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lewis m. grist, proprietor.j A" |nbejtenbcnt Jfamilg Uctospaper: .for fjje promotion of fire political, Sucial, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of ijje j$out|. |TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. "VOL. 19. YORIvVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MARCH QO, 1873. ^"O- 1Q JU (Original Jftwg. 1 Written for the Yorkvillc Enquirer. J, FLORIMOND; | OR, Divobce or No Divorce. 4 . ! BY MRS. CLARK WARING. CHAPTER VII. florimond's haven. Let us return to Mrs. Dandridge. On reaching her own room, after such a precipitate | ( retreat from the library, she hastily threw on i > her straw sea-side, throwing over it a thick brown veil; next she took from her wardrobe I a small traveling sachel, evidently packed 1 ready for a sudden emergency, and then, with . i? ! the utmost care, so as not to awaaen n, snu i j took up the sleeping child. Berta was a sound sleeper, and behaved beautifully on the , occasion. Avoiding the front part of the J house, toward which Col. Dandridge was now approaching, Florimond made her way hastily down the private stairway, which com muni- ( cated with the upper part of the house, rau j across the back yard and through the kitchen ( garden, to a email gate, which opened on a , different street from the front of the house. , Passing through this, she closed it carefully j after her, and then keeping as much as possi ble on the outskirts of the town, walked as rapidly as her unusual burden would allow. ' Finally, she left the town entirely, and cross- j ing an open space, came in sight of a large ( brick building surmounted by a cupola and , surrounded by a high brick wall. It was the convent of St. Eustache. Passing the front j gate of this handsome building, Florimond proceeded to the back of it, and stopping at a small postern gate rang for admittance. Sonae moments elapsed and then footsteps * were heard within, and the mellow voice of a f young Irish girl, whose face was barely visible through the crack of the gate, asked what was wanted. . "Is Madame Ignatius at home ?" enquired Florimond. "I do not know?I will see." "Wait," said Florimond; "tell her the ! hawk is flying in the air, and the scared J pigeons flee from the dovecote." This message brought Madame Ignatius herself; a woman apparently in the prime of ] life, and having a countenance whose divine sweetness and serenity possessed a subtle ' charm for every beholder. ^ "Welcome to the wanderers!" was her salutation, extending both hands and drawing Florimond into the shaded garden. Taking the child from her wearied arms, she said? "Although I have been expecting this message every day for the last year, still it took me greatly by surprise. When did he come ?" "Just a few moments ago. I saw him, fortunately, as he was galloping up the oak avenue. Oh! how it has excited me, and I am so weary." "No wonder," said Madame. "It is a long 1 distance, and Berta no feather. Come right * into the house;" and she led the way to a c small white cottage, nestliug behind the main 1 building, and looking like a fairy habitation ^ in the midst of its overarching trees and clam- ^ bering vines and wilderness of flowers. ? "I do think this is more delightful than j those refreshing groves on the banks of Ilyssus J and Cephisus !" said the weary Florimond, sinking down on the first seat she could find. * "I do think it is the most peaceful spot on i earth. Dear Madame, I shall never cease to * bless the propitious fate which led to our meet- i ing around that poor woman's dying bed ; j which led to your noble friendship, and that ( sympathy which has soothed and comforted ' ' me in adversity; wnicti gave me ine aavautage of your sublime companionship, elevating | my thoughts and aspirations to higher attain-1 ments of mental and moral culture; and 1 which gave me, too, the entrance to this seclu-1 ~ ded spot. Ye grand old trees, ye fragrant J bowers, believe me, the sweet hours I have passed beneath the spell of your enchantment,j shall dwell in my memory forever!" "Nor shall these trees and bowers soon for-! get the lovely presence and the eloquent voice j which ha3 interpreted so lovingly their mute j language. But, Florimond, I am dying of curiosity. What were your feelings wheu you saw Albert ?" "I felt as if I had been suddenly stunned," ; said Florimond. "For a few moments I could not move, and then I felt so odd I thought I was going to j oijoi* rrnf nut nf rnftin up stairs, and down again with Berta in my ' arms?and through the garden, arid through ( the streets, is a mystery to me." )s "Strength from above," suggested Madame. ;' "I don't know," said Florimond slightly ( srailiug. "Grandmother would differ from i you there and say rather 'strength from Satan, j1 who helps his own.' She thinks it altogether 1 "" a most ungodly piece of business." i J "And how does Albert look ?" ' "Better than ever," said Florimond, her ' face flushing. "I do believe, Madame, he is i' thehandsomest creature that walks this earth." I' "What an odd compound you are!" ex- 1 claimed Madame. "How in the world could 1 you fly from him, feeling so keenly the power '1 of his beauty ?" j J "I will tell you," said Florimond, in sullen bitterness. "He has injured me, and I never j forgive an injury ; and then he has made me unhappy and I'll never forgive him that; and ,' what I will least forgive of all, is the poor 1 requital he has made me for my heart's deepest, tenderest affection. I know there is a : vast wealth of love in his proud heart, and do i1 you think in lieu of that I will be satisfied with bare tolerance ? Stone for bread ?" 