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VOL. 19. YQEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, FEBRUARY -27, 1873. JSTO. 9.
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JU (Original Jriarn.
Written for the Yorkville Enquirer.
THE MYSTERY OF MOSSGBOVE.
A ROMANCE OF THE 19TH CENTURY.
BY MRS. HENRY DEAS.
CHAPTER XV.
THE CONSUMMATION.
"Lucy," said the dying man, in a faint
tone, "I have done you a terrible wrong."
He clasped her hand feebly as he spoke,
and looked up at her with imploring eyes.
"Before I tell you all," he continued, "will
vnn nrnmise me vour forgiveness ?"
j ? r-~ j o
She could not resist the appeal. Without
knowing what dark confession?what dreadful
revelation?might be before her, she gave the
required promise.
Then, in broken and faltering words, with
many a pause between, many a murmured appeal
for pity, many an anguished expression
of remorse, he breathed out the history of his
^ checkered and guilty life.
With part of this my readers are already
acquainted ; but for the sake of enlightening
them on some still unexplained points, we
will rehearse it with him from the beginning,
r>nlv aivini* it in our own words instead of
j a e -- ?
his.
When very young he had met Bertha
Leighton, an orphan, who was reputed to be
immensely wealthy. . Stanley himself was
poor, but ambitious and mercenary, and his
friends jestingly counseled him to propose to
the young heiress, who would make him, in
every respect, an admirable wife.
This advice he accepted in earnest, and immediately
set about making himself agreeable
to Miss Leighton, who lived in the house
of a crabbed old uncle, whom her parents had
appointed as her guardian.
Bertha was an amiable, gentle girl, with no
force of character, but a clinging and affection_
ate disposition, and a credulous and impressible
mind. Soon the devoted attention of Stauley
joined to the attraction of his handsome person
and singularly fascinating manners, won
her regard, and it was not long ere she yielded
her simple heart wholly to his keeping,
giving hira the pure gold of her love in return
for the merest dross. Stanley did not love
her; he thought her silly and insipid, though
there was nothing in her mild, inoffensive nature
to call forth any harsher sentiment than
indifference. With some difficulty the consent
of her guardian was won to their marriage,
which accordingly took place; but Stanley
found to his disgust that her property was in
some way tied up so as to prevent his obtaining
absolute control over it, as he had desired
and expected to do.
Shortly after the marriage, the guardian
died, and there was no other near relative to
watch over Bertha's interests, or take any part
in their family affairs.
Stanley, in spite of his disappointment, did
not immediately manifest any unkindness to
his wife. The sincerity of her affection, and
her implicit and unquestioning obedience to
his slightest wish, could not but soften and
disarm him, and he was gentle and considerate
to her, not making any ardent demonstrations
of attachment, but satisfying her meek and
gentle heart with a show of affection which he
did not really feel, slender and incomplete as
it was.
At the end of a year, their child was born;
a blue-eyed boy, strongly resembling his
mother in appearance. From this time Bertha's
health, never very robust, began to fail;
and she was not considered strong enough to
have the care of her infant, which was sent oil
to the country to be nursed. It was her wish
to have the nurse in the house with her; but
Stanley, who was not partial to children, decided
differently, giving as his reason, his
opinion that the country air was the most
healthful for the child. With her usual docility,
his wife submitted, without opposition,
to his mandate ; but she pined for her little
one, whose arrival had been a source of great
^ happiness to her, and her cheerfulness gradually
declined, while her health continued to
grow weaker.
It was at this time that Stanley began to
show symptoms of indifference to his wife, and
weariness of her society. Her low spirits
were a source of annoyance to him, and her
pale face and languid air vexed him, without
exciting his sympathy. Gradually he got
into the habit of absenting himself from home,
and finding amusement in a more cheerful
atmosphere. Bertha observed the change,
and was deeply wounded by it; but instead of
reproaching him, she endeavored, with tender
asiduity to win him back, by increased de
monstrations of her attection, and a still more
constant endeavor than before to discover and
follow all his wishes.
Among Stanley's most intimate acquantances
was a young lawyer by the name of
Gresham, a man of the lowest principles, who
scrupled at no means by which he could attain
any end he had in view. He was one
who made use of his friends in every possible
1 way ; and in all his actions was guided solely
by self-interest, aud a view to his own advancement.
He learned casually from Stanley
how the property of tlie latter, or rather
his wife's property, was arranged. He kuew
something of the circumstances of his. marriage,
and was shrewd enough to guess at his
reftl sentiments toward Bertha. He possessed
great influence over Stanley, and felt sure
that if the latter could obtain the control of
the property, he himself would be a gainer by
it. He began very cautiously to throw out
hints on the subject, by which, without betraying
his own motives, he could discover
pretty well what were Stanley's feelings in
regard to it. These hints operated so successfully
as to produce in Stanley's mind a still
greater dissatisfaction than before, and an
ever-increasing desire to be put in possession
of what he termed his rights. Meanwhile his
coldness to Bertha increased; and the poor
girl, finding all her gentle arts to regain his
tenderness unavailing, sank into a deeper
melancholy, and displayed at times a nervous,
morbid irritability, the natural consequence
of the sorrow that weighed upon her, and the
lonely, depressing life that she led.
