Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, March 07, 1878, Image 1
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VOL. 24. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MARCH 7. 1878. . HO. IP.
jto ?tigiual jitcitg. !sc
Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. r
MARIPOSA; 1
OR, 6
THE HEART OP A BALLET GIRL, p
CHAPTER XVI. |'!
Posy Bnished her engagement, and depart- ?
ed with her faithful attendant and other i
traveling companions, for new scenes. She n
shed some innocent tears on bidding farewell a
to her lover, who parted from her very tender- j ?
ly, and made her promise to write him frequently,
and keep him posted as to her move- j *
me its. But though he was perfectly sincere in
his assurance of regret at losing her, he was v
conscious of a feeling of relief after she was
gone. J*
We will not follow her through her travels, I n
or recount her success in the different cities ; c
whither her engagements led her; but pass e
on to the time when, having accomplished j n
her tour, she once more returned to San Fran- n
c
cisco, which, for the present, she regarded as ^
her home. 8
She had earned a handsome sura of raoney P
Kor ppo#>nt. lahors. but none of this would c
"J '
she spend for herself. She had a purpose in 0
keeping it carefully put aside, though of this
she spoke to no one. She remembered what ^
Allan had told her, about his being poor, or r
at least only tolerably well off. And in her F
affectionate little heart she was planning to e
save up all she could, to be able to assist him *
at some future day. She reflected that when c
once they were married she would have no t(
opportunity of earning any more, at any 0
rate by her profession, since it was set- 81
tied that she must give that up. So she 9
would make hay while the sun shone, that 0
her beloved one night reap the fruit of her *
toil. Absence from Allan,so far from weak- c
ening her affection for him, only deepened
it, day by day and hour by hour, as she fed ^
her mind on the sweet remembrance of his w
tender words and promises, his caresses and 81
his vows. In those vows she believed as im- h
p1 icitiy as in the purity and strength of her 6
own love. And he kept her faith warm by a
writing constantly, not long letters, but very h
fond ones, which she read over and over again, d
until she knew every word of them by heart.
Months passed, and the situation continued s'
the same. Allan gave no hint of their mar- ^
riage, or any of his plans for the future; neither
did he speak of paying her a visit, as s<
he had once half promised to do. But this, tl
as she told Margaret once, in alluding to the ei
subject, did not surprise her at all, because p
she knew it was an expensive journey for him ai
to make, and he could not afford himself ra
unnecessary indulgences. Perhaps, had she fi
known that he had just expended, on a new h
and quite unnecessary saddJe-horee, more ai
than the arnouut which it would nave cost 01
him to make the journey there and back? sc
to say nothing of other expenditures equally a
lavish and uncalled for, at various times? tl
she would have been less ready to condone di
his neglect. As it was, she went on her way e:
in perfect contentment and confidence, until h
at last came a break in his correspondence b
which awakened her anxiety, though not her w
distrust. o.'
"He must be ill," was her very natural st
conclusion, and acting on the supposition, she cl
wrote hira the most loving little epistle, ex- tl
pressing her fears and anxieties, aud entreat- tl
ing him not to conceal the truth from her, tl
siuce suspense was so hard to bear. It w
brought back au answer which puzzled her* w
because it seemed to be written in a different oi
strain from usual. oi
"My dear Posy (This was a milder terra n<
of endearment than he was in the habit of h
eraployiug.) "I write in haste to acknowledge
the receipt of your last. You are mis- ^
taken in supposing that I have been ill. You
must not fancy, you apprehensive little thing, 64
that something is the matter whenever you 01
don't hear from me quite as regularly as u
you expect. My time is much occupied, and tc
I am really not always able to do as I could
wish. We have had company staying at our ?
bouse, lots of country relatives, whom, of a
course, we; had to entertain. Luckily, they 8'
have taken their departure, at last. What a
do you think I have done? Actually taken ai
up a profession ! I find I can't afford to fill te
the rdle of a gentleman of leisure any longer,
so I am readiog law. Whether 1 will ever
distinguish myself at it, is another matter.
But at any rate, this new occupation leaves 8
ine little or no spare time. hi
"Having given you this explanation, you fr
will, I am sure, not feel any farther solicitude o!
at my apparent tardiness, which you must C(
never attribute to wilful neglect, or forgetful- j
ness of your dear self. I will write again
soon. In the meantime, hoping you are quite
well, and that you will excuse this hurried Cl
and not very presentable scrawl, believe me si
as ever, my dearest Posy, tl
"Most affectionately yours, d
"Allan E. Lambert." ?
The conclusion seemed a little better than ?
the beginning. Still, the whole letter, if it .
was deserving of the name, lacked Allan's |
customary effusiveness, and Posy was quite j
sensible of this want. Still, bis excuses seemed
&
8<> reasonable and natural, that she was ready,;
as usual, to put absolute faith in his word, j
But it was a grief to her to find his letters :
become rarer and rarer thenceforth, aud, I
what was harder to bear, less and less tender |
in their tone. ?