1 "To have thirsted for the sea: to have received ( A drop no bigger than a drop of dew !"' "I think, Florimond," said Madame, "you ! must have Italian blood in your veins, for < your eyes have all the slumberous glory and 1 the deceitful languor of the Italian ; and, be- I sides, you are so vindictive." 1 j "The blood in my veins," said Florimond, I "whether it be Italian or English, or what not,'! is that kind of blood, which, having received i * the dead y poison of unkindness from hands i it loved, will never euable me to turn and i cringe and lick those hands again !" "But," said Madame, "suppose other women followed your example, what an upheaving of < society there would be." "Other women," said Florimond; "other women are either wiser or greater fools than I am." "Wiser, my dear?wiser! Submission is the best for woman." "And," said Florimoud passionately, "I suppose suffering is the best for her; and the curse of poverty and want is the best for her ; and harsh words and crushed affection, and tyranical oppression; and when she has passed through all the accumulated evils and trials of this wretched human existence?all of which, according to your creed, are the Kocf fnr lmr?nnd l?vs down her noor head vvwv 4W4 ? "J - ?? ? - * hoping to 6nd some rest in the grave, then, I suppose, the eternal torments of purgatory are the best for her!" "Mon Dieu /" exclaimed Madame, crossing herself devoutly, and perfectly aghast at the effect her words had produced on Floriraond ; "what would you have, then, Florimond? Men are no happier than women." "They ought to be," said Florimond, who had sunk down, pale and exhausted; "they have more independence, less physical suffering, more privileges?" "Ah! So you want to vote, and have privileges, and be to all intents and purposes | a?" j "No, I do not!" cried Florimond. "I despise woman's rights?and voting and public speechifying and all that. I wouldn't give a fig for them all! But I do think men ought to love us better, and be truer to us longer,; and never slight us or give us angry words,: and above all, never pretend to love us when j they don't!" And poor Florimond hid her face j in her haudkerchief and wept like a child.! No, not like a child ! For childhood's tears j are but refreshing spring-showers, to be followed by the purer atmosphere, the more ra- \ liant sunshine; but the tears which fall in , 'the winter of our discontent" are wrung from I a wounded breast, o'ercharged with its own jitterness and a saddened spirit which can j lever more feel the lightness and the glory of; in unclouded sky! "Poor, poor dear," said Madame, compas- i sionately. "The trials of this day have been j ;oo much for you. Lay your poor head on I this pillow and try to drown your sorrow in leep slumbers of forgetfulness. Do not think [ cannot feel for you. I, too, have walked in thorny paths?but sleep now. Sweet sleep! Dfthave I sought respite in thy embrace, and prayed to the Holy Virgin that in thy oblivious arras I might rest from this weariness of Besh forever!" And now there was mingled with Florimoud's sighs and tears, the souud of music. Borne on the mild evening air, there came trom the Convent chapel, the sweet tones of ;he Hymn to the Virgin : "Aye-Maria! Thou canst hear though from the wild Thou canst save amid despair. Safe, may we sleep beneath thy care Though banished, outcast, and reviled? 9 ? * * * S SMother hear a suppliant Child! Ave-Maria!" CHAPTER VIII. 4 THE WHITE COTTAGE. On the second day after Florimond's arrival at the White Cottage, she wrote a note to ler grandmother, knowing the anxiety the ild lady would suffer on her account. The lote was without date or any indication of ler abode, and was worded as follows : "Do not worry about me, my darling mother! am in most pleasant, comfortable quarters, and tm perfectly satisfied, except 011 account of mv separation from you. I hope we shall not be carted long. It depends, of course, entirely on D. As soon as he takes his departure, I will eturn home. Ilerta is well and as merry as possible, and she sends you a hundred, hundred kisses, and says she wants very much to see her beloved grandnother. Such a little prattler as she is?and such 1 little cherub! I protest, the people hero do lotliing but pet and spoil her. Adieu, dearest nother, and make your mind perfectly easy about no. I luivc the kindest of friends, and plenty or; money to supply every want?what more would J )ne need ? * Your devoted, Florimond." Florimond spoke truly, wlieu she said she ivas comfortably and pleasantly situated. In ber affectionate zeal, the hostess of the "White Cottage" could not do enough for her guest. Madame Ignatius was, indeed, a lady of the most graceful manuers, elegant refinement and j raried accomplishments, who had traveled al- j most over the entire civilized world, and j possessed a fund of information and a store of j oleasant reminiscences, which alone rendered ! * ber companionship a rich treat, without the i iccessories of her beautiful surroundings, j There was a mystery about her, too, which i piqued curiosity and added another attraction | :o this remarkable woman. Though she lived a perfectly secluded life, | rarely walking beyond the confines of the ; tiigh convent walls, and spent most of her j lime ministering to the wants of the poor and , the alleviation of the sick, yet she dressed ' handsomely, and Florimond could not discov- i 2r that she belonged to any of those religious societies existing in the Roman Catholic! church. She seemed, too, possessed of suffi- j merit wealth, for she lived in a style of ele- j jance, and her cottage was furnished in the; most complete, luxurious manner. The rich-1 ust carpets, the heaviest curtains, beautiful I paintings, handsome furniture, and indeed, j everything to gratify the eye and a cultivated ' taste, were to be found in this diminutive establishment. To Florimond, the little parlor ivas a place of endless variety and unceasing imusement. It was filled with pictures, shells, x variety of musical instruments, objects of. art, and curiosities gathered from all parts of the world. In this cozy apartment?perfect' iu its way?Florimond passed some of the most interesting moments of her life, listen-! ing to Madame's beautiful performance on the harp, looking at books of rare engravings, and hearing from Madame's eloquent lips the , incident or story connected with every tiny 1 shell or tiniest rock. Through Madame's in-. fluence, Florimond was invited to visit the Convent, where she met the Mother Superior : " ' t ' 1 1 I Mid some 01 tne oisiers, anu pusseu some . charming hours in conversation with them.' Yes, Florimond was almost happy! Madame Ignatius watched her moods, and exerted all of her various gifts to draw her out, aud to , keep her thoughts from dwelling on sorrowful ' things. All of her varied powei'6 were brought in requisition to prevent their quiet life from , becoming monotonous to her guest. But with : Madame's affectionate solicitude and the claims of Madame's society, this danger did not seem to be imminent. Soon there was a new excitement and interest added to their pursuits. Madame was very fond of hearing Florimond read aloud, for as we have mentioned before, our heroine inherited her grandmother's re-, markable voice, and read with taste and ex pression. One day they were sitting under the trees, and Florimond was reading imtnor-; tal words from the "Bard of Avon." The! play was Ilenry VIII. Florimond read the soliloquy of Wolsey, beginning? "Farewell, a loop farewell to all my greatness! j This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, j , And bears his blushing honors thick upon him : , The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost; And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely j His greatness is a ripening?nips his root, And then he falls, as I do/' i She had rend the subsequent conference j ! with Cromwell and reached those lines? "O Cromwell, Cromwell, j Had I lnitserv'd my God, with half the zeal I serv'd my king, lie would not in mine ago i Have loft liie naked to mine enemies," i when Florimoiid felt the book knocked from j her hand, and on looking up in utter astonish- j i nient, saw Madame, half-crying, half-laugh-! ing, and indeed excited to an excessive pitch, j standing over her. Under such unusual cir- j | cumstances, Floriraond scarcely knew what i to say or do, but she faltered out, rather' i frightened? ! "What, what is the matter ?" j "Oh ! Floriraond," exclaimed Madame, em- j I bracing her, and speaking with the greatest: enthusiasm, "that was grand ! Child, you I have a wonderful, wonderful voice! Mon j Dieu ! if the grand old maestro, Francois Delsarte, of Paris, ce beau Paris, ma ville natale, only had the training of that voice and these flexible features for a few months, he would make you, Floriraond Dandridge, an ornament and an honor to histronic art. Come ! this rare talent shall not be wasted. I will j teach you all the grand old maestro taught me, of this grand, this most potent of all the fine arts. You did not have the profound satisfaction of knowing, did you, that some few years ago, your present humble friend was a . pupil of Francois Delsarte ?" "No, I did not," said Floriraond, wondering who on earth Francis Delsarte was, had been or could be! "Iu fact, you don't know a thing about ] your dear friend, do you?" j "No, I do not, except that she is the most ( charming, most beautiful, most interesting wo- ' man I ever knew." "And that she loves you very dearly." "Yes, I believe that, too." ' "Well, and don't you want to know someil 1 -X T Off ining moreuuuui n?r; "To speak' truly, yes," said Florimond, | laughing; "I am dying of curiosity." "Well, I will tell you," said Madame. "You gave meyour confidence and now I will give you mine. 'Tis but fair. But first bring me a sofa cushion, ma petite, and let me make j a couch of this rustic bench." Florimond brought the pillow, and Madame , Ignatius, telling Susan, the Irish girl, who j now acted in the capacity of Berta's nurse, to , take the child walking in the Convent garden, settled herself comfortably, and began her j story. "My name, before I was married," said f Madame, "was Marguerite AmSlie de Chau- , mont, and I was born in Paris. However, my father, who was a man of wealth and taste, lived for the greater portion of the year on his ' ancestral estates in the province of Lorraine. The first sixteen years of my life passed away 1 smoothly and happily, without any thing to 1 mar the horizon of my youthful felicity. When I had arrived at 'this sweet April verge . of womanhood,' and during one of our annual sojourns in Chateau de Chaumout, I became acquainted with a young man whose ' name was Clement Dupres. He had just at- ^ tained his majority, and was a young man of s good family, retiring manners, and a most affectionate disposition. He had been reared 1 in retirement and knew little of the world, i Ah ! I think he had the most sincere, the tru! 1 est heart, and the noblest form, that ever had | to be laid away in the cold grave. Many i j years have passed since then, and it has been ;1 my lot to be a wanderer on this earth ; but j among all the men I have ever seen, I have ! yet to meet the equal of Clement Dupres! j < But I must not anticipate. Clement was for j 1 several months a guest in the Chateau de ! 