This change in her disposition, usually so
tranquil and submissive, was a new instrument
for Gresham to use for the accomplishment
of his design. He visited constantly at
the house, claiming to be a warm and confidential
friend; and under pretence of the
^ greatest sympathy and most heatfelt regret at
being obliged to state his opinion on the subject,
hinted to Stanley his fears that his wife
was fnalvfj her mind.
Whether Stanley accepted this opinion
merely for convenience' sake, and because it
was a welcome one, or whether in time he
succeeded in persuading himself that such
' was really the case (for the arch-fiend works !
by subtle means on a willing mind) he 9circe-!
j ly knew himself; but, step by step, urged on
by his temper and prompted by his own evil j
: passion, he decided to take measures to have ]
; his innocent wife put out of his way, having j
| learned from Gresham that if her insanity j
| once became an established fact, it would be ;
j easy to have everything else arranged to his '
satisfaction.
It was necessary to obtain the certificate of J
two physicians, and this seemed the most se-!
! rious obstacle in their way. But Gresham, j
; whose cleverness equaled his villainy, under- j
' took to arrange the matter for him, and the ;
| certificates were finally produced, without;
j Stanley actually knowing how the result had !
been accomplished,
j The next step was to find out a suitable re- j
| treat, to which the helpless Bertha might be !
! conveyed. Here again Gresham, acting al- i
j ways under the show of friendship, exerted j
I himself with his usual success, and it was de- j
cided that the private asylum kept by Leroy j
j and his wife (a pair of needy adventurers,!
! mkn nn.in fliia nr>r>iinntioci ns ft mPHTlS !
I VYUVS liavi UA^U W^/Ull VtU4 Wvu|mvtwi> www - ?
! of earning their livelihood) would be the
j place best adapted to their purpose.
My readers are already informed of the
manner in which poor Bertha was conveyed,
under the influence of powerful drugs, which j
stupefied her senses and made her incapable
of resistance, to this fatal prison, where the
treatment she received, and the agonizing reflections
she endured, finally destroyed her |
reason; and how she subsequently effected her i
escape, though by what means always re- j
raained a mystery. The body of a woman,
resembling her in general appearance, and j
wearing a dress similar to hers, was really J
found in a mill-stream, and supposed to be j
hers, though, as was afterward proved, this
must have been some other unfortunate, who
had come to an untimely end. Stanley, meanwhile,
was enjoying himself, or endeavoring to
enjoy himself?on the fortune of which Gresham
had put him in possession?in company
with his accomplice, who aided him in spending
his ill-gotten gains, taking care to profit
largely thereby. The two went together to
Europe, and soon afterward Gresham died,
fortunately for Stanley, vshom he would probably
bave ruined had his influence over him
contiuued much longer. Stanley sent on regular
remittances for the support of his little
boy, whom he removed from the care of his
foster-mother and her family (the only people
who knew of his relationship to the child)
and sent to a different residence, and afterward
to school, under the name of his nephew.
He felt no real affection for the little Claude,
* ? 1 ? I
whom he had not seen since ne was uu imam,
and, anxious to obliterate ns completely as
possible all traces of his past career, fell
upon this expedient to cut off, at least outwardly,
the last tie that bound him to the
memory of his lost wife. Claude, therefore,
never knew but that Stanley was his uncle,
and imagined that both his parents had died j
during his infancy, and there was no one with
whom he was permitted to associate who
could refute this idea.
So much for that portion of his life with
which Lucy was unacquainted.
He then went on to relate how his apprehensions
had been excited by the interview
Lucy had described to him, which she had j
held with the supposed madwoman in the i
grounds at Mossgrove. He had been aroused
first to a sort of superstitious fear by the account
she gave him, immediately after their
| marriage, of the vision she had seen, or fancied
she had seen in her mirror on her weddingday,
and the idea had occurred to him that it
might be a warning from the grave, the presage
of some mysterious fate in store for him.
Thoughts of his dead wife, in spite of his efforts
to shake them off, continually recurred
to his mind, aud he was haunted by a dread
of her re-appearance, either in the flesh or in
the spirit, which he tried in vain to reason
away. By chance he met the woman, Leroy,
passing herself off as a widow named Ford, in
Unionville, and at first felt only a sentiment
of disgust at the sight of one who was connected
with so dark a period of his life. Afterward,
however, he was glad to have an opportunity
of conversing with her, aud setting to i
rest the fears and doubts that tormented him,;
by a recapitulation, of all the proofs of his j
wife's death. He had also conversed on the j
subject with a lawyer, setting the case before
him as that of a friend of his, and obtaiued a
satisfactory opinion from him in regard to
the certainty of the evidence. And then
came the terrible shock of the appearance of
his long-lost wife, whom at first, as she rose '
before him in the moonlight, he actually believed
to be a disembodied spirit sent to visit
him.
Then followed a detail of the plan adopted !
by him to secure Bertha (discovering her to
be a confirmed lunatic) and to maintain the i
concealment of the plot; his seuding Lucy to I
Charleston, to effect the imprisonment of the i
maniac at Mossgrove while she was out of the j
way ; the pretended boardiug-up of the room !
I used as her prison, and the installation of!
! Mrs. Ford as her guardian, under the assumed !
j office of house-keeper.
