Title: The Mysteries of Montreal: Being Recollections of a Female Physician
Author: Führer, Ch. (Charlotte)
Language: English
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THE MYSTERIES OF MONTREAL

BEING RECOLLECTIONS OF A FEMALE PHYSICIAN.

By Charlotte Fuhrer


Truth is Stranger than Fiction


MONTREAL



INTRODUCTION

During a long practice of over thirty years I have seen many things
enacted here in this city of Montreal which, if told with the skill of
a Dumas or a Collins, might not only astonish but startle the sedate
residents of this Church-going community. I have often, while waiting
for the advent of a little midnight visitor, beguiled the weary hours
with a narrative of some of my experiences, and have been amused at the
expression on the faces of my fair patients when told that my memory,
and not my imagination, had been drawn upon for materials. Enquiry
having frequently been made as to whether my recollections were
published, I have been induced to print this volume, changing only names
of persons and localities, so as to avoid identification. Many persons
will find it hard to believe some of the occurrences which are herein
mentioned, but those who have been concerned (directly or indirectly)
with any of the parties to my narratives, will recognize, under the
disguise of a false name, some person with whose history they are
familiar. Should any discover his own actions here narrated, let him not
think that I have wantonly endeavored to open old sores, but rather to
warn others from taking that first false step which so often leads to
future misery and bitter remorse.

MONTREAL, May, 1881



CHAPTER I.


Early Life and Professional Struggles.

My father, an officer in the Hanoverian Army, having died while I was
almost a child, I found myself, at the age of 17, governess in the
family of the Baron Grovestein in Hamburg, Germany, where I met
my present husband, Gustav Schroeder, at that time one of the most
"eligible" young gentlemen in that city.

Though not particularly handsome, Gustav was all that could be desired
in other respects. He was young, well educated, and the son of wealthy
parents, and of an amiable disposition. Soon after my engagement at the
Baron's, young Schroeder's visits (ostensibly to the family) became
so frequent, that his friends, who had divined the cause, forbade his
having anything to say to me, more than cold civility demanded;
and insisted that his visits to the Grovestein mansion should be
discontinued. This, it may well be supposed, had quite the opposite
effect, and in a short time we were engaged to be married, with the
formal, if not the hearty approval of Gustav's relations, and in course
of time the marriage ceremony took place, with all the paraphernalia of
an _Alt-Deutsch Hochzeitsfest_.

Now, however, came the question: How are we to live! for my husband
had no settled profession, and his parents, though wealthy, could not
deprive their more obedient children of their rights to benefit the
perverse Gustav. They gave him sufficient to start him in business, with
the understanding that he would emigrate to America, their idea being
that a German gentleman with a little capital could not fail to make
a fortune among the comparatively illiterate Columbians. To New York
accordingly we came, and Gustav labored assiduously to establish a
business as importer of German manufactures; he soon found, however,
that men who did not know Horace from Euripides could drive closer
bargains, and make quicker sales than he could, and, as he was too proud
to compound with his correspondents in the old country, and insisted on
conscientiously paying a hundred cents for a dollar, we found ourselves
in less than three years, with diminished capital in specie, and an
increased one as regards future candidates for the Presidency, on our
way back to our common Fatherland. Through the influence of his friends,
Gustav procured a good situation in a merchant's office, but he was
altogether unsuited both by temperament and education for such a
position, and I soon made up my mind that I must either prepare to enter
the world's great battlefield in person, or live in helpless dependence
on my husband's relations.

I had often while in America wondered why the ladies of that Republic
(so advanced and enlightened in everything else) should submit to
a practice so revolting, so contrary to all ideas of morality and
refinement as is the system of man-midwifery so widely practiced in the
United States. No German lady would think of permitting the attendance
of a man at her bedside on such an occasion, and though custom in
England seems generally to sanction the absurd practice, yet Her Majesty
Queen Victoria never allows her medical advisers to be in attendance in
any other capacity than that of _consulting_ physicians. I had discussed
the matter frequently with married ladies in New York, and they were
generally agreed, that, could only competent ladies be found in the
United States, man-midwifery would soon cease to be practiced in that
Republic. I accordingly resolved to devote all my energies to the study
of that particular branch of the medical profession, and my efforts were
crowned with success. In two years I obtained a diploma from the Hamburg
University, and soon after prepared to return to America.

