soon found his expenses so reduced, that, with the fruits of his wife's industry added to his own, they were able to live quite comfortably and happily; and, although he soon became engaged in more profitable business, he never again urged her to indulge in the folly of "living like a lady."

LADY LUCY'S SECRET.

MR. FERRARS, who sat reading the morning paper, suddenly started with an exclamation of grief and astonishment that completely roused his absent-minded wife.

"My dear Walter, what has happened?" she asked, with real anxiety.

"A man a bankrupt, whom I thought as safe as the Bank of England! Though it is true, people talked about him months ago--spoke suspiciously of his personal extravagance, and, above all, said that his wife was ruining him."

"His wife!"

"Yes; but I cannot understand that sort of thing. A few hundreds a year more or less could be of little moment to a man like Beaufort, and I don't suppose she spent more than you do, my darling. At any rate she was never better dressed. Yet I believe the truth was, that she got frightfully into debt unknown to him; and debt is a sort of thing that multiplies itself in a most astonishing manner, and sows by the wayside the seeds of all sorts of misery. Then people say that when payday came at last, bickerings ensued, their domestic happiness was broken up, Beaufort grew reckless, and plunged into the excitement of the maddest speculations."

"How dreadful!" murmured Lady Lucy.

"Dreadful indeed! I don't know what I should do with such a wife."

"Would not you forgive her if you loved her very much?" asked Lady Lucy, and she spoke in a singularly calm tone of suppressed emotion.

"Once, perhaps, once; and if her fault were the fault of youthful inexperience,--but so much falseness, mean deception, and mental deterioration must have accompanied such transactions, that--in short, I thank Heaven that I have never been put to the trial."

As he spoke, the eyes of Mr. Ferrars were fixed on the leading article of the Times, not on his wife. Presently Lady Lucy glided from the room, without her absence being at the moment observed. Once in her dressing-room, she turned the key, and sinking into a low chair, gave vent to her grief in some of the bitterest tears she had ever shed. She, too, was in debt; "frightfully" her husband had used the right word; "hopelessly" so far as satisfying her creditors, even out of the large allowance Mr. Ferrars made her; and still she had not the courage voluntarily to tell the truth, which yet she knew must burst upon him ere long. From what small beginnings had this Upas shadow come upon her! And what "falseness, mean deception, and mental deterioration" had truly been hers!

Even the fancied relief of weeping was a luxury denied to her, for she feared to show the evidence of tears; thus after a little while she strove to drive them back, and by bathing her face before the glass, and drawing the braids of her soft hair a little nearer her eyes, she was tolerably successful in hiding their trace. Never, when dressing for court or gala, had she consulted her mirror so closely; and now, though the tears were dried, she was shocked at the lines of anguish--those delvers of the wrinkles of age--which marked her countenance. She sat before her looking-glass, one hand supporting her head, the other clutching the hidden letters which she had not yet the courage to open. There was a light tap at the door.

"Who is there?" inquired Lady Lucy.

"It is I, my lady," replied Harris, her faithful maid. "Madame Dalmas is here."

Lady Lucy unlocked the door and gave orders that the visiter should be shown up. With the name had come a flush of hope that some trifling temporary help would be hers. Madame Dalmas called herself a Frenchwoman, and signed herself "Antoinette" but she was really an English Jewess of low extraction, whose true name was Sarah Solomons. Her "profession" was to purchase--and sell--the cast-off apparel of ladies of fashion; and few of the sisterhood have carried the art of double cheating to so great a proficiency. With always a roll of bank-notes in her old leather pocket-book, and always a dirty canvass bag full of bright sovereigns in her pocket, she had ever the subtle temptation for her victims ready.

Madame Dalmas--for she must be called according to the name engraved on her card--was a little meanly-dressed woman of about forty, with bright eyes and a hooked nose, a restless shuffling manner, and an ill-pitched voice. Her jargon was a mixture of bad French and worse English.

"Bon jour, miladi Lucy," she exclaimed as she entered Lady Lucy's sanctum; "need not inquire of health, you look si charmante. Oh, si belle!--that make you wear old clothes so longer dan oder ladies, and have so leetel for me to buy. Milady Lucy Ferrars know she look well in anyting, but yet she should not wear old clothes: no right--for example--for de trade, and de hoosband always like de wife well dressed--ha--ha!"

Poor Lady Lucy! Too sick at heart to have any relish for Madame Dalmas' nauseous compliments, and more than half aware of her cheats and falsehoods, she yet tolerated the creature from her own dire necessities.

"Sit down, Madame Dalmas," she said, "I am dreadfully in want of money; but I really don't know what I have for you."

"De green velvet, which you not let me have before Easter, I still give you four pounds for it, though perhaps you worn it very much since then."

"Only twice--only seven times in all--and it cost me twenty guineas," sighed Lady Lucy.