The light seen from the window of the!
j "haunted room," and which had been allowed j
j to appear there in an unguarded moment, was 1
of course now easily accounted for. In general
the room was kept in total darkness, aud j
i every other precaution of course used to guard |
, against discovery.
! Claude (whom some prompting of slum- j
; bering natural affection had induced his father i
(to bring home, after the death of his teacher) \
i evinced occasionally some desire to penetrate '
1 the mystery of the "haunted room," and .was i
I discovered several times by the housekeeper '
in daugerous proximity to that portion of the
! building. In order to frighten him away, she
j had found means to arrange certain frightful i
appearances which operated so effectually on
. his timid nerves, as not only on one occasion 1
to terrify him into a fit, but prevented his ever
going in the direction of her apartments agaiu.:
Not content with this, she succeeded in obtaining
an undue influence over him, by pre-,
i teuding to be invested with a supernatural .
! power, and to confirm this idea, had recourse
! to such expedients as making hideous noises
outside his door, and in his closet, all of which
she represented to him as proceeding from
certain fiends under her control, who would
I undoubtedly carry him off in the end if lie
I over presumed to dispute her authority, nr be
tray her atrocious proceedings. Stanley was
only partially awareof her dislike to the child,
and never suspected her of being really guilty
of such wickedness toward him, which must
have been prompted solely by malice, a3 it
was in no way necessary for the furtherance
of her design. He overlooked all that did
come to his knowledge, for the sake of keeping
the woman in a good humor; for the fact
that she was the keeper of his terrible secret
made him dread to excite her anger, and put
him completely in her power.
[All this regardiug Claude, Lucy subsequently
learned from the child himself; but
I have introduced it here in order to maintain
the regularity of my narative.]
Stanley then related how, through carelessness
on Mrs. Ford's part, Bertha had escaped
from the room in which she was confined and
explored the house, while the house-keeper
endeavored, for some time, in vain, to find
her. It was she whom Lucy met in the entry,
and whose spectral appearance in the moonlight
had terrified the latter into a swoon,
during which the maniac was recaptured and
restored to her place of concealment?not
without force on the part of both Stanley and
the house-keeper, and much resistance and
shrieks of terror from the poor victim, who
imagined that they were going to murder her
? i t 11
tor wnat sne naa aone.
He then described Leroy's visit to hira, and i
his own distress and perplexity to know how
to act in this new dilemma. He also related
the circumstances of his encounter with him
in the grounds on the morning after the fire.
Whether he was the actual cause of the catastrophe
which was about to result in his death,
he knew not; but if such was the case, he
considered it as a visitation of God's judgment
upon him, and wished no steps taken to
appreheud Leroy or bring hira to justice.
He himself, he said, was the guiltier man of
the two, and felt too much concern for the
fate of his own sin-laden soul to cherish any
desire for revenge.
"And now, Lucy," he gasped, "you know
all. I am at least innocent of having inten- ]
tionally done you the wrong of marrying you 1
while Bertha still lived, for God is my wit-1
ness that I believed she had long been dead.
Of the other wrongs and trials you have suf- j
fered at ray hands, I can only say they were
all the result of this one awful catastrophe of
ray life. Do you still forgive me, as you
promised rae you would?"
And the broken-hearted, injured woman,
who was no wife, but felt herself an outcast
upon the earth?the innocent sufferer for his
guilt?bowed her head upon her hands and
murmured?
"I forgive you, as I trust to be forgiven."
"And Bertha?" faltered Stanley, "does she
yet live?"
"I do not know," said Lucy ; "she appear
ed in extremity when I last saw her."
"Find out for me, Lucy,"- said Stanley.
"Perhaps in these last moments, her mind may
be partially restored. If I could, I would
ask her forgiveness too; 'tis the only reparation
I can make now."
Lucy went into the next apartment, where
Bertha Stanley was lying. She still lived;
but it was evideut that it could not be long
ere the sands of life would run through, and
she, too, pass to the land where crime and
suffering would alike be forgotten.
"Missy," cautiously whispered Melissa, who
had been left in charge of the dying woman,
"she opened her eyes a little while ago, and
looked at me quite friendly and sensible like.
I do think she's got back her right senses."
Bertha now opened her eyes, and seeing
Lucy near her, said in a gentle tone?
"Who are you, sweet lady ? Your face is
one I have seen before."
"My name is Lucy," was the compassionate
reply. "Can I do anything for you ?"
"Nothing?ah I if you could; but there is
only one thing I desire now upon earth, and
that I canuot obtain."
"What is that?" asked Lucy.
"To see rny husband. I do not know where
he is?he sent me away from him, long, long
ago; but I do not mind that now. And I had
a sweet little baby, too ; but he is gone. If
you could only let me have them both back,
I should be so glad."
Her mind was not clear, but recollections
of the long past days seemed thronging upon
her, excluding all curiosity or wonderment at
her present surroundings.
"I can bring thera to you," said Lucy,
trembling, "but?but they are both greatly
changed."
"Changed! yes; but I am chauged, too;
you see I cannot move, except just my hand j
a little way?so?and I used to be quite well
once. I have a strange feeling too, as if something
were passing through me, and lifting
me up, higher and higher, into the air and
the sunshine. So you see I must bo changed,
or I would not have such feelings. Bring
thera, sweet Lucy, and let me see them once
more, before I am lifted quite away out of
their reach."