As to Margaret Fanning, though she kept J
her own couusel and said no word on the j
subject, a secret misgiving was beginning to j s
shape itself in her mind. It was strange that! '
Allan should give no hint of his intentions
for the future. Even if he did not feel him- 0
self yet in circumstances to support a wife, ^
it would have been only natural for him to i a
allude occasionally to the time when he hoped : 0
to be able to do so; to give his betrothed j *
some assurance that he did not look upon their
engagement as a mere form, with no definite ! 7
ending in view. Besides, as to this supposed 11
inability on his part, Margaret shrewdly suspected
that he had represented it in rather ex- a
aggerated colors to suit his own purposes. At a
all events, as she watched her young mistress'j
anxious looks, and observed with silent solic- , ^
itude the effect of doubt and suspense in the u
increasing pallor of her cheek, and in the ab- v
sent, dreamy air, so different from her wont- j ^
ed cheerful brightness, with which she now
moved about, a feeling of restless indignation ^ d
possessed her, and she felt that she would tl
have given worlds if Allan and Posy had b
never met, or if she had had the sense to ! r
warn the latter against receiving his address- I
es. She accused herself, when too late, of tl
rashness and folly, in putting faith in the r
professions of one unknown to her, whose only
recommendation had been a prepossessing a
xterior aud fair words. But Allan had been
o entirely different from any of his sex with
rhom she had ever come in contact; so supeior
to all the flatterers and admirers to whom
^sy had turned an indifferent or disdainful 1
ar, that she had suffered her judgment to be
verborne by her fancy, and by the desire she
sit to see Posy established in a position in
ife more suitable to her deserts than the one
he now filled. Besides, Allan's sincerity
ad been real, not assumed. He had truly
aeant, at the time, every word he had spoken;
nd in this fact lay the real reason of his
uccess in winning her confidence and favor.
Ihe had not been sufficiently far-sighted to
ead his wavering, unsteady nature, the vacllation
of purpose and lack of firmness
ffiich caused him to be so easily swayed by
he pressure of present influences and surounditigs.
She had uot known of the young
eiress, beautiful, intelligent and charming,
distantly held up as a goiden bait before his
yes, or of the worldly-minded, avaricious
aother, so persevering in her endeavors to
lould him into accordance with her will,
he had, in fact, believed him to be what he
eemed ; a truthful, honorable man, who had
>ermitted his strong affection to outweigh soial
prejudices, being sufficiently convinced
f Posy'8 intrinsic worth to regard the line of
ife in which she had been bred as no barrier
etween them. She could not, in her ignoance,
judge of the strength of these social
rejudices which she supposed could be so
asily thrust aside. She did not know with
ffiat scorn, or, at the best, with what halfontemptuous
pity, that class of performers
3 which Posy belonged, was looked down upn
by those moving in the upper circles of
^ciety ; or what moral courage would be reuired
for any gentleman to run the gauntlet
f wonder, disdain, ridicule and reproach he
pould be forced to encounter from his assoiates,
in perpetrating the enormity of uniing
himself to a ballet-girl, no matter how
eautiful and amiable she might be. To her,
'HO KDew JTOBJ morouguiy, il iiiuii*
:rou8 that any one should have a doubt of
er moral purity and worth. But many a
ne lady, and, doubtless, Mrs. Dash wood
mong the rest, would have elevated their
eads in scorn, and swept aside their rich
resses from coming iu contact with the poor
ttle dan9erf8 satiu shoes aud scanty gauze
lirts, as though there were contagion in the
>uch.
The truth was, Allan no sooner found himslf
deprived of the influence of Posy's charms,
lan all these considerations had begun to oprate
upon his mind, with ever increasing
ower. He felt that be bad acted rashly and
bsurdly, and the worst of it was, he saw no
leans of extricating himself from the scrape,
[e had not a bad or callous heart. He aborred
the idea of breaking faith with Posy,
rid rendering her unhappy, to say nothiug
f the pang he would, himself suffer, in doing
>. But still, how on earth was he ever to
larrjr her? What would people say and
)iuk? Such a mesalliance would drag Turn
own from his present status. He could not
cpect the ladies of his acquaintance to visit
is wife; aud if she was shunned and scorned
y them all, he, having identified himself
ith her, must come in for h:s share of social
jtracism. It was true, there was a certain
>tof men, jolly fellows, whom he met at his
lub and elsewhere, gentlemen by birth,
tough a little reckless and independent of
te moral code, who would never withdraw
le right hand of fellowship from him. There
ere also, perhaps, certain fast ladies, who
ould be willing to overlook Posy's doubtful
rigin and odious profession, in consideration
f gaining an entree into his house. But with
one of these would he have chosen to see
er intimate, or indeed, have permitted her
> nnunrintfi at all. In his heart, he knew
er to he good, pure, aud worthy of universal
iteem ; but it wa9 not sufficient for his happiess,
or her welfare, that he should know this,
niess the rest of the world could be brought
> acknowledge it, too.
In short, the more he pondered over the aftir,
the more unhappy and perplexed he
rew ; and bis unhappiness took the form of
somewhat morose demeanor to his family,
nd a continued neglect of those courteous atmtions,
for a time, which he had so willingly
lown Helen. His mother became more than
?er convinced that he was laboring under a
scret entanglement, and her shrewd mind led
er to form conjectures not very far removed
oin the truth. She did not, indeed, think
f Posy, whom she hud never even seen, in
annection with his short comings. Still, a9
lie declared to herself and to her husbaud,
le felt perfectly sure that Allan had got ;
lught in some miserable, low love-affair, and
le went to work with a will to try and ferret
le secret out. Easy Mr. Dash wood was not
isposed to trouble himself about the matter,
[e said that "men would be men," and he
had no doubt everything would come round
ight in a little while." But this somewhat
ague consolation failed in satisfying his wife,
nd only tended to raise a storm of wrath
nd indignation in her brea9t. "If he was
our son you wouldn't take his behavior so
asily," she exclaimed. "But as you say,
len will be men, and man means nothing
lore nor less that a selfish monster, who never
ives himself more trouble about anything !
han he can help."