"Ah, but so old-fashioned--I do believe I not see my money for it. Voyez-vous, de Lady Lucy is one petite lady--si jolie, mais tres petite. If she were de tall grand lady, you see de great dresses could fit small lady, but de leetle dresses fit but ver few."

"If I sell the green velvet I must have another next winter!" murmured Lady Lucy.

"Ah!--vous avez raison--when de season nouveautes come in. I tell you what--you let me have also de white lace robe you show me once, the same time I bought from you one little old pearl brooch."

"My wedding-dress? Oh, no, I cannot sell my wedding-dress!" exclaimed poor Lady Lucy, pressing her hands conclusively together.

"What for not?--you not want to marry over again--I give you twenty-two pounds for it."

"Twenty-two pounds!--why, it is Brussels point, and cost a hundred and twenty."

"Ah, I know--but you forget I perhaps keep it ten years and not sell--and besides you buy dear; great lady often buy ver dear!" and Madame Dalmas shook her head with the solemnity of a sage.

"No, no; I cannot sell my wedding-dress," again murmured the wife. And be it recorded, the temptress, for once, was baffled; but, at the expiration of an hour, Madame Dalmas left the house, with a huge bundle under her arm, and a quiet satisfaction revealed in her countenance, had any one thought it worth while to study the expression of her disagreeable face.

Again Lady Lucy locked her door; and placing a bank note and some sovereigns on the table, she sank into a low chair, and while a few large silent tears flowed down her cheeks, she at last found courage to open the three letters which had hitherto remained, unread, in her apron pocket. The first, the second, seemed to contain nothing to surprise her, however much there might be to annoy; but it was different with the last; here was a gross overcharge, and perhaps it was not with quite a disagreeable feeling that Lady Lucy found something of which she could justly complain. She rose hurriedly and unlocked a small writing-desk, which had long been used as a receptacle for old letters and accounts.

To tell the truth, the interior of the desk did not present a very orderly arrangement. Cards of address, bills paid and unpaid, copies of verses, and papers of many descriptions, were huddled together, and it was not by any means surprising that Lady Lucy failed in her search for the original account by which to rectify the error in her shoemaker's bill. In the hurry and nervous trepidation, which had latterly become almost a constitutional ailment with her, she turned out the contents of the writing-desk into an easy-chair, and then kneeling before it, she set herself to the task of carefully examining the papers. Soon she came to one letter which had been little expected in that place, and which still bore the marks of a rose, whose withered leaves also remained, that had been put away in its folds. The rose Walter Ferrars had given her on the eve of their marriage, and the letter was in his handwriting, and bore but a few days earlier date. With quickened pulses she opened the envelope; and though a mist rose before her eyes, it seemed to form into a mirror in which she saw the by-gone hours. And so she read--and read.

It is the fashion to laugh at love-letters, perhaps because only the silly ones ever come to light. With the noblest of both sexes such effusions are sacred, and would be profaned by the perusal of a third person: but when a warm and true heart is joined to a manly intellect; when reason sanctions and constancy maintains the choice which has been made, there is little doubt that much of simple, truthful, touching eloquence is often to be found in a "lover's" letter. That which the wife now perused with strange and mingled feelings was evidently a reply to some girlish depreciation, of herself, and contained these words:--

"You tell me that in the scanty years of your past life, you already look back on a hundred follies, and that you have unnumbered faults of character at which I do not even guess. Making some allowance for a figurative expression, I will answer 'it may be so.' What then? I have never called you an angel, and never desired you to be perfect. The weaknesses which cling, tendril-like, to a fine nature, not unfrequently bind us to it by ties we do not seek to sever. I know you for a true-hearted girl, but with the bitter lessons of life still unlearned; let it be my part to shield you from their sad knowledge,--yet whatever sorrow or evil falls upon you, I must or ought to share. Let us have no secrets; and while the Truth which gives its purest lustre to your eye, and its richest rose to your cheek, still reigns in your soul, I cannot dream of a fault grave enough to deserve harsher rebuke than the kiss of forgiveness."

What lines to read at such a moment! No wonder their meaning reached her mind far differently than it had done when they were first received. Then she could have little heeded it; witness how carelessly the letter had been put away--how forgotten had been its contents.

Her tears flowed in torrents, but Lucy Ferrars no longer strove to check them. And yet there gleamed through them a brighter smile than had visited her countenance for many a month, A resolve approved by all her better nature was growing firm within her heart; and that which an hour before would have seemed too dreadful to contemplate was losing half its terrors. How often an ascent, which looks in the distance a bare precipice, shows us, when we approach its face, the notches by which we may climb!--and not a few of the difficulties of life yield to our will when we bravely encounter them.

"Why did I fear him so much?" murmured Lady Lucy to herself. "I ought not to have needed such an assurance as this to throw myself at his feet, and bear even scorn and rebuke, rather than prolong the reign of falsehood and deceit. Yes--yes," and gathering a heap of papers in her hand with the "love-letter" beneath them, she descended the stairs.