And now the couch on which Stanley lay
was wheeled into the room, and Claude, too,
was summoned to her side.
UPlmi/lA " nm'/l T haw f/vB'An/lnhinrr nlll'lil
VUVUUC, OUIVi JUUV/J iu UIW nvuuvnug
"this lady had a little boy once, named Claude,
just like you. She wants to see him again,
and you must let her suppose that you are
he."
She could not tell the innocent boy the story
of his father's guilt.
Stanley stretched out his hand to his wife,
saying iu broken tones, "Do you know me,
Bertha ?"
"Oh yes," she answered quite calmly, and
without manifesting any surprise. "I have
been waiting for you this long while. You
know you promised to come back !"
She smiled as she spoke, and closed her
eyes as if satisfied. Almost at the same moment,
without warning or apparent suffering
of any kind, her head sank back, and the last
faint sigh escaped her lips.
Her long-suffering life was ended, and the
new life of peace had begun.
A few hours later, Stanley, too, passed from
earth.
There they lay, side by side?the guilty and
the innocent, the destroyer and the victim ;
reunited in the mysterious and indissoluble
bond of death. .
More to be pitied than she whose trials were
now ended forever, was the lonely sufferer
left upon earth, to bear in secret the burden
of her grief and the terrible memory of the
past.
I Now that all was over, her long-taxed
strength gave way, and she sank unresistingly
I beneath the pressure of her despair.
CHAPTER XVI.
CONCLUSION.
j Lucy relapsed into a brain-fever, and for ;
, many days lay at the point of death.
Kind and compassionate friends ministered ;
; to her, and her physician was untiring in his j
I care and attention, frequently never leaviug j
the house for several hours at a time.
Rumors were afloat regarding the strange j
events which had occurred, but nothing cer- j
tain was known of the'particulars of the i
matters. All seemed to feel that a tragedy j
of some sort had been enacted, of which Lucy i
was, in some way, the victim, and pitied her i
accordingly. Curiosity, of course, was rife j
throughout the neighborhood, for in such a
quiet section of the country as that in which
these events had taken place, anything unusual
and mysterious was sure to excite much
speculation and remark.
The bodies of Stanley and Bertha had both
been deposited in a vault in the buryingground
of Mossgrove. Tho kind physician,
Dr. Rumley, had seen to all the arrangements
of the funeral, which had been as private as
possible, being attended ouly by the immediate
household and himself.
Mrs. Ford had not been seen since the fire,
and it was probable that, being dismayed at
the complication of misfortunes which had
occurred, and knowing that her services would
no longer be needed, she had taken advantage
of the confusion to withdraw as privately as
possible from the ill-fated house, and remove
herself to parts unknown. Some small but
valuable articles of silver disappeared at the
same time, and would, if searched for among
her movable possessions, most likely have
been found. Her trunk she left behind, but
as it only contained some of her clothing,
which even Melissa would have scorned to
wear, it was probable that the lighter luggage
she conveyed with her, added to the contents
of her well-filled purse, contained enough to
indemnify her for this slight loss.
Mrs. Carroll had been sent for at the beginning
of Lucy's illness, and the mother
hung in anguish over the couch where her
child wa9 lying, raving in delirium, and tossing
in the restlessness of disease, her heart
torn with remorse, and filled with bitter fears.
Should Lucy die, she could not, indeed, feel
herself accountable for her death; but her
conscience told her that she was the author of
much of her sorrow, which, perchance, had
led to this fearful illness. She, too, was ignorant
of all that had happened; but she
knew enough to excite the most gloomy apprehension,
and lead to conjectures of the
most perplexing and troubled nature.
Edward Carroll had accompanied his aunt
to Mossgrove, in order to give his protection
to the household and render any assistance
that might be required of him. His presence
was a comfort to her; for in this common
grief they seemed to be more closely drawn
together than ever before; and the thought
often occurred to her that, should her child's
life be spared, nothing could make her happier
than to see her united at last to the man
I who had so long and so fondly loved her.
At last, after weeks of anxious watching
and heartfelt prayers, Lucy was pronounced
i to he convalescent. The crisis of the disease
was passed; and though her strength was re|
duced to that of an infant, the physician had
I sufficient confidence in her naturally good
| constitution to predict that in time, though
very slowly, it would recuperate.
Her first anxiety was to be removed from
I Mossgrove, for the gloomy associations connected
with the place preyed constantly on
her mind. As soon as practicable, therefore,
it was decided that she should be taken to i
Charleston, Dr. Rumley thinking that the |
change of air and scene would probably bene-1
fit her more than anything else.
Scarcely had this move been effected how-:
ever, before a morbid fear of meeting any of i
her old acquaintances took possession of her,
and she entreated her mother to take her to
[ some quiet place where she need not dread in- j
trusion. Mrs. Carroll thought that cheerful j
society would be the best thing for her, and J
combated this desire of isolating herself, as
long as she could, but finally was obliged to
yield. A house was accordingly hired in a
small pine-land retreat, and thither they removed
for the summer.
Claude accompanied them; for Lucy had
resolved never to part from him, and he on
I his side was equally anxious to remain always
with her.