"Perhaps I am a monster, my dear," anwered
her husband, who in his old days was
jarning to take her violent speeches more
alraly than formerly. "But I know enough |
f human nature to be sure that whatever '
our son's difficulty may be, you won't be !
hie to convince him of his wrong doings by
a?rl r?nr? 1 pii H i ri ir with him an nprap
?..v. b ... r
eringly as you do. Let hira alone, and if
e has been drawn into any such afl'air a9
ou suppose, he will come to see the folly of
I of his own accord, after awhile."
"Yes; and while I am letting hira alone,
II his chances of a deceut settlement in life
re vanishing as fa9t as they can ! No girl
i going to submit to such treatment as Helen
as received from him. And where was the
se of such a fortune as hers coming to his
ery door, if he hasn't the sense to put out
is hand and grasp it ?"
"If he put out his hand and grasped it, my
ear, he would be a thief," said the old genleraan,
with a gleam of humor. "If he got it
y asking properly for it, now, I would be
eady to congratulate him with all my heart.
Jut, seriously speaking, I am not very sure
hat Helen would be so ready to gralff the
equest. She takes his behavior very coolly."
"He can but try, at all events," said the
ngry lady. She was weary of going over the I
same ground. As to Allan, she wa9 ready t<
think him an absolute fool. She did her par
faithfully, in trying to smooth over his neglec
to Helen, representing his conduct in th<
most favorable light, not openly, for tha
would have implied a consciousness of wha
she wished to ignore, but with a score of littli
subtile hints and inuendoes intended to con
vey the impression that Allan was, in truth
her devoted slave, and only kept from open
ly assuming that portion by certain adversi
circumstances he was unable to control
Helen never seem to care, or to trouble her
self at all whether Allan was really devotet
to her or not: and all her dear aunt's endeav
ors to 6nd out if this indifference was real o
assumed, were vain.
So matters went on, Allan gradually work
ing himself up to the determination to slip, i
possible, out of the engagement with poor, con
tiding Posy ; not because he didn't love her
but because it was such an absurd idea tha
he could ever marry her. How to do thi
was the trouble. It was necessary, first, tha
he should persuade himself that she would no
suffer from such a result. He tried ver
hard, therefore, to delude himself into the be
lief that Posy's affection for him was only i
passing fancy, kindled by his own demonstra
tions of regard, which would be disspellet
when she found out that this regard hat
cooled off. Or?for in his self-love he coulr
not bear to think of her becoming quite in
different to him?she would at any rate hav<
the sense to see things in their true light, if h(
represented to her, dispassionately and rea
sonably, how impossible it was that thej
should 'marry. Once or twice he even sa
down and tried to compose a letter whicl
should break to her, very gently and gradu
ally, the disagreeable truth ; but he never sue
ceeded in accomplishing his task. It was
indeed, a harder one than he had anticipated
Failing to write in the way he thought best
he decided that it would be wisest not to writ<
at all, until he could get his courage up t(
end the affair at once.
Thus it was, that many weary weeks passec
without Posy receiving one word in token o:
his remembrance. Thus it was, that after f
long, silent agony of waiting, and hoping, anc
doubting, this was the communication thai
came to put an end to her suspeuse.
t. l ? i i-.*-- l 7?
jli was auun a iuu^ icitci?au uiucicut luun
ing from those she had been receiving from
him ever since his first ardor had cooled off
She took it, poor child, with a sudden, keec
thrill of renewed hope. Then, as she ran hei
eye over its pages, the tremulous, happy flutter
died out, and lower, lower, like a leaden
weight, her heart sank within her breast.
"My dear, dear little Posy.?I have
not written to you for a long time, because 1
have been trying to make up my mind to tell
you something which it is very difficult foi
me to say. I hope you will believe me fully,
when I assure you of the grief I feel in telling
you this thing which it is so necessary for
you to know, and which will be the harder
for me to write and for you to read, the long
ttt?I put it uff.?Pwjj,' I lm*u ueeu a cuwarrJ
not to confess the truth before; for I have
known a long time, my darling, that every
thing must be atari end between us. I mean
of course, our engagement, which we entered
into so happily, so confidently, and, I musl
add, so foolishly, looking at it in the light ic
which I see it now. You, I trust, will quite
agree with the view I take of it when I explain
to you what I mean. And first of all
dear child, you would not be happy in the
sphere to which you would be transplanted in
marrying me. It is such a different one from
that in which you have moved. You would
be surrounded by new faces, new objects
People, aud things, and occupations, and
ideas, to which you have been so entirely unaccustomed
that you could never assimilate
with or become reconciled to them; noi
could the people you would be placed among
sympathize at all with your ideas or pursuits.
It would be a dull, desolate existeuce for you,
and I could never bear to see you moping,
and regretting the continual gayety and ex
citement of your lost life. I can well believe
that it would be an effort for you to relinquish
this. I do not for an instant suppose
that it could be otherwise. I will not say,
dear Posy, that it is out of consideration for
you alone that I have taken upon myself the
most painful duty of entering into this explanation.
I should be hypocritical if I were
to do so, and I kuow that your pure, truthful
soul would abhor an attempt of mine to deceive.