[Footnote: Dr. Playfair, President of the Obstetrical Society of London,
in his address delivered in February, 1879, said:--"I confess that it is
with a feeling of regret, something akin to shame, when I reflect that
I am supposed to teach a class of young men the entire subject of
midwifery, and the diseases of women and children, in a short summer
course of something under forty lectures. The thing is a manifest and
ridiculous absurdity, hence we have, of necessity, to omit, year by
year, _at least half of midwifery proper_."

The Principal of Calcutta Medical College writes Dr. Playfair thus:--"To
what a hideous extent is the practice of midwifery carried on in
England, by utterly unqualified men, whom the unhappy women and their
friends believe to be qualified, and the system in your hospitals sadly
favors this."

"Yet there are some women who will smother every feeling of modesty and
morality, and trust their lives to one of these licentiates rather than
commit themselves to the care of a thoroughly trained midwife of their
own sex. Surely nothing can be more absurd and irrational."]

About this time a friend of my husbands' informed us that the climate
of Canada was very much superior to that of the Eastern States, and much
more like that of Germany, and that in Montreal I would be likely to
find, not only a pleasant city, but a people more European in style
and custom, also a capital field for the exercise of my profession. For
Montreal then we sailed with hearts full of hope, and, being fifty-four
days at sea, I was summoned by the Captain to attend a lady on board
(which I did with the success which has since invariably attended my
efforts), and this was my debut as a professional accoucheur.

On our arrival at Montreal we presented letters of introduction to the
German Consul, and the leading members of the German Society, and I soon
became fully occupied in the exercise of my profession. Dr. X----
(now one of our most distinguished physicians) not only tolerated my
vocation, but, with a magnanimity worthy of his genius and ability, gave
me counsel and advice, and recommended me as highly as possible to his
confrères and the public. Some few resident doctors threw cold water
on my enterprise, but, to their credit be it spoken, the profession at
large treated me invariably with the greatest kindness and courtesy,
shewing thereby a liberality and largeness of heart which is ever the
outcome of real ability.

I was not long installed in my new home when, as we were sitting cosily
round the fire, the door bell was rung furiously, and on my going down
to receive my visitor, I was astonished to find a gentleman with a
newborn baby wrapped in the tail of his broadcloth coat. He said he
was its father, and that the mother had taken suddenly ill before any
provision could be made for its reception, and he implored me to take
it, as he would otherwise feel impelled to throw it in the river.
I thought my heart would break to see the poor infant so ruthlessly
treated, so I took it from him, promising to see it safely to some
charitable institution. He told me his name was Ferguson, that he was
in business in Montreal, and that if I would deposit the child in some
charitable institution and call and see its mother during her recovery,
he would pay all necessary expenses. It was too late that night to go
out with the child, so I prepared some food for its nourishment and
kept it till the next day, resolved to go after dusk and see the Lady
Superior at one of the nunneries, but to my chagrin I discovered that
the nunnery was closed, and I was obliged to return home with the
babe, which, by-the-by, continued to roar lustily all the way, and so
attracted public attention to me (its presumptive mother) that I wept
as bitterly as the child itself, and was heartily sorry that I had
undertaken any such mission.

Next day I set out again in good time, but now a new difficulty awaited
me. The good Sister who received me informed me that only those who
were baptized and received into the Catholic Faith were eligible for
admission. On hearing this I burst into tears; I told her my story, that
the child was not mine, but that I was commissioned by its father to
deliver it to her, and I besought her so earnestly to take it from me
that she very considerately did so, and on my handing her the necessary
fee, she undertook to have it regularly baptized and admitted.