A imnrPBfiinn had heen made on the
child's mind by the last solemn scenes he had
witnessed at the time of Stanley's death, especially
the interview between the latter and
the unfortunate Bertha, around which hung
a mystery he tried in vain to fathom. He
still believed that Stanley was his uncle, and
that Bertha was an unfortunate being placed
under his care, whose existence it had been
thought proper, for some reason, to keep a secret
from general knowledge; and Lucy, who '
found all topics connected with that melancholy
period too sad to touch upon, never undeceived
him in regard to either particular,
until many years afterward, when he was old
enough to receive so important a communication,
and when she deemed it wrong to
withhold from him any longer the knowledge
of his parentage.
The little household at "the Pines" was a
dismal one enough, for none of its members
could rally sufficiently to introduce a spirit of
cheerfulness into their midst. Edward Carroll
came up from time to time to see them,
and his visits were the only gleams of sunj
shine that lit up the gloom of their existence. :
| Mrs. Carroll's haughty spirit was completely i
I kn.nkla/t 1\tt Viar /tanrrhtpp's miafnrfnnoa ortrl '
11 U 111 UJVU UJ ^ UlUlWtVUtlVW) MMM j
she seemed as incapable as Lucy of throwing j
off the mournful impressions created by the .
past.
For nearly two years they continued to re- j
side in the pineland, not returning to the city
even in the wiuter season, though Edward ;
used all his efforts of persuasion to induce !
them to abandon the melancholy mode of [
life. At last, however, Lucy made up her j
i mind to remove to her old home; as much for
i the purpose of placing Claude at school as '
anything else, for she did not wish to part1
with him, and it was necessary that hiseduca- j
i tion should be more carefully carried on than
, it could be under present disadvantages. Her
: conscience began to reproach her, too, for keep-!
ing him so long secluded, thus fostering all 1
: that was sad in his thoughts and disposition, i
! at a period when the natural joyousness of
youth should be most promoted. Accordingi
ly, Edward was commissioned to prepare i
' their city residence for their reception?a com-,
| mission which he set about executing with a
I joyful heart. Lucy's means wore ample I
enough to warrant the re-furnishing and inhabiting
of their own house, which had continued
up to the present time in the possession
of tenants, and Edward resolved that everything
should be made as cheerful and elegant i
as possible.
When the young widow and her compan- j
ions arrived, they found the establishment in
perfect order, and everything properly appointed
in the household, consisting of their
own family servants, who welcomed them
home with heartfelt joy.
Lucy appreciated her cousin's kindness,
and warmly thanked him for the interest he
had manifested, and the pains he had taken
in the completion of these arrangements.
"I would do far more, ray sweet cousin," he
rejoined, pressing her hand, "to restore the
smile to your lips, and lighten the burden
you still cherish at your heart."
Lucy turned from him with a sigh. She
felt then that the "burden she cherished"
could never be lightened, and grieved at the
manifestation, which Edward could not always
repress, of the hopes which still inspired
him for the future. It seemed to her that her
grief was of a kind thatcould not be lessened,
and that she had no right to look forward to
auything like happiness again in the world.
Hers had been no common sorrow ; but she
was wrong in nursing the morbid idea that
she was, in a measure, cut off by the peculiarity
of her position from the happier portion
of her fellow beings, aud that she had no
longer a right to mix familiarly with them as
of yore. This sensitiveness made her withdraw
so persistently unto herself, aud shun so
pertinaciously all the advances of her friends,
that she became the object of much commisseration,
and people thought Stanley must
have been a very superior person, and a most
exemplary husband, for his death to have left
such a deep impression on her heart. At
last even her mother thought it necessary to
remonstrate with her on this line of conduct,
fearing that if it continued it would act fatally
on both her mental and bodily health.
She tried to rouse her from her depression,
insisted on her mingling somewhat in society,
brought her interesting books to read, and
tried, in every possible way, to divert her
mind from the constant contemplation of her
misfortunes ; aud Lucy, still docile, and yielding
almost insensibly to the influence which
had formerly been her constant guide?but
which had not been exercised for so long a
time?gradually began to give in to these efforts.
It was not until three years had elapsed
after Stanley's death, that Edward ventured
to approach the subject nearest to his heart,
and plead once more for a return of his ardent
love.
Lucy wept when he spoke of his wishes and
hopes, and told him to seek another and a
happier bride. It was not for her, she said,
to think of ever marrying: it was the will of
Heaven that a burden should be laid upon
n.U v-tiirit krtn * f non rvV* 1 ? fo O 1 nn P I
UCl j W1UUI1 Olic 11J UCt UCUl UMVUgii ?IW M.v^v.
She spoke so decidedly that Edward would
not press the matter; but resolved to wait for
a favorable time to renew his suit. Though
discouraged, he was not hopeless; and he resolved,
without annoying her by too constant
attention, to show her, by every delicate
means in his power, how fixed and unalterable
was the desire of his heart, and to eudeavor
to effect, by patience and constancy, what
he could not hope to accomplish by any other
means.
She could not but appreciate his conduct,
- ? * i i- - J ? i.:_i_
and was toucneu oy a uevouou wmcii w?o
untarnished by selfishness, and sought so
carefully to act iu accordance with all the
consideration due to her feelings.