To speak with absolute candor, this
marriage would not be favorable to my sue
cess in life. My people entertaiu entirely different
expectations for me, and would be
most seriously disappointed and mortified il
I should refuse to act in accordance with theii
views. You recollect telling me once, do you
not, that you were sensible of a difference in
our positions, socially speaking? I would
not listen to the suggestion just then. With
your sweet face before me I could think ol
nothing but ray love for you. But those
words have arisen in my memory more than
one*1 since theu, and this recollection makes
ray task a trifle easier than it would other
wise be. I would scatter these social distinc
tions to the winds, if I could only feel justified
iu doing it; but, unhappily, no good woulc
come of such a result. Unequal mnrriage^
are seldom, if ever, productive of ha ppiness
to either party concerned. There is alwayB ?
want, either open or unexpressed, of the ne
cessary elements of contentment, which mu3'
make itself disastrously felt.
"On reading this over, I feel conscious ol
its being a miserable, lame composition ; at
entirely inadequate effort to express fill tha
I really feel. I think I could better mak<
you understand, if I could talk it over witl
you. And yet, I do not believe that uudei
those circumstances, I could explain it all
One glance from your eyes would undo all thi
hardly-attained resolution I have been striv
ing for so long. For this reason I do no
dare to see you. I feel that it is best that w<
should not meet again.
"Posy, I entreat you to forgive me thepaii
it may cost you to read this. I can only hopi
that it will be less acute than that which i
costs me to write it. Forgive me, and prai
for me?or, better still, forget me. Farewell
"A. E. L."
CHAPTER XVII.
Helen sat in the library, idling over a nove
? ? ? i J i-i ? . L:i. ... *u
wnicil sne nau laaen up iu wuuo away Liu
time, and which she fouud too dull to read
She had received, that morning, a long lettei
from Madame Preville, with whom she kep
up a constant correspondence, and it carriet
her thoughts, forcibly and yearningly, bacl
to the dear old French home, and the peace
j ful, unworldly atmosphere there, so difieren
from the round of gayety and fashion ant
| excitement in which she had beeo living eve
since she had left it. She was kept in a con
tinual whirl in her present home. Almost ev
ery hour of her afternoons and evenings wa
filled up by some engagement, either for visit
ing, receiving company, riding, driving, o
going to parties or places of public amuse
3 ment, and she was beginning to weary a little
t of it all, though of course, with the vivacity
t of youth, she had enjoyed it well enough for
s a time. She received unbounded attention
t wherever she went; but, happily or unhappit
ly, as the case might be, she had learned in
e the beginning, a lesson of worldliness, which
led her to accept the flattery lavished upon her
, as a tribute to her possessions, rather than to
- herself. She had received, too, several offers
9 of marriage; none of which had awakened in
. her mind the slightest wish to change her con.
dition in life. She frequently visited at Mr.
1 Lacy's, being twice as fond of Myra now as
. when the latter had lived in her aunt's house,
r Marriage had greatly softened and improved
her, and she was odo of the few to whom
. prosperity seemed to bring nothing but good,
f Unless Helen went there, however, she saw
but little of ber; Myra coming but seldom to
>f the Dashwoods'. There could never be any
t cordiality between Mrs. Dashwood and her8
self, and, as she declared, she "always felt
t worse in aunt Augusta's company than anyt
where else."
j As Helen sat now dreaming over her book,
a footstep was heard apprcachiug, and dii
rectly after, Allan entered the room. He
- came forward and sat down quite near her.
1 If she had looked at him attentively, she
1 would, perhaps, have read an odd expression
1 in his face ; but she did not give him more
- than a feeling glance, just throwing an ab3
sent little smile at him, and then lapsing into
s her reverie again. She felt entirely at home
- with him now, and liked him well enough in
f his way, but she had sufficient penetration to
t read his character pretty thoroughly, and
i if the truth must be owned, she did not find it
- contrast very favorably with that of some one
else whom she knew.
i Allan fidgeted a little with some things on
the table, watching her furtively with the air
. of one waitiug a favorable opportunity to
speak. There was no one at home but them>
selves. His mother and Mr. Dashwood had,
contrary to custom, gone out together to choose
1 some new furniture, and there seemed to be
f an unusual exemption from visitors,
i At last Helen, with a little sigh, roused
I herself from her dreamy mood. She sat upt
right in her chair and threw her book from
her on the table.
"I must not waste my time any longer,"
1 she said, with an air of resolution. "I believe
I'll put on ray hat and go round to Myra's.
1 "Pray don't," said Allan, entreatingly.
She gave him a surprised glance. "Why
not ?" she asked.
1 "Because I want to give you my company
for a little while. I have something very
? special to say to you."
j "Have you ?" She looked, amused. "I
. don't think you generally have anything very
special to say?at least, to me."
"You are severe," said Allan, coloring a
" little. "However, I accept the rebuke. I
am aware that I have not been makiDg myr
self very entertaining for some time past.
, The truth is, I have been busy, and worried
. about different things. I have been con,
fused, somehow."
I "Oh, don't trouble yourself about making
- excuses," rejoined Helen, lightly. "I am not
1 at all inclined to find fault with you.
"I hope you don't think ray excuses are
simply made up, Miss Forester," he said, in a
. half-offended tone.
i Helen smiled. "Why do you trouble youri
self about the matter. I haven't quarreled
' with you, Mr. Lambert ?"