In the evening I called to see the mother; she was lying on a miserable
couch in a low lodging-house in the Quebec suburbs, yet she had about
her the air of a lady, and on her finger glittered a ring set with
brilliants. She wept when I told her how her child was disposed of,
but said that she had no other alternative, as if her father, who was a
lawyer of eminence, had any idea of her predicament, he would cast her
off in shame; that when she first discovered her condition she persuaded
her paramour to make a formal proposal for her hand, but her father was
enraged beyond measure, and threatened her so terribly that she, for a
time at least, put away all thoughts of Ferguson from her mind, and had
not quite decided how to act, when the occurrence took place which led
to the visit aforementioned, and caused the necessity for my attendance.
Miss L---- had barely time to call in a carriage at Ferguson's office,
and apprise him of her condition, when she was taken ill, and obliged to
procure a lodging with all speed. Ferguson selected the wretched hovel
alluded to, as being away from all chance of discovery by his or her
friends, and after my visit, empowered me to engage a nurse, and make
what other arrangements I could for Miss L----'s comfort. She managed to
get a confidential friend to telegraph her father from Quebec that she
had arrived in that city, and then sent on a letter and had it mailed
there, stating that she had gone on the steamboat the previous evening
to see some friends off, and, remaining too long on board, was taken
away eastward, but would return on receiving the passage money from
Montreal.

With this story she managed to deceive her otherwise astute father, and
in four days she actually got up and went to her own home in a carriage;
insisting on retiring immediately to her room in consequence of the
nervous excitement and fatigue she had undergone. The nurse I had
engaged to attend her, she on some pretence or another smuggled into
the house as a domestic servant, and so not only managed to have an
attendant, but to keep up a clandestine communication with Ferguson and
the outer world.

In the frantic hope of acquiring a rapid fortune, Ferguson migrated
to New Orleans, but just then the American war broke out, and he was
pressed into the service. Whether he was killed or not Miss L----never
found out; his letters became gradually less frequent, till finally she
lost all trace of him whatever, and she eventually married a wholesale
merchant of this city, who is to this day probably unaware of this
little episode in his wife's former career. Sometimes I see her in her
carriage driving with liveried servants along St. James street, and
I cannot refrain from thinking of the innocent babe as it lay in poor
Ferguson's coat-tail.



CHAPTER II.


A Just Retribution.

One evening, about the middle of June, 18--, a gentleman called to
see me, accompanied by a lady closely veiled. He said he wished me to
procure suitable lodging for her, and to attend her on her accouchement,
which was now close at hand, stating that no money would be spared to
furnish everything necessary either to her comfort or convenience. As I
did not know of any lodging suitable to a person of her station, I was
puzzled how to act; I did not want to lose a patient, and yet could not,
even if so disposed, make room for her in my own house. I knew that my
next door neighbor (an elderly French-Canadian lady) was accustomed to
take in lodgers; so, leaving the lady and gentleman for a while in my
parlor, I went to see if I could make arrangements for the reception of
the former. Madame Charbonneau, my neighbor, had all her rooms
occupied, but said she was willing for a consideration to give up
her drawing-rooms for a time to the fair patient. This was eminently
satisfactory to me, as, in the event of an emergency, I would be close
at hand; I accordingly arranged for Mrs. Trotter's accommodation, and on
reporting to Mr. Dombey, the gentleman aforementioned, he seemed to
be perfectly satisfied. From, what I afterwards learned, I am able to
inform the reader that Mr. Dombey was junior partner in the house of
Dombey & Son, dry goods merchants, in this city, his father, Jacob
Dombey, sen., being considered one of the wealthiest importers in
Canada. In his youth Jacob Dombey, jun., had been pampered and petted
beyond measure, his every whim being carried out even at great expense;
arrived at the age of twenty-one he became enamored of a young lady
whose father kept a small toy-shop on Notre Dame street, and nothing
would content him but a marriage with the "Goddess," as his innamorata
was called. At first he was quite proud of his pretty wife, and was to
be seen daily in Sherbrooke street, driving her behind a splendid span
of spirited bay horses, but after a few months he grew tired of this
routine, and with his bosom friend, Richard Fairfax, might be seen,
nightly at the theatres and other places of amusement, while his poor
wife sat in patient loneliness awaiting his return.