Occasionally a glimpse seemed to be revealed
to her, of a possible future, in which
a life of peace, if not of joy, might be vouchsafed
to her in compensation for the bitterness
of past grief.
She shrank, at first, from these gleams of
sunshine, which dazzled eyes so long accustomed
to look upon darkness, as a person recovered
from blindness shrinks from the first
return of light.
By degrees the idea became more familiar ;
to her, and she dared, sometimes, to indulge it j
without being haunted afterward, by the self
reproach which, at first, was the consequence
of such thoughts.
Aud so at last it came about that Edward,
watching his opportunity, ventured 'to press
his suit again; and this time she did not refuse
him positively, but bid him wait still a
while for his answer. And in all this there
was no touch of coquetry?no idle desire to
keep him in suspense?for her heart truly was
too sad to indulge in such feelings as these;
but she longed, and yet was afraid, to allow
herself to think of such a change in her life.
It seemed impossible that all the dreariness
which seemed a part of her existence, could
ever be banished, and the light of love and
happiness substituted in its place.
But Lucy was very young still?not yet
twenty-four?and at that age it is hard to resign
voluntarily all hope iu life. It was very
cheerless to her to look through the long vista
of coming years, and see therein only barren
rocks and gloomy skies, instead of blossoming
flowers and green meadows, rippling streams
and gladdening sunshine. And so it was no j
wonder that after a time she should yield to !
the wishes of those around her, and the prompt- j
ing of her own heart, and consent to find, at j
last, a haven of peace for her storm-tossed I
bark, in the manly and noble breast of him i
who had loved and waited so patiently and so !
long.
And %o Lucy became, after all, a happy j
wife. She never could quite forget the trials ,
of the past, or quite regain the buoyancy of i
spirit that had once been hers ; the shadows j
that had darkened those weary years, though !
rolled away now from her sky, had cast their j
tinge upon her mind, and even the sunshine ;
that now beamed over her could not entirely
disperse the faint, lingering trace of vanished (
sorrow. Thus her happiness, though pure j
and complete, was of a chastened and subdued
kind, and the smiles that lit up her lovely
face were rare and pensive still. But peace
and content reigned in her heart and shed i
their benign influence over her home; and1
love spread its sheltering wings around her,;
filling her with a blessed and holy calm, and
stilling with magic power the waves of unrest!
that had long surged over her soul.
Mossgrove, the scene of so many horrors, I
was sold, and the price it brought, added to I
Stanley's other property, was invested for
Claude, to be placed at his disposal on his
coming of age. Edward and Lucy, in the
capacity of his guardians, kept his interest
ever faithfully in view and treated him al-1
ways with the same affection and consideration
as if he had been their own son. Even
when children of their own grouped around
their hearth, enlivening their home with the j
echo of merry laughter and bounding feet,
they made no difference between them and ;
the orphan boy they had taken into their'
keeping; and Claude repaid them with warmest
love and gratitude, clinging especially to
Lucy .with a tenderness strengthened by time, j
and fostered by her motherly care. "Aunt,
Lucy," as he continued to call her, was, in his 1
eyes, the most loveable and perfect of human j
beings.
Contact with the miniature world of school, j
and cheerful intercourse with companions of;
his own age, had removed, by degrees, the
inclination to melancholy which had always i
characterized Claude. His natural timidity ;
and reserve passed away ; and though ever j
gentle, refined and sensitive, in an uuusual I
degree, he grew up brighter, braver and more
careless than in his nervous, delicate child-1
hood, he had ever seemed likely to do.
Mrs. Carroll's former pride of heart was
quite subdued, and all the gentle and womanly
instincts of her nature came out in full
force, making her old age a season of quiet
and serene content and gratitude for the
blessings which surrounded her. She devoted
herself to Lucy's children, who delighted
to minister to her comfort, and thought grandmamma
one of the most entertaining people
in the world, as she always had a fund of
stories at her command, when it was their
pleasure to demand them from her.
Of the Leroys, man and wife, nothing more j
was ever heard; nor does it concern any one j
connected with this story to know what had j
become of two individuals so unworthy of re*!
gard, and so associated in their recollection |
with the most fateful and gloomy period of
their lives.
Mossgrove has never been repaired. A
portion of the building that still remained
after the fire, was pulled down with a view to
rebuilding it in a more modern style, but its !
purchaser, an eccentric and wealthy individual,
changed his mind when this much had
been done, countermanded his original orders
and went off to travel in the East. Afterward
the place was again advertised for sale,
but no one ever purchased it. And so it remains
to this day, uninhabited, and presenting
a sceue of desolation well-befitting its past
melancholy associations, and the dark deeds
to which it stood witness. Its gloomy woods
are denser and more gloomy than ever, and
the sunshine penetrates more rarely than of
old their rustling foliage, and casts no friendly
gleam on the sullen river winding beneath
their shade. Fences and outbuildings are
falling to decay, and briars choke up the
paths and twine in thorny profusion about the
dilapidated porch, which, with a broken wall,
is almost a!1 that remains of the dwelling
?r?l> Aon AKiimLlin/v nrnna tlia Stfv
LlUUSCy QUUUfc HliUOC WUUIUUUg ^iv/|70 buv ??j j
that friend in adversity, still clings. The
hooting of the owls, the chirp of the crickets
and the evening concerts of the frogs, are the
only sounds that disturb the silence which
reigns over the domain ; the gleam of the i
fire-flies, as they flit at dusk among the trees,
the only lights that are ever kindled in its
shades; and over the deserted place, the very
name of which has become an unfamiliar and
almost forgotten sound, hangs a mantle, which
will probably never be lifted, of darkness,
mystery and gloom.