1 Chaumont, and being distant relatives and j1 both so young, we were allowed greater free-1( dom of intercourse than young people usually j i enjoy in my native land. Soon Clement be- < came attached to me with all the enthusias- i < tic ardor of an ungoverned nature, and 1,1 loved him warmly in return. For a time we : I were very happy?too happy?for this earth, j i Ah ! I remember as if it were but yesterday, ! the heavenly delight of those hours, passed in :! his society, sitting amid the flowers with my I < hand clasped in his, or walking over the pur- ' pie hills, or strolling iu the dim regions of the .' forest, or sitting in the soft, fathomlessshadows | of the moonlight. In our hearts dwelt ado-: i ration, and over our happy heads was spread ' i the pearl-blue sky of cette belle France ! j "Well, we were not happy long; but God J judges best for us! One gentle summer night, j1 when I sat all alone on the porch, gazing into the bright moon's face, and wondering why my j' Clement did not seek me as usual, he sudden- j i ly made his appearance and came toward me j < with the greatest agitation. The 'eight moon | i fell full on his face, and it was as pale as j i death. I 1 "'Marguerite, Marguerite!' he cried, clasp-1 i ing me convulsively to his heart, 'they are 1 ] going to destroy our happiness?they are ! i going to sacrifice you to the God, Mammon.' ! 1 And when Clement was sufficiently calm, he ' < unfolded to me the whole matter. ; i "There was an elderly Englishman, also a 1 guest at Chateau de Chaumont, to whom I had !1 the strongest aversion. He was quite elderly i and possessed only oue recommendation?he :' was reputed immensely rich. At this time, i 1 my father, in consequence of gVeat extrava- i gance in our mode of living and great care-! lessness in pecuniary matters, was very heavi-1 i ly in debt. One of his creditors, to whom < he owed a large amount, threatened to sell j the house over our heads?our aucestral halls, i around which clustered the fondest and proud-! est associations! You may imagine how such i a painful state of things affected my parents, j especially, wion pax, a man of high birth,! proud of his name and long descent. In his t distress he confided his pecuniary difficulties : to the rich Englishman, who immediately { proposed to pay the debt, in consideration of i receiving my hand in marriage. Think of it, Florimond ! to give up my young lover, who idolized me, and whom I adored, to become , the wife of that stern old man ! "Mon Dieu ! it was worse than death! For several months I fought against it bravely, j but what could one poor girl do with so many j odds against her ? Aud then the chateau ; I could not bear to see our dear home sold! j Well, Florimond, you know how it ended. I married the Englishman, and the only words I heard while standing at the altar, were the j last words that ClGnient ever spoke to me in I this world: 'Marry hira, Marguerite?marry \ g him; but if you do, it will kill me, and my ! n blood be on your bauds!' "My husband carried me immediately to England. I knew not the language, and the > people were all strange and cold to me, and I! was very unhappy ; but I tried, conscientiously, to make the best of it. When I had been ^ married about three months, I was informed j one day, that there was a gentleman in the r< parlor who wished to see me. I asked, petu- ( w lantly, whom it could be, ami why he had not j S sent his card ; but when the servant told me < w he was sure that it was a French gentleman, f my irritation changed to joy, for I fancied it j11 was my brother or my father, who wished to ; 8 give me a happy surprise. The light was ob-, ei scure in the parlor ; so on entering the door, I Cl could only distinguish the figure of a man, standing with his back to me, near the fire c: place. When I had approached very near to a him, he turned suddenly, and I beheld the ^ well-known features of Clement Dupres; but w Ah ! how changed. He gave me no saluta- t( tion. He did not speak a word ; but seeing ^ by my agitated countenance, that I recog- s< nized him, burst into a bitter laugh?the wild laugh of a maniac, Florimond; and then, as ' ^ sudden as a flash of lightning, ere I could j s< dream or think of such a fearful catastrophe, ! e: I saw the flash and heard the ringing report ^ of a pistol, and Cldment lay at my feet a a corpse! "I can scarcely tell you anything more ^ about that time. I remember being lifted from the body, by whom I do not know, and *= dragged away, my white dress red with my !* poor dead Clement's blood ; but that is all I a do remember. "Well, we passed most of our time traveling after that, and it was at this period that I collected most of those pictures and curiosities / you admire so much. The brightest of them 18 have but a melancholy beauty to me. The J11 saddest part of my story is yet to coraje. This ruthless destruction of my happiness was a vain sacrifice, for in five years' time the beau- . biful old Chateau de Chaumont passed into |8 strangers' hands! My husband's fortune was ^ not, by half, so enormous as had been reputed a and commonly believed. Nevertheless, he 1 could have paid off, by yearly instalments, 1 the mortgage on the Chateau, but for the ex- ^ cessive indulgence of a vice which had be- 1 ? J T-TJa AnAvmnna UUIIJtJ QCUUUU liaiUiQ tu liiiu* jLAia vuvimvuu gambling debts ruined both himself and my w father. So after all, the dear old Chateau was knocked down to the highest bidder, and ^ my dear little Ralph, for whom my motherly e* heart had planned out such a brilliant career, ai was, like Lucius Cornelius Sylla and many f1 another great man beside, born to a very ' scanty fortune. But this child's birth was the . richest of God's blessings to me. It has sweetened an existence which, otherwise, would have been, at times, unbearable!" "Is that all ?" asked Florimond, still wrapped in breathless attention. "Is that all ?" "What more is there