Mrs. Trotter was the daughter of a Civic Official of high standing, and
had married at a very early age a retired English Officer, who, being
well advanced in years, left her at the age of twenty-four a widow with
four children. Trotter was possessed of little besides his pension,
which died with him; so Mrs. T. was obliged to eke out a miserable
subsistence on the receipts from a little city property left her by her
father. Soon after her husband's demise Mrs. Trotter removed to Lachine
(a small village on the river side about nine miles above Montreal), in
order to live more economically, and soon became acquainted with Mr. and
Mrs. Dombey, who had taken up their abode there for the summer season.
Mrs. Dombey took quite a fancy to the fascinating widow, and they soon
became inseparable.

Every evening on the promenade might be seen Mrs. Trotter leaning on the
arm of Mr. Dombey, his wife following accompanied by his friend Fairfax;
or they were together on the river boating, or enjoying a picnic on
"Dixie" Island. Occasionally, when the weather was unfavorable to
out-door amusements, they would engage in a rubber of whist, generally
ending the evening with a little music. Dombey did not know one tune
from another, but his wife praised Mrs. Trotter's singing so highly that
he soon imagined that in that art, as in others, she was nearly, if not
altogether, perfect. When it became time for Mrs. Trotter to go home,
Jacob used to escort her to her cottage on the river bank, about a mile
distant from his own residence, and after a few weeks there sprang up an
intimacy between them which culminated in the incidents which gave rise
to my narrative.

On the day following that on which I had engaged her apartments Mrs.
Trotter took up her abode at Madame Charbonneau's, and about six weeks
afterwards her baby, a beautiful girl, was born; she sent a message to
Mr. Dombey's office, and in the afternoon he called to see her. He was
greatly pleased with the baby, and took it up fondly in his arms, and
on leaving placed a roll of bank bills in my hand, telling me to get
everything necessary for either the mother or her child, also to get the
latter whatever clothing it might require. After that he called almost
daily, and when Mrs. Trotter was sufficiently recovered to return to her
home, he pressed me so strongly to keep the baby till it was a little
older, and not to leave it to the tender mercies of an ignorant nurse,
that I consented to keep it till it was two years old, and then to
obtain for it, if possible, adoption by some respectable married
persons.

Margery, the baby aforementioned, turned out one of the most beautiful
children I had ever seen. Her father and mother visited her frequently
during the time she was at my house, and on my giving her for adoption
to Mr. Walker (a respectable Vermont farmer without any children of
his own) they were both deeply affected. Dombey was anxious that Mrs.
Trotter should take it to her own home, but, as "Mrs. Grundy" had
already been discussing her movements, she dare not, without fear of
ruining her children, take the baby under the roof. As there was no help
for it the baby was allowed to go to Vermont, and grew up a beautiful
girl, passionately devoted to the only parents she had ever known; Mrs.
Walker dying during the child's infancy, Mr. Walker had her educated as
well as his means would permit, and they passed their time in the most
perfect harmony and sweet content. After the war, however, Walker found
himself almost without a penny in the world, and, thinking to better his
fortunes removed to New York, where he managed to make a poor living
as a subordinate in the Custom House. Margery regretted this change of
circumstances very much, but, being thoroughly devoted to her father,
she did not repine, but did all in her power to make his home as happy
as could be under such conditions. She missed her accustomed amusements
very much, and although in New York she saw many things and found many
opportunities which would have been altogether unknown to her in the
country, yet she was a long time in becoming reconciled to the close and
stifling atmosphere of a great metropolitan city.