[the end.]
HJiscciliutcflus ftcaditig.
WHAT FOLKS ARE MADE OF.
The number of bones in a human body is
generally estimated at 245, of which there
are reckoned in the skull, head and face, 61;
iu the trunk, 64; in the arras and hands, 60;
and in the legs and feet, 60. The weight of
the skeleton is about one-tenth the weight of
the whole body.
Bone, when used as a lever, is 22 times as
strong as sandstone, 3J times as strong as
lead, nearly 2} times as strong as Box, Yew
on/^ Holr tlmKoi'
muu \/un bittt
The number of muscles in a man is 540,
being more than twice the number of the
bouea. The bulk of the body upon an average,
is equal to a cube of a little more than
sixteen inches on a side, and the amount of
water equals a cube a little more than fourteen
inches on a side, or nearly three-fourths
of the body.
An adult drinks about fifteen hundred
pounds of water yearly, and throws offthrough
the various water gates, niueteen hundred
pounds. The difficulty of accounting for the
four hundred pounds has led some to suppose
that the water is formed in the system by the
union of oxygen and hydrogen.
The salts" that have been enumerated are
found iu almost every part of the body.
Common salt (chloride of sodium) is found in
every fluid and solid, except enamel. The
whole amount in the human body is 277
grains. It serves many important cases.
Carbonic acid is found in the lungs, alimentary
canal, the blood and urine. The
amount of carbonic acid, however, varies,
being from one to three pounds in twentyfour
hours, and the causes of variation are
temperature, age, sex, state of health or disease,
development, of the body, muscular exertion
or repose. This gas (carbonic acid)
contains in every 100 pounds, 28 pounds of
carbon (charcoal) and 72 pounds of oxygeo
(gas). Hence, the maximum weight of carbon
which escapes in this form from the lungs
of a full grown man is about fifteen ounces in ;
twenty-four hours.
The average amount of air which passes in
and out of the lungs at each inspiration and j
expiration is about 20 cubic inches; the j
amount passed through them in twenty-four !
hours is about 622,000 cubic inches, or, as !
others estimate it, from 3000 to 5000 gallons j
every day. This varies greatly. In the first j
place, the lower the temperature the greater '
the amount of animal heat to be generated, j
and, consequently, the amount of air to be ;
consumed. Also, a person laboring in the j
open air breathes more deeply than one con-;
fined to the house. From a series of 5000 ob- i
servations made by Dr. Hutchinson, the fol- j
lowing principle is deducted: "For every inch !
of stature from five to six feet, eight addition- j
al cubic inches of air are given out at a forced j
expiration after a full inspiration." That is, J
if a person five feet six inches in height can ;
expire 422 cubic inches, a person five feet
seven inches can expire 430 cubic inches.
The nails of the hand grow about two-fifths1
of a line per week, while those of the feet require
four times that period for the same j
amount of growth. Cases are on record ;
where the nails have been shed periodically.
The time necessary for a nail to grow its whole
length varies from twelvo to twenty weeks.
The nails are thickest at their most convex
portions, instead of their edges; they grow
only so long as they are cut, and among the
literary class of the Chinese, who never cut
their nails, they are said to attain only a
length of two inches.
In man, the average weight of the brain is
54 ounces; in females, 45. The average capacity
of the crania of Germans and AngloSaxons
is 90 cubic inches. Daniel Webster's
cranium contained 122 cubic inches.
The amount of blood in a healthy body is
about eighteen pounds, or ten quarts. The
heart is six inches in length and four inches in
diameter, and beats 70 times per minute, 4200
times per hour, 100,800 times per day, 36,722,000
times per year, 2,565,440,000 times
in Hirep nnnrp jind ten vears : at each beat 2i
became exhausted. Monday morning the
game was in full blast; but at ten o clock
Bailey moved an adjournment, alleging that
his official duties required bis presence in the
Senate chamber. Stokes remonstrated, but
the sergeant-at-arras persisted, and rose from
the table. The Governor grumbled and scolded,
but finally gave it up, swearing that if
he had suspected Bailey would break up the
game thus prematurely he would have seen
him?any where before he would have invited
him to join the party.
Mr. Webster played whist, but indifferently
only. The Virginians were adicted to that
stupid game known as shoe-maker loo. President
Tyler was fond of loo, and on a
raiuy day, when there was no great pressure
of public business, he has been known to
make up a game at the White House, and
play all day, having dinner in his chamber.
His companions were usually William Selden,
Treasurer of the United States, Carey Selden,
his brother, storekeeper at the navy yard,
and sometimes Governor Gilmer, of Virginia,
with now and then another favorite. The
amount played for was always small, but Mr.
Tyler was as much delighted at taking a pool
as if he had won hundreds.
Public opinion was not so averse to gaming
in Washington as most of the northern cities.