"The truth is," said Allan, using this phra
^ seology for the second time, "I want to fiud
, out what you really think about me."
"It may not be easy for me to tell you."
; "Which means, perhaps, that you don't
think at all?"
1 "I did not say that."
' "I am not vain enough to consider myself
i entitled to much thought from anybody,"
said Allan, with a good deal of humility in
> his tone. "But it is a pleasure to know how
> one stands in the estimation of?of a person
whose opiniou one values more highly than
| that of anybody else."
, His companion laughed out right this time.
[ "You don't mean, I hope, to imply by that
speech, you value my opinion above all oth1
era?" she rejoined.
"That is just what I do mean, Miss Forester."
He had tried very hard to say "Helen,"
p but8oraehow the name would not come easily
from his lips. "I value it so immensely that
i I would give all I possess, and much more, if
' I had it, for one kind word from you?one
' word in encouragement of my hopes. Do
|. you?can you?overlook my imperfections
, sufficiently?to marry me ?"
i It was done at last?rather blunderingly,
5 it is true; but fairly done, beyond the possibil"
ity of being misunderstood or recalled. His
| voice had sunk almost to a whisper with the
I concluding word and he felt his heart beating
j furiously with the excitement of the effort he
} had worked himself up to. Helen blushed
i crimson. She was taken by surprise, and
vexed at not having been able to forestall his
t intention. She hesitated a moment, not from
P any doubt as to what her reply should be,
j but as to the best mode of framing it, so posI
itively as to be final, yet without giving him
j offence.
i "Mr. Lambert," she answered, presently,
r speaking as steadily as she could, "I am
* sorry you have told me this, since a question
_ of this sort between people, naturally changes
t their relative position somewhat?and I liked
3 ! you better as you were before. I think you
ought to feel that it would be impossible for
1 me to marry you."
* "Why impo8ible ?" he asked.
"Because?" she hesitated again for an in;
: stant?"I am sure we do not care in the least
for one another."
Allan reddened more deeply than before.
| "You can speak, of course, for yourself, on
j that point," he said, quickly; but what right
1 j have you to judge my feelings in that matter ?
e | Do you disbelieve my word?"
"Not your word, candidly spoken," rejoinr
en Helen, who had now regained her own
t j self-possession sufficiently to speak with entire
J 1 composure. "But in making a proposition of
c 1 that kind, one uses a form of speech a little
. more exaggerated, perhaps, than is consistent
t; with one's actual sentiments. Mr. Lambert,
1 ! honestlv. I don't think you are in love with
r i me. All the same, I must acknoweledge the
.: compliment you have paid me."
-' "Upon my word," said Allan, intensely
s; mortified, but trying to hide his real feelings
1 under a haughty and offended air, "I never
r j expected to receive such treatment at your
i-1 hands. Though, of course, if you have such
an unflattering opinion of my veracity, it is
better for me to discover it at once."
"You know I do not mean that. You wilfully
misconstrue my words. But it is not
strange," said Helen, speaking with some spirit,
"that I should hesitate to helievein the existence
of a strong attachment for me on your
part, considering the evidence I have had to
the contrary. Since my stay under your
mother's roof, what proof have you given me
of my being an object of your regard ?"
"Is that your reason for refusing me?"
asked Allan, with difficulty.
"Not altogether, of course; it is just as much
that I have no feeling toward you that would
warrant my giving you a different answer,
even if I thought you desired it very much."
"That being the case," suid Allan, in a con
strained voice, "I presume it would be useless
to add any farther persuasions to what I have
already Baid."
"Quite useless." Helen paused, then held
out her hand. "Mr. Lambert," she said,
frankly, "don't let us have any unpleasant
feeling about this. Please forgive me, if I
have said anything blunt or wrong, and let
us both forget what has passed between us,
and be as friendly as we were before."
"It is easy enough for you to talk in that
way," said Allan, who felt too mortified to descend
readily from the position he had assumed
; "but you can't expect me to forget
all that you have been saying, at least, in a
moment. You have had me at a disadvantage,
and have not spared to use your opportunity."
'
"Well, of course, I will not urge my apology
upon you, if you are not in a mood to accept
it," said Helen, quietly suffering her extended
hand to drop at her side. "Perhaps,
when you think the matter over calmly, you
will be more ready to acknowledge that I
have neither been unjust or unkind."
So saying, she turned and quitted the room,
leaving her wooer utterly discomfited, the
more so as he had keenly felt the truth of all
that she had said. As to his disappointment,
that was slight, in comparison with the humiliation
of knowing, or at least, strongly
suspecting, that she had been sufficiently acute
to penetrate his flimsy pretence of love, and
read the true motives concealed beneath. He
lingered awhile on the scene of his defeat,
struggling with his vexation; then suddenly
bethought himself of a promise he had indefinifoltr
moHo fn tnait. unmfl fripnds in thft cnun
try, and when tea-time came, be was reported
to have gone out of town, to be absent for a
week.
Mrs. Dashwood partly suspected tbe position
of affairs, and was on tborns. She watched
Helen keenly, but the latter was studiously
calm and unembarrassed in her manner,
and appeared quite unconscious of being an
object of scrutiny. As usual, her aunt could
make nothing out of her.
As Mr. Dashwood was sitting alone over
his last cup of tea, a custom he had of doing
before joining the family in the drawing-room,
a ring fit the door-Den was Heard, ana a servant
came in to announce to him that a man
wanted to see him on business.