to tell, after all the 11 separate incidents and reminiscences I have related to you at different times? I do not ^ wish to bore you with repetition." "But what became of Ralph?your son ? a| Did he die?" ? "Die! No, thank God and the holy Moth- ,1 3r, he did not. He is now a man grown, five jc feet eleven, and a handsomer man you never saw?at least to my taste !" "I can readily believe it," said Florimond, ^ smiling, "if he resembles his mother." "Sweet flatterer!" said Madame, laughing. g| 'He does not resemble his mother. It is true, lie has my features; but he has his father's ^ blond hair, his father's eyes and his father's ^ Saxon complexion." "And where is he?" "That I cannot tell you, with any degree of gr lertainty," replied Madame. "For the first time in our lives we are separated. Ralph lias been in Europe, since almost the begin- tr sing of the war. He ran the blockade, going p sver on government service. He procures medical supplies for the Confederate army, y immunition, etc., and conducts matters of se- ^ sret and important negotiation, for which his m perfect mastery of the French language, and bis perfect acquaintance with French manners, render him specially fitted." "I suppose he will soon be restored to you," said Florimond musingly, "for you know the jj| disastrous state of our arms at present?and , the closing finale of the war, will render such i service useless." g "True," said Madame, "but Ralph is anxious to visit the East, and will no doubt do so it the close of the war, before his return to ' ej America. I would not be surprised to hear from him at Jerusalem or Cairo, or Constantinople." w "There is one thing more," said Floriraond, ta 'I should like to know, and that is?Flo- p, rimond was going to say, "that is, the name y )f your English husband but just then, vj from the Convent garden there came piercing jg screams, and both ladies recognizing Berta's voice, ran wit^ll speed to see what was the e3 matter. A thorn, from a beautiful rose, had C? pierced little Berta's rosy finger, and terrified ai it the sight of blood, she was crying lustily ^ forhermamma. Florimond soon soothed and w quieted her, and then Berta, preferring to re- ai main among the flowers, notwithstanding her m misfortune, the two ladies returned to their p< seats. y "Now," said Madame, with enthusiasm, p] 'now for a taste of Franyois Delsarte! Now y( for your first lesson in the grand histrionic ra art!" _ m "And do you really think I have a talent ai iu that line?" asked Florimond, her face colaring with interest and pleasure. "I am ?] really astonished ! I am reminded of Mr. it O'axton and his apple trees, and of Pamphagus d< when his friend Codes enumerates to him the varied and valuable uses of his extraordinary m lose. With Pamphagus I exclaim, 'Lucky b< log that I am !' but not remembering the rest te )f his remark, I leave it to your better mem)ry to supply." n( "My better memory," saijl Madame Igna ;iii9, "will supply for you, instead, the laws of I graceful moveraeut and gesticulation ; the j n< laws of diversified inflection and accentuation te jf articulate language; the laws of panto-; nime; and all those innumerable accessories of j th Jramatic art, which will enable you to give to m ,he feigned passions and feelings of the actor, ;he pathos and the semblance of true passion? w ill of passion but its soul!" bi And thereupon ensued Florimond's first esson in the dramatic art, to be followed by in nany more, which made of this secluded spot in humble stage, where the genius of these so ;wo women gave life and expression to the sa eniusand inspiration of many an old and new taster in human lore. CHAPTER IX. AN ENCOUNTER. When Florimond had been at the White Cottage with Madame Ignatius for little more tan a month, she became possessed of an ir^sistible desire to see her grandmother. She rote to her constantly, but of course could et no communication in return ; and notithstandiug all the interest of her new purjit,and all the attraction of Madante'scharratg home, Floriraond's heart yearned for her randmother. The feeling between this moth rless child and this childless raotner, was peuliarly tender and strong. Having consulid Madame, who, it must be mentioned, seretly deplored Florimond's flight from home nd her obstinate resentment against her husand, Florimond determined, in accordance ith Madame's advice, to venture back home > find out from the servants if Colonel Danridge was still there ; and if he was not, to je Mrs. Summerville. Accordingly, when the declining day had eguu to mitigate the blazing ardor of a juthern sun, Florimond sallied forth on her xpedition. Madame Ignatius and the little lerta accompanied her to the postern gate, nd after many adieux and repeated embraces, le lock was turned and Florimond found erself again, after so many weeks, outside le Convent walls. Although she had felt no ailing chains in this self-imposed imprisonlent, still Florimond experienced an indefinble sense of freedom and restraint at being ce more in the outside world, under the road blue arch of the illimitable heavens, [er romantic temperament appreciated keenr the glories of the blessed sunlight, the ravhing beauty of this lovely world, which, alas! mst perish like the rest?all save the iraperhablesoul. Florimond felt that elective afnnliiM ?n oil Kar phgncrpfid uit/jr mm uaiuib) iu un uv* loods?thnt "divines particula aura" which peculiar to persous of her high strung, del:ately organized temperament. Passing long through fields, where the wild flowers reathed away in fragrance their ephemeral ves, and across sweet-smelling meadows, here the gentle cattle grazed, raising their eads to look at her with their great, solemn pes ; and through the well-known