Probably the tone of public morals is no more
elevated now than it was then, but there was
then less pretence and ostentation of purity.
At a large party given by the wife of a cabinet
minister, Mrs. Clay, chaperoning a young
lady from the North, passed through a room
where gentlemen were playing cards, Mr.
Clay among the number.
"Is this a common practice?" inquired the
young lady.
"Yes," said Mrs. Clay, they always play
when they get together."
"Don't it distress you to have Mr. Clay
gamble?"
"No, my dear," said the good old lady, composedly,
"he almost always wins."
In the winter of 1841, Gen. Scott, Mr. Clay,
Mr. Fox, and Mr. Bodisco played whist once
a week for some time, the stake, asr usual,
' ? ?- J -J J-11 T>l _1 3 ?
oeing one nunarea cioimrs. j.ucj pmjrcu a
match game, Scott and Bodisco against Clay
and Scott. They were well matched, and for
a long time the game was pretty- even. At
'ength fortune favored Messrs. Clay and Fox,
l id they were ten or twelve games ahead.
"Gentlemen," said the Russian minister, rising
from the table, "the game has closed for the
season. The appropriation is exhaust" And
sure enough not another game would he play,
much to the disgust and vexation of General
Scott, who, of course, was a considerable loser.
?
Covering Corn.?I have tried all known
ways of covering corn, the hoe, the plow, the
harrow, and the foot of the dropper, but I
have found none so good as the board, just
such as is commonly used for covering cotton.
It is quicker by far than anything'but the
harrow, and does the work better than that.
It covers it an even depth, and pulverizes the
earth round the seed. I have, tried it and
found it to work like a charm.?S. W. B. in
Southern Farm nml Home.
ounces of blood are thrown out of it; 175
ounces per minute, 656 pounds per hour, 7f
tons per day. Iu an ordinary life of a man,
the heart beats at least 3,000,000,000 times,
and propels through the aorta 1,500,000 tons
of blood.
The amount of gastric juice secreted by
the stomach of a well fed grown person, has
been estimated at from 60 to 80 ounces in
twenty-four hours. A healthy stomach contains
no gastric juice except where food is
taken, and by its contact with the surface of
the mucous membrane excites the secreting
organs to pour out the gastric fluid in the
requisite quantity. If the stomach is in a
heahhy condition, and the brain healthy, the
quantity of gastric juice generated or thrown
out will be just sufficient for healthy digestion.
If the condition of either organ be impaired,
the gastric juice secreted may be
either deficient iu quantity or vitiated in quality.
Let us study ourselves, that we may understand
ourselves better. The proper study of
mankind is Man.
GAMBLING IN WASHINGTON.
Washington for many years had been a
hot bed for gamblers of high and low degree.
There were a dozen faro banks on the Avenue
within a stone's throw of Gadhy's on the corner
of Sixth street. Many of these establishments
had club rooms attached, where members
of Congress and others amused themselves
with brag, viugtet-un, and whist. Drawpoker
came into vogue at a later day. Gambling,
and for large sums, was common, particularly
among southern and western memhflra.
Some nf them from Ohio. Indiana.
Kentucky, Tennessee, and the Gulf States
squandered their modest per diem, then eight
dollars only, at the gambling table, and some
impaired their private fortunes by the same
indulgence. S. S. Prentice was reported to
have lost thirty thousand dollars the first
winter he was in Congress.
The most notorious and dashing gambler of
the day was Edward Pendleton. He came
from Virginia, where he was well connected,
his family being of the best blood in the State,
and he married a most respectable and
accomplished lady, whose father held a re- .
sponsible office under the government. Pendleton
gave sumptuous entertainments at his
club-house, which were well attended by some
of the most eminent public men of the district.
Mr. Mangum, then President of the Senate,
John J. Crittenden, John M. Botts, John B.
Thompson, of Kentucky, and Linn Boyd,
Speaker of the House, and others of lesser
note, were frequently his guests. Congress
had enacted stringent penal laws to prevent
gambling, but they were a dead letter, unless
some poor devil made a complaint of foul
play, or some fleeced blackleg sought vengeance
through the aid of the grand jury; and
then the matter was usually compounded by
the payment of money.
Whist was a favorite^ame with the foreign
ministers and the elder statesmen. Mr. Clay,
General Scott, Mr. Bodisco, and Mr. Fox?
nephew of Charles James Fox?who represented
William the Fourth and Queen Victoria,
often played together, a hundred dollars being
the usual stake. They generally played well,
as Hoyle taught the game; but many of the
members of the fashionable clubs of New
York play with more skill than was dreamed
of forty years ago. Governor Marcy was a
great lover of whist, but he would never bet
money on the game. There were always inveterate
whi8ter8 in the Senate. A story was
current at one time of a protracted sitting at
the card-table, at which Governor Stokes, of
North Carolina, and Mountjoy Bailey, sergeant-at-arms
of the Senate, were two of the
players. It ran in this wise: the Senate adjourned
from Thursday over to Monday. The
party sat down to cards after dinner Thursday
evening. They played all night and all the
next day, only stopping occasionally for refreshments.
The game was continued Friday
night and Saturday, through Saturday night
and all day Sunday and Sunday night, the
nlnvpra rpst.inor fnr ft anatch ofsleeD. as nature