"What's his name?" asked the old gentleman.
"I don't know, sir; didn't say."
"What sort of a looking person is he?"
"An uncommon dirty-lookin' sort of a pusson,"
replied Dan, with a disdainful expression.
"Shouldn't be s'prised if he wanted to
fool you out of some money, massa."
"Humph 1 Well, let him come into the
hall. I'll see him there."
Daniel, the black, departed on his errand
with the same contemptuous air with which
he had alluded to the"pusson." He bad been
born and bred among the "quality folk," and
had all the aristocratic negro's antipathy to
that class of individuals known as "poor
buckra" or "poor white trash."
Mr. Dashwood rose reluctantly from his
comfortable chair and went out into the chilly
hall. A rough-looking personage, muffled
in a shabby great-coat and a woolen comforter
much the worse for wear, was seated there
on the edge of one of the chairs, and made
an awkward sort of salutation, without rising,
as be approached.
"Beg pard'n for iutrudin', sir," he said,
gruffly. "I've got a matter of importance to
speak to you about."
"State your business, if you please," rejoined
Mr. Dashwood.
The visitor glanced around. "Ain't you
got no place more private than this ?" he
asked. "I reckon we might be overheard
here without much trouble."
"Well, come into the library, then. I suppose
that will be private enough to suit you,"
said Mr. Dashwood, a little reluctantly, for
he did not like the man's looks. However,
he led the way to the designated apartment,
and was there closeted with his mysterious
visitor for an hour or more. At last the latter
went, and the old gentleman, with an agitated
face, appeared at the drawing room
door.
"Augusta, my dear," he said, in evident
excitement, "can I speak to you for a moment,
alone?"
"Come in, Uncle," said Helen, jumping up
directly. "I'll go out of the room."
"Well, my dear, well. Just leave us for a
little while ; there's a good child. This thing
affects you, too?but I won't say any more of
that at present. Just step into the library,
or anywhere you please, until I call you."
Helen wondered, as she ran up to her own
room, (preferring that as a retreat,) what could
be the matter. Her uncle seemed strangely
moved, and then her curiosity was excited by
his hint of her being concerned in some affair,
she did not know what. Perhaps there
had been some flaw discovered in her greataunt's
will, affecting her heiress-ship ! Not
that she would have regarded that as a
very dreadful calamity after all. But she
thought, with a half-scornful amusement, how
differently she might be regarded by many
people, if it should be discovered that she
was no longer Miss Forester the heiress, but
simple Miss Forester, with nothing b her own
right but the trifle left her from her father's
estate.
"At all events, I have the comfort of knowing
that there is one corner of the world
where ray being poor would make no difference,"
she said to herself. And her thoughts
reverted again to her old friend's letter, and
especially to one passage which the writer
had not been able to omit, though it was worded
in the briefest way?"My nephew has
never been the same person since you left us."
Poor Victor! A little involuntary thrill of regretful
sympathy touched her heart as she
recalled bis unspoken devotion. She hoped
he had not thought her very cold. She ap- (3
predated now, more fully than she bad done <
in former days, his quiet, thorough unobtru- ~
sive worth, his integrity and manly self-command,
and the generous thoughtfulness for T
others which led him to put his own wishes
and his own interests resolutely aside, in all
cases where there might not be perfect har- ?
mony between his and theirs. j
Her meditations were interrupted by a sum- t
? nt . I i. it. I
moos trom tier uucie. one returned to me r
drawing-room, to find him walking up and J3
down in a restless way, and her aunt sitting 1
upright in her chair, by the fire, with a half- ?
disturbed, half-irritated expression of coun- G
tenance. e
"My dear," said the old gentleman, hastily a
advancing to meet her, and taking her hands 1
in both of his, "we?that is, I?have heard 8
strange news to-night. Your sister?" \
"Good gracious, Mr. Dashwood," sharply t
interrupted his lady, "is that your way of pre- s
paring her ? In the first place," she contin- 1
ued, addressing Helen, "let me tell you, as *
far as I am concerned, that I do not pat !
very much faith in this said news, which your ?
uncle accepts so credulously, and if he had ?
taken my advice, he would not have said any- t
thing to you about it until he had some es- ?
tablished proof." 8
"Proof! Haven't I proof?" exclaimed the *
ncntloman "At an 17 rata T hftVA vprT I ^
VSIVft gVJU UiULUMUi 4.J. V MMJ 4 MVVf -m. UM V v ?
atroog grounds for believing tbat the story is >
true, and Helen, as the person most interested t
in it, has a right to be told all that I know, j
Helen, my love, I suppose you have no re- i
collection of your little sister, who was lost so ^
long ago ?" J
"No, sir," replied Helen, surprised at the a
question. Something in her uncle's look f
startled her, and she added quickly, "have
you been hearing anything about her, uncle?" ?