streets, ith their familiar houses and gardens, Floriiond'8 susceptible heart was overcharged with Bnerous affection, and her dark, magnificent pes glowed with a light of great joy, in the aticipation of meeting her beloved grandlother. But there was that, in Florimond's eart, which could not allow her long to enjoy lis soul-communion with nature; which cast s darkening shadow on the fairest prospect, he shut her eyes to nature and nature's lothing voice, and to her mind came those athetic lines wrung from another bitter, desated heart: Vfth all her reckless birds upon the wing urned from all she brought, to those she could not bring." Reaching, at length, the little back gate, irough which she had made her memorable icape, Floriraond entered the kitchen garden, id passing through it, waited under an anent fig-tree, which stood near the fence that ivided the garden from the green lawn at the ick of the house. She had waited quite ?ug enough to test her patience, when she iw her grandmother walk out on the back arch. Florimond stepped out in full view id waved her handkerchief, which summons rought Mrs. Sumraerville in quick haste, he embraced Floriraond and wept over her. "My poor, foolish child!" she exclaimed. [ am so glad to see you. I ought not to be, fter your conduct. I ought not, but I canit help it. Where did you come from?" "From my hiding place," said Floriraond railing. "And where can that be ? Not in this .run onrolv fnr T hftvp left no means un ied to discover your secret retreat. Oh! loriraond, you do not know how unhappy )u have made us?especially poor Albert, ou must have had some demoniac power to ssist you in devising such a scheme of huiliation to his pride. He is deeply wouud1?cut to the heart." "Don't I know that," said Florimoud, allost laughing. "His pride is his only vulnerable point. I ave laid awake of nights, thinking and stuping what I could do to be quits with him." "And it must have been the Evil One himlf, which put it into your brains to conceive ich a ridiculous, extraordinary revenge." "An extraordinary circumstance requires ctraordinary resolution," replied Florimond. "Well," said Mrs. Suramerville, "your 'exaordinary resolution' has scandalized the hole community?you are now the town ilk. Hereafter, 'be thou as chaste as ice, as jre as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.' ou are stigmatized in public estimation as a irago, a devil in woman's guise; while Albert the most honorable, most to be commisera- < d, noblest man, most sinned against, now in ristence. This is the reputation your foolish >nduct has gained for you, and though you e no virago, no devil, you almost deserve ie calumny. Oh! Florimond, when I think hat a gentle, pliant nature you used to have, id have now, in every thing but this one atter, I am confounded. Tears, entreaties, irsuasion, reason, force?nothing moves you. i ou soft, deceitful thing! How can you be so liant, and yet so unbending; so gentle, and i it so headstrong; so yielding and yet so iraovable! I cannot read you. But I hope, y child, this visit is an evidence of repentice and that you have come to your senses." "Certainly not," said Florimond decisively, i [ read in Dante's Inferno yesterday, that alian proverb adopted by Milton, 'The i ;ed once done, there is an end.' " i "Dante'8 Inferno I" repeated Mrs. Sumerville; "you had better read some good ! )ok?your Bible, for instance, which will i ach you your duty as a wife and mother." 1 Florimond hung her head at this, but made < ) reply, and presently enquired? "And where is Albert?" 1 "He is not here now ; he is gone"?she did i )tsay where?"so come into the house and 11 11 me about Berta, and everything." Florimond followed, as she led the way into ] ie house. In the sitting room Mrs. Sura- i erville said? 1 "My child, the house is intolerably lonely I ithout you and Berta; when are you coming ick ?" i "Just as soon as there is no danger of meet- j ] g Albert here." "But he says he is determined to see you, t oner or later. He wishes to have a conver- ( tion with you himself, for he says you must 1 belaboring under some great mental hallucination." "Wish I was," said Florimond, smiling bit- j terly. "Poor Albert," said Mrs. Sumraerville,compassionately. "You have struck him such a i cruel blow, and he has a kind, noble heart! I That first afternoon, when we discovered your, j I cannot call it else, your disgraceful flight, Albert was of course exceedingly hurt, disap- j pointed, mortified and irritated. He quitted the house in great anger, but he came back > the next day and begged my pardon for his hasty conduct. I am sure I did not blame | him ! He went home then aud consulted his | father, who is anxious for him to come to an ; understanding with you on almost any terms. The whole familvare unspeakably annoyed at! your conduct, and say if you will only be reasonable now, and let 'the dead past bury its dead,' they will exert every power of kindness to do away with the disagreeable impression you have formed of them." "Too late I too late!" murmured Florimond, and then with rising excitement, "What did they take me for ? A spiritless fool, who would submit patiently to their persecutions? their contempt ? Three years ago their kindness would have made me happy?they would not give it! Now I prefer their hate to their love. Let them thank themselves for the change!" "But, Albert," persisted Mrs. Summerville; "why should you make Albert suffer for their misdeeds ?" "Their misdeeds," said Florimond, "have nothing to do with my conduct toward Albert. He has sowed for himself the harvest he is now reaping. Talk no more about it, for it is useless! Dearest mother, I fear the oppressive loneliness of which you complaiu, has not