One night her father promised her a great treat, they were to go to
X----'s theatre to see Mademoiselle B---- in Romeo and Juliet. Margery
sat with strained eyes gazing wistfully at the play, laughing and
weeping by turns as the great master's power was exerted on the audience
by the artists engaged, and at the close she heaved a deep sigh,
consequent upon having held her breath so long, and without thought
exclaimed aloud:--"Oh, what would I not give to be able to act like
that." The manager who was close by, and who had been watching the
attentive beauty for some time, overheard the remark, and intercepting
the pair on their way out of the theatre said:--"I noticed that you were
favorably impressed with the piece; would you like an introduction to
Miss B----, the principal actress?" Margery was overcome with delight,
and besought her father so earnestly to allow her to go into the green
room that he accompanied her thither, and they obtained an introduction
to the famous artiste. Miss B---- was quite taken with the innocent
enthusiasm of the girl, and invited her to come to her benefit on the
following evening, when she was to appear as Parthenia in "Ingomar;"
Margery, having obtained her father's permission, readily consented, and
all the way home was full of praises for Juliet, Romeo, the manager,
and all concerned. On the following evening the manager drew her father
aside and whispered in his ear:--"You have a fortune in that girl
of yours." Walker, misunderstanding the purport of his words,
replied:--"Yes, she is a good and affectionate child, as much so as if I
were her natural parent." "You do not understand me," said the other; "I
mean she has immense emotional power, which, if artistically cultivated,
would, coupled with her personal appearance, make both her fortune and
yours."

"Do you think so?" replied Walker; "well, if we had only the means I
would certainly have her trained, for, since she has seen Mademoiselle
B---- act, her great ambition seems to be to occupy a similar position."
After further conversation it was agreed to place Margery under the
care of Mrs. L----, with a view of becoming a professional actress; for,
although Walker did not at all care for the stage or its concomitants,
still he did not wish to throw any obstacles in the way of his adopted
child's prosperity. Margery, therefore, was allowed to pursue the bent
of her inclinations, and such an apt pupil was she that in a little over
eighteen months her debut was announced in the papers, and a crowded
house showered floral and other trophies on the beautiful debutante.
Offers of engagements from different cities came flowing in, and before
long Miss Margery Montague was announced to appear in Montreal. Her fame
had preceded her thither, and Fairfax was instructed to secure a box for
the Dombey family. Dombey himself (who had followed the career of his
child) tried hard to excuse himself from going, but his wife was not
satisfied to leave him at home; he sat in the back of the box, and as
the applause grew louder and louder, he showered costly bouquets,
and other offerings on the stage, his breast meanwhile being torn by
conflicting passions. How proud he would have been to clasp her to his
heart and call her his own; but he had willfully put her away from him,
and now, even could he receive her into his family, would her adopted
father be willing to give her up again. With flushed face and beating
heart he sought the manager, and begged to be allowed to see the fair
artiste, a favor which was granted; and, as he stood before his child,
and poured forth the usual stereotyped compliments and congratulations,
he bit his lips as he thought that he dared not press her to his heart,
but was forced to speak to her in terms of cold politeness.

On their return from the Theatre Mrs. Dombey announced her intention
of calling on the talented actress, and the following day she went,
accompanied by her daughters, to the St. Lawrence Hall, at that time the
most fashionable hotel in the city, where she was cordially received;
and the young actress made such a favorable impression on the ladies
that they invited her to dine at their house on the following day, an
invitation which was readily accepted.

Dombey was greatly moved when he heard that Miss Montague had accepted
an invitation to dinner, but there was no help for it, and, as though
to make matters worse invitations were sent to a few intimate friends,
including Mrs. Trotter. Here, then, was a painful position for the two
guilty ones: they were forced to sit and see the child whom they had
cast off fêted and honored by the woman both of them had injured. It
seemed as if a wet blanket were placed over the whole assembly: Dombey
sat moodily biting his finger-nails, and as Mrs. Trotter would not sing
and Mrs. Dombey _could_ not, matters went very slowly indeed.

When the time came for separating, Mrs. Dombey motioned to Jacob to see
Miss Montague to her hotel, but he being deep in a fit of abstraction,
his eldest son Charles stepped forward, and before his father could
prevent him, was equipped in greatcoat and overshoes, ready for a
moonlight stroll. During the evening he had noticed that Charles was
rather attentive to the fair actress, and the thought that an intimacy
between them was possible drove him to the verge of distraction, Mrs.
Dombey noticed his strange behavior, and asked him the cause, on which
he muttered something about "Auction lunch--infernal champagne," and
some other incoherent exclamations, altogether unintelligible to his
unsuspicious wife. When he and his paramour got outside they walked
along in gloomy silence for several minutes--at last he addressed her:
"Is it not strange that this child, whom I had thought far removed from
me and mine, should be brought even into my own house, and eat at my
table?"