"I have, my dear," replied Mr. Dashwood, r
who was entirely incapable of evasion or cir- a
cumlocution. "I have, in fact, reason to sup- ?
pose that it is possible, even probable, that a
she is now alive." P
Helen's heart beat fast. The sweet, yet t
strange, unknown link of sisterhood seemed I
to thrill into renewed life, drawing her back, 8
mysteriously, into the long-forgotten past. J.1
She stood silent, tremulous, waiting with Q
clasped hands to learn more. e
Mr. Dashwood went on to tell her that a r
person named Stratton, who had been with a
him tbat evening, had offered to give him c
convincing proofs of the identity of a young
girl, living in San Francisco, with little Ada t
Forester, the baby sister who had so suddenly j
and* mysteriously disappeared, and to find e
whom, search had long been made in vain, n
This man had informed him that he had, for *
years, been engaged in ferreting out these e
proofs, and had not succeeded, until lately, in r
discovering either the true name of the young t
girl in question, or the existence of her rela- v
tives in New Orleans. o
"Of course the creature is actuated wholly v
hy thfl hnpft nf ft loryo rom.rH " aflid Mrn _t
Dashweod. These low people are always 8
mercenary." jj
A mercenary feeling is not confined en- t
tirely to the lower class, was Helen's retlec- a
tion. b
"Whatever motive he is actuated by, that t
doesn't affect the importance of the discovery," 0
replied her husband. "As to a reward, I
dare say Helen, is rich enough to give him
one if she finds he is entitled to it." h
"Yes?0 yes, anything, Uncle, anything a
in the world, if his story is really true," cried
Helen, eagerly. "But please tell, me more? r
how did he find her, and what are the proofs ?" ^
"Ay, what are the proofs, indeed ?" mur- u
mured her aunt. j
Mr. Dasbwood went on to relate the sto- b
ry as it had been told to him. We will f
not follow it now through its many wind- *
ings. Suffice it to say that Jim Stratton, act- 0
ing on the information which had been e
given him by his wife, had rested neither day ?
nor night since then, in his endeavors to sift I
the matter to the bottom. After many dis- v
appointments, and much painstaking inquiry, n
he had at length, as he believed, succeeded e
in his object. He had learned from the peo- C
pie at Cobbs' Springs, the date of little Ada's t
disappearance, and connecting this with his t
wife's account, found that it tallied exactly t
with the discovery of the waif whom she took .p
under her protection, and christened "Mariposa."
His next step was to hunt up her family,
which was not easy to do, her father and
mother both being dead, and her uncle bear- D
ing a different name; but at length, by the a
merest chance, he bad learned Helen's name, ?
seeing a letter advertised for her in the post- h
office, and following this clue, found out Mr. 0
Dashwood's connection with the Foresters, c
and also his place of abode. He had volun- L
teered, after making his statement, to act as a
Mr. Dashwood's guide to the various places b
which had served him as sign-posts in his jonr
ney of discovery, and finally to the residence
of the girl herself.
"Oh ! Uncle, take me with you. Pray,
pray do I" cried Helen, greatly excited. "Let
us go at once."
"Nonsense, Helen," said Mrs. Dashwood.
"It may be only a wild-goose chase. You
had far better remain at home." v
Helen did not even hear. "Shall we, dear 1
Uncle ?" she entreated, pressing his hand.
"Yes, my dear, yes. Augusta, she must do a
as she likes in this case. It is her right," said b
the kind old man, who secretly felt that he d
could not do enough for Helen, to atone for 0
past neglect. "We will go, Helen, my child, v
just as soon as we can possibly arrange to ^
set out. I've a little matter of business to at- a
tend to first, as ray step-son is out of town ; t
but that will only delay me a single day." c
" * -a J - - ? A.? x fl
"men, snail we set out aay aner to-mor- *
row?" 0
8
"Yes, I think I may safely promise you ?
that."' c
And so it was definitely arranged, to Hel- v
en's infinite joy. Mrs. Dashwood was secret- a
ly much chagrined. But it was a case in
which she was powerless to interfere. c
[to be continued.] J
I
b
A man made a bet that he would pass r
twenty-five men over Waterloo bridge, Lon- \
don, without toll being takeafrom them, and c
he won. He marshaled his men and asked f
the tollman to count them. As soon as the v
last man had passed the turnstile and all were c
walking briskly away, he got into a dispute f
with the tollman as to the number that he t
had passed. Twenty-five, said the tollman, d
I vow it was twenty-seven, asserted the other, t
The dispute continued until the last man was ii
out of sight, when the speculator paid his t
half-penny and said : Well, after all, it is no n
matter of mine. Good morning. ?
Heading.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY.
HE'REPUDIATION OF MISSISSIPPI, PENNSYLVANIA
AND OTHER STATES.
The generation which in 1839, 1840,1841
.nd 1842, shaped the legislation of Missisippi,
Louisiana, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan,
>laryland and Pennsylvania, (States which
otally or partially repudiated their debts,)
tas passed away, and have left behind them
io history of their acts. Nor were they anions
that one should be written. Notwithtanding
they cloaked their conduct under
he excuses of open and palpable fraud, of
oo8titational violations, of the unprecedentd
pressure of the times, yet they each and
ill felt that they had violated the living, the
destructible rule of right; that they had
mirched their bright honor; that they had
ivailed themselves of their own wrong, or of
he wrong of their agents, and had inflicted
ipon others the losses that they themselves
hould have bravely borne. They felt that,
lowever plausible and sophistical their preexts,
they had disgraced themselves and dislonored
their country; and not apprehendng
that the future could, by any possibility,
levelop followers of their bad example, they
ind the country at large were solicitous that
he memory of their acts should pass away,
ind that the disgrace of the States and the
hame of the nation should be forgotten In
he hush of silence and in the oblivion of
ime.