been good for you. You do not look so robust as when I left home. If you will only do as I tell you, I will return to you. Write immediately to Albert. Tell him he need not seek to see me, for nothing can change my unalterable determination. Make him promise not to come here or persecute me, and then there will be nothing in the way of my return home. Write now, mother. Where is he, anyhow ?" "He is now," said Mrs. Summerville, speaking very slowly; "he is now in this room." Florimond was, for a moment, petrified with astonishment; but seeing no one, she concluded that it waa a practical joke of her grandmother's, who wished to test her feelings. But on looking around, she discovered Albert standing in the door at her back?pale, agitated, with compressed lips. With a faint cry, Florimond sprang from her seat and tried to escape through the opposite door, but Albert eluded this attempt and caught her forcibly in his arms. Mrs. Summerville, in great haste, left the room. "You shall not escape rae again," said Albert, a little sternly. Floriraond struggled ineffectually to free herself, and finding it ^impossible, trembled violently and wept tears of insensate rage. "Floriraond I My dear wife," said Albert, in astonishment; "what have I ever done to you to cause these dreadful feelings against rae? Calm yourself, Florry. Why do you tremble so ? I will not harm you. Look at . rae. Let me assure you of ray affection, and beg for your forgiveness in whatever I have done to wound you, and beg, too, for the love which you once bore me." In answer to this appeal Florimond only said? "You hurt me. Let me go!" "I will free you," said Albert, bitterly disappointed in the effect?or rather the noneffect of his words and manner?"I will free you, if you promise to remain in this room for a few moments while I talk with you." "I promise," said Florimond, and Albert released her. She was, however, so weak from nervous excitement, she staggered in trying to reach a seat. Albert provided her a chair saying? "Sit down, Florimond, and pray listen to a few reasonable words. Why do you bate me so ? Why do you refuse to live with me ? It is a very dreadful state of things. You doom rae to a life of loneliness?you separate rae from my child. Think, Floriraond, I have never yet beheld the little oue, and she is more than two years old! Are you acting as a Christian?as a human?as a wife and mother ought to act? Lay aside this childishness? this unworthy pettishness, and act as a woman of dignity and character should demean herself. As a man of sense, I ask you, a woman of sense, what have I done to make you angry?" Florimuiid answered not a word, but she raised to him a glance of such smouldering fire, a vivid glance so full of the revengeful ire in her heart, Albert was almost stunned. Recovering from the withering effect of that glance, and having waited a sufficient length of time in vain for her answer, he exclaimed. "Your obstinacy does provoke me! Let me appeal to your sense of justice?if you have Dot lost that, too, with your other amiable qualities; think how unfair it is to harbor resentment against me for a fault, real or supposed, and when I come to you, wishing to know the fault and ready to atone and never trespass again, to be refused the kuowledge of wherein your grievance lies; to be treated, in 3hort, with continued scorn and contempt." "Ifyour own conscience does not tell you," 3aid Floriraond, "wherein you have sinned against me, ray voice would have no effect." "Keally, Florimond, your allusion is too vague; but if you mean the circumstance?for which I have expressed my deepest regret of not coming to you when you were sick?" "Oh! you were much better employed then," said Florimond, bitterly; "you were basking in'the beautiful Gabriella's smiles !" Evidently, a thunderbolt falling at Albert Dandridge's feet, could not have astonished ar embarrassed him more that this name from j bis wife's lips. A deep scarlet flush passed ! aver his handsome countenance, and meeting , Florimoud's dark eyes fixed upon him in in- j Lent scrutiny, in unutterable scorn, he arose j from his seat and paced up and down the . apartment. This continued for a few moments, when Mrs. Dandridge arising, said with a cold dig-} aitv. "I presume, Col. Dandridge, I may now ue excused from any further prolongation of ;his interview." "No, no," said Albert, coming forward, the 3ush still on his face; "sit down again, if you please, for a few moments." No sooner had she done so, than Albert ,hrew himself on his knees before her, impris>ning her hauds in his own, notwithstanding ler positive resistance. "Florimond," he said, no longer avoiding her glance, "I will make my confessions to you on ray knees, and throw myself on your mercy. I do not know who could have told you about Gabriella Sandford; but I will confess the whole truth, which is, that my heartsinned against your affection in my love for her. She was a very beautiful woman and I loved her in spite of myself; in spite of my resolves not to forget that my love was due only 'to you?my wife. Dear Florimond, is not your heart noble, magnanimous enough to forgive Mr: 11 1tr, ko U)l$ : >> 111 UUb JTUUl JUVC, VT111VI1 uovu W WV so generous, so forgiving, now rise to nobler heights of generosity? This other love is dead in my heart, and henceforth it shall bear only the impress of your image, doubly dear, for your noble forgiveness. Gabriella is an honored wife now ; devoted to her husband, and our?our?admiration for each other has settled down into a quiet, pure friendship. Are you not satisfied ?" "Perfectly," said Florimond, with scornful irony, and arising so suddenly she forced her hands from his grasp. "Perfectly satisfied. The fact is, I am