There is no denying that Lady Lucy paused at the library door--no denying that her heart beat quickly, and her breath seemed well-nigh spent; but she was right to act on the good impulse, and not wait until the new-born courage should sink.

Mr. Ferrars had finished the newspaper, and was writing an unimportant note; his back was to the door, and hearing the rustle of his wife's dress, and knowing her step, he did not turn his head sufficiently to observe her countenance, but he said, good-humouredly,

"At last! What have you been about? I thought we were to go out before luncheon to look at the bracelet I mentioned to you."

"No, Walter--no bracelet--you must never give me any jewels again;" and as Lady Lucy spoke she leaned against a chair for support. At such words her husband turned quickly round, started up, and exclaimed,

"Lucy, my love!--in tears--what has happened?" and finding that even when he wound his arm round her she still was mute, he continued, "Speak--this silence breaks my heart--what have I done to lose your confidence?"

"Not you--I--" gasped the wife. "Your words at breakfast--this letter--have rolled the stone from my heart--I must confess--the truth--I am like Mrs. Beaufort--in debt--frightfully in debt." And with a gesture, as if she would crush herself into the earth, she slipped from his arms and sank literally on the floor.

Whatever pang Mr. Ferrars felt at the knowledge of her fault, it seemed overpowered by the sense of her present anguish--an anguish that proved how bitter had been the expiation; and he lifted his wife to a sofa, bent over her with fondness, called her by all the dear pet names to which her ear was accustomed, and nearer twenty times than once gave her the "kiss of forgiveness."

"And it is of you I have been afraid!" cried Lady Lucy clinging to his hand. "You who I thought would never make any excuses for faults you yourself could not have committed!"

"I have never been tempted."

"Have I? I dare not say so."

"Tell me how it all came about," said Mr. Ferrars, drawing her to him; "tell me from the beginning."

But his gentleness unnerved her--she felt choking--loosened the collar of her dress for breathing space--and gave him the knowledge he asked in broken exclamations.

"Before I was married--it--began. They persuaded me so many--oh, so many--unnecessary things were--needed. Then they would not send the bills--and I--for a long time--never knew--what I owed--and then--and then--I thought I should have the power--but--"

"Your allowance was not sufficient?"' asked Mr. Ferrars, pressing her hand as he spoke.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes! most generous, and yet it was always forestalled to pay old bills; and then--and then my wants were so many. I was so weak. Madame Dalmas has had dresses I could have worn when I had new ones on credit instead, and--and Harris has had double wages to compensate for what a lady's maid thinks her perquisites; even articles I might have given to poor gentlewoman I have been mean enough to sell. Oh, Walter! I have been very wrong; but I have been miserable for at least three years. I have felt as if an iron cage were rising round me--from which you only could free me--and yet, till to-day, I think I could have died rather than confess to you."

"My poor girl! Why should you have feared me? Have I ever been harsh?"

"Oh, no!--no--but you are so just--so strict in all these things--"

"I hope I am; and yet not the less do I understand how all this has come about. Now, Lucy--now that you have ceased to fear me--tell me the amount."

She strove to speak, but could not.

"Three figures or four? tell me."

"I am afraid--yes, I am afraid four," murmured Lady Lucy, and hiding her face from his view; "yes, four figures, and my quarter received last week gone every penny."

"Lucy, every bill shall be paid this day; but you must reward me by being happy."

"Generous! dearest! But, Walter, if you had been a poor man, what then?"

"Ah, Lucy, that would have been a very different and an infinitely sadder story. Instead of the relinquishment of some indulgence hardly to be missed, there might have been ruin and poverty and disgrace. You have one excuse,--at least you knew that I could pay at last."

"Ah, but at what a price! The price of your love and confidence."

"No, Lucy--for your confession has been voluntary; and I will not ask myself what I should have felt had the knowledge come from another. After all, you have fallen to a temptation which besets the wives of the rich far more than those of poor or struggling gentlemen. Tradespeople are shrewd enough in one respect: they do not press their commodities and long credit in quarters where ultimate payment seems doubtful--though--"

"They care not what domestic misery they create among the rich," interrupted Lady Lucy, bitterly.

"Stay: there are faults on both sides, not the least of them being that girls in your station are too rarely taught the value of money, or that integrity in money matters should be to them a point of honour second only to one other. Now listen, my darling, before we dismiss this painful subject for ever. You have the greatest confidence in your maid, and _entre nous_ she must be a good deal in the secret. We shall bribe her to discretion, however, by dismissing Madame Dalmas at once and for ever. As soon as you can spare Harris, I will send her to change a check at Coutts's, and then, for expedition and security, she shall take on the brougham and make a round to these tradespeople. Meanwhile, I will drive you in the phaeton to look at the bracelet."

"Oh, no--no, dear Walter, not the bracelet."