The States that went astray in 1839 and
40 were led into error by the subtlety and
he sophistry of those who pandered to the
irejudices of the masses, and promised them
mmediate relief from their burdens; and the
states that are now treading in their footsteps
ire those that are beguiled by the plausible
xpedients of politicians that seek to remove
i present complaint by the substitution of a
uture and permanent grievance.
The impression is general that some of the
itates mentioned above besides Mississippi
epudiated their debts, but it is as erroneous
is it is general. Mississippi is the only State
Ltof Anon 1 tt on/1 nnklinltr rl IdonAOTO/l if a rldkf
UliW V|A^UiJ HUV? |/UUIIV*J Vlionivnuu lis vtwwvi
)f the other States some, for a time, refused,
.nd others, merely neglected; to 'faake any
irovision for their accrued and accruing inerest;
but this, under the influence of the
Mississippi discussion, was spoken of and regarded
as repudiation, and so direful was the
afluence and so pernicious was the effect of
heir acts?so tarnished was the honor not
nly of the States, but of the General Govrnment
itself, that it could not in 1842 borow
a cent in the whole of Europe, though its
.ccredited agent sought it in every monetary
entre upon terms the most liberal and advantageous
to the lender, and that, too, in beialf
of a government that had only a year or
wo previously (in 1839) exhibited to the world
he hitherto unknown spectacle, among modrn
nations, of a country without debt. But
iothwithstanding this fact, marvelous as it
?as, and unprecedented as it was acknowldged
to be, the agent of this country bad to
eturn with a mission in no part fulfilled,
nd with, a confession that the great Power
bat sent him abroad stood in the eyes of the
rorld disgraced because one of the sisterhood
f States had repudiated her debt, and others
rare denying their liability for a portion of
hflixa. ar grra naglentina tn *<> il nn i !
ufficiently to pay what they owed. It is imlosaible
for us, who were neither the makrs
nor the readers of the history of those
imes, to know the horror of the world at the
ction of the defaulting States. It can only
>e conceived under the:Might of such facts as
boss mentioned by Mr.Grigsby, "that a friend
f bis traveling on the Continent of Europe
iad to get out a pass with the papers of an
Englishman, in order to avoid the torrent of
alumny that assailed every American," and
>y Mr. Lamar, that during the late war he
nd Mr. Mason and Mr. Slidell found that
be greatest obstacle in the way of financial
ecognition of the Confederacy, was the fact
bat its President, Mr. Davis, was a Missisippian,
and that it could not float its loan
intil it disavowed the action of that State.
Jot only was this action remembered then,
iut we find it still retained and puissant now ;
or Mr. Lamar declines to become an agent
0 the capitalists of Europe to induce investaents
in and immigration to his section, beause
more of his time would be occupied in
xplaining the disgraceful conduct of his State
ban in pushing the enterprise of his mission,
lere we find that the position of a State towards
its public debt, thirty-six years ago,
ow restrains its most distinguished senator,
very where known and honored for the bright
hivalry of his character, from occupying a
1081 of trust and honor amongst foreign naion3,
when that very post would redound to
he pecuniary interest and material prosperiy
of his State and section.?Richmond Dispatch.
THE NUISANCE OF POCKETS.
What a nuisance are pockets. How rapdly
they fill up with everything a man does
lot want. How they always do not contain
nything he does want. How rarely can he
ind a dollar in them. How frequently can
te find bills in them. And lint And crumbs
f tobacco, plug and fine-cut And shreds of
igars. And little pills. And newspaper
craps. And suspender buttons. And holes,
lind cloth buttons. That is the queerest of
,11 queer things for a man to carry around in
lis pockets, and yet, I suppose if all the pockts
in America were emptied this moment,
'Oil could tally the number of suits representd
by the number of cloth buttons to be found
the pile. A man will pick up a button
hat bursts from his coat, examine it carefuly,
see that the stuffing thereof has all been
lulled out of the place where the eye ought
o be, will know that it is not, and never will
te worth a continental red cent again, and he
rill put it in his pocket and carry it until
hat suit wears out and he gets trusted for a
tew pair of clothes.
1 once had a suit made (this was centuries
go, when the times were good and everybody
iad credit; that bad thirteen pockets. The
lay after I put it on, every pocket was so full
f things I never had any use for, I was
weighed down and doubled over like an old
aan. As the things wore out or were lost,
there wasn't a unit in the entire mass that
,nybody would steal), I replaced them with
lew things, generally heavier, bulkier and
core utterly worthless. By and by the pockts,
not being made for eternity, began to wear
iut. When some of the pockets gave way,
ind their precious cargoes fell to the ground,
! saw none of them again forever. When
there of the pockets wore out, the things
vent down into my boots, and I went limping
ind clanking around like a manacled felon.
Then I reformed. I had a suit made that
:ontained absolutely no pockets. And that
vas worse than the other. I still accumulaed
the same amount of manly trash, and had
tot wherein to warehouse the same. I caried
letters in my hat like an old man. I /
?as compelled to lay borrowed pocket knives
iut on the desk in plain view, and their longorgotten
owners would come in, recognize the
whittling things, and reolaim them. I laid
ny creditors' letters down for other people to
tick up and read and chuckle over. I had
o carry all my money in my hands, and how
loes a man look, I'd like to know, going about
he streets with a nickel in each hand ? It
sn't dignified, and it isn't safe. To be sure,
his happened on pay day, but even once a
aonth is too often for such a reckless display.
>o what are we to do ??The Hatokeye Man,