perfectly indifferent as to whom, or how many you love. I repudiate your heart, as I would your name, if that were possible." "Which is not possible," said Albert, arising from his lowly position in mortification and anger; "as the laws of our State do not grant divorces. More the pity for you and me ! Mrs. Dandridge, since you will not accept the affection I have offered you, I now offer you the respectable shelter of my presence and protection. If you will live in the same house with me, I will promise our lives shall be as separate as if the ocean divided us. I make this offer for your sake, and chiefly for the sake of our child. Will you accept it?" "I will not," said Florimond, passionately. "I would die first. I have no faith in you, and your mere presence in the same house would be a loathing and a detestation to me." "Very well," said Albert, now so overcome with anger his eyes blazed like fire coals, and he could not speak in a steady voice. "Very well. Since such is your decision, I have but one more remark to make, which is, that you shall not keep my child one hour longer than that specified time which the law allows. I now bid you, madam, a final adieu." Mrs.Suramerville, hearing Albert's footsteps in the entry, came out. "Am I to congratulate you on the reconciliation ?" she asked, hope beaming in her countenance. "You are, Madame, to congratulate me," said Albert, a bitter quivering around his compressed lips, "if our complete separation. is a source of congratulation." "My God! She will not listen even to you! Did you do everything?" "I did, and said everything that a gentleman could do or say, and now, madam? begging your pardon?she may go to the devil!" And without another word, he put on his hat and left the house. Mrs. Sumraerville went in to Florimond. She was standing in the vCry spot Albert had left her, her face ashy pale, her hands clasped, her eyes shining like two "lurid stars." "Florimond, my child," said Mrs. Suramerville, weeping uncontrollably, "you have proved yourself to-day your worst enemy." "Rather," said Florimond, in a firm tone, and yet with a nervous expression on her pallid lips, "rather say, I have vanquished my worst enemy, this poor foolish heart. And now, once again, I am free ; free to do as I please, and free to work out my ambitions; free to rove, untramraeled, in the Elysian fields of the Intellect!" Alas! poor Florimond, and will the flowers you pluck there make you happy ? [to be continued next week.] A LESSON FOR BOYS. In Parton's Life of Horace Greeley, it is recorded that while an apprentice to the printers' trade, in the office of the Northern Spectator. a weekly journal published at Poultney, Vermont, he became one of the leading members of the debating society. Although only in his sixteenth year, he ranked with men in the maturity and soundness of his opinions, and in the ability to maintain them. He was always ready, and deeply interested in the questious to be discussed. Thoroughly furnished with arguments and facts, dates, names, figures, places, statistics, etc., he was a formidable debater, and an opponent to be afraid of. It is a singular fact, but one which, with other circumstances, furnishes a key to his character, that he never made the slightest preparations for the meetings of the society, in the way of dress, except to put on his jacket. He wore two garments ordinarily, viz.: a shirt and trowsers. His trowsers were very short, his sleeves tucked up above his elbows, and bis shirt open in front. A straw hat, which cost twelve and a half cents, completed his costume. In winter, his clothing was really insufficient. But he denied himself, in order that he might piously contribute the entire amount which he received for his services?forty dollars a year?to his father, who was struggling in the interior of Pennsylvania with the difficulties of a new farm and insufficient capital. This was his practice during all the years of his apprenticeship, and for years afterward, and was a most remarkable instance of filial duty. He subsequently worked seven months, without loss of a single day, in the office of the Erie Gazette, at twelve dollars a month. Months after months passed, and he drew no money. His habits and appearance remained the same. The proprietor remonstrated with him upon his persist ence in wearing the hereditary homespun, saying, "Now, Horace, you have a good deal of money coming to you, don't go about the town any longer in that outlandish rig. Let me give you an order on the store. Dress up a little, Horace." To which be replied, "You see, sir, my father is on a new place, and I want to help him all I can." Upon the settlement of his account, it appeared that he had drawn, for his personal expenses, for the seven months of his residence at Erie, six dollars. He took fifteen dollars more in money, and the rest in the form of a note, which he generously gave to his father. We commend this example to our boys and young men, who throw their money away on the merest trifles?such as billiards, cards, cigars, and other useless, and, it may be, hurtful indulgences. Truly, "the child is father of the man," and the habits and manners of our boyhood are likely to stick to us. If we are extravagant, idle and prone to pleasure, as boys, as men we shall probably be spendthrifts, and of no real use in life. If we appreciate and practice self-denial, if we show zeal for knowledge and virtue, and disregard mere appearances, we shall, in all probability, find some good position in life, where we may become valuable to our fellow-men, and win their confidence and esteem. Horace Greeley was a dutiful boy; he became a trusted man, and his untimely death was more mourned than that of any man since "Washington.