"Oh, it is fearful; only think what would be the consequence if an
intimacy should spring up between her and Charles!"

"Yes, I must send him away at once."

Mrs. Trotter reminded him that this step was unnecessary, as Miss
Montague left the next day for Chicago to fulfil a professional
engagement. He heaved a sigh of relief, and then, with a passionate tug
at Mrs. Trotter's door bell, turned to go away.

"Will you not come in a while, Jack?" she said.

"No, he replied, Clara (Mrs. Dombey) would suspect something. She looked
at me very strangely this evening."

"But you will come to-morrow," rejoined the temptress.

"Yes, I will look in on my way up from the office," he said. "Good
night."

"Good night, Jack," said she.

As he got to his own door he found Charles leaning pensively against the
balustrade, gazing wistfully at the heavens.

"Well, Charlie, have you forgotten your latch-key?"

"N--no Sir," stammered Charles, "but it is so confoundedly hot inside
that I did not care to go in."

Dombey reflected that as the thermometer registered only about ten
degrees Fahrenheit he had but to open his window to attain as low a
temperature as was consistent with comfort; however, he said nothing,
and they both walked upstairs.

"Good night, Charlie."

"Good night, Father."

And they entered their respective chambers.

I have heard it said that if two men are placed in one bed, one in love
and the other with a toothache, that the man with the toothache will
fall asleep first. Here, however, were two men; one, past the prime
of life, afflicted with the most bitter remorse; the other, young and
susceptible, with all the fever of a youthful passion springing up
within his breast. Dombey could not sleep, the thought that what at
first was barely possible was now become highly probable goaded him
almost to madness. He rose and dressed himself, going quietly out of the
front door into Sherbrooke street. Along the street he went at a fearful
pace, till, almost faint from want of breath, he turned down the hill
towards the city, habit bringing him along the route he was accustomed
to take to his office. As he turned the corner of St. James street, he
saw (for there were few persons abroad) a young man walking moodily up
and down on the side opposite the St. Lawrence Hall; he turned as if he
had seen an apparition, and ran rather than walked in the direction of
his own home.

Next day Miss Montague departed for the West, Mrs. and Miss Dombey
accompanied by Charles went to see her off at the Depot, and with many
assurances of a future meeting, should she ever return to Montreal,
they separated as the train moved slowly past the platform. As the
drawing-room car was just clearing the station, Miss Montague held
a piece of paper out of the window, which Charles caught eagerly
and placed in his pocket-book. His mother and sister chaffing him on
receiving tender messages from the fair artiste, he laughingly produced
it.

It was nothing more nor less than a page of an old timetable, and both
Mrs. and Miss Dombey laughed at the strange souvenir Miss Montague had
left behind her. When they got home, however, Charles carefully opened
the paper and observed that opposite each of the cities on her route
Miss Montague had placed a figure in pencil thus:--Chicago, 4;
Detroit, 2; Toledo, 2; Toronto, 3; New York; 6, Boston, 6. This, though
unintelligible to his mother and sister, informed Charles that Miss
Montague would go first to Chicago and remain four days, and afterwards
to the other cities mentioned, and that he might write or meet her there
as opportunity afforded.

That day matters resumed their normal condition in the Dombey family;
Jacob breathed freely now that his child had returned to the country of
her adoption, and his wife and family were happy because of his improved
spirits and appearance. Charles had apparently settled down to business
as usual, and Mesdames Trotter and Dombey drove out together as of old.
In a few weeks, however, Charles asked his father permission to go for
his holidays; a friend having invited him to spend a few weeks at Nahant
an island near Boston. There being nothing to keep him in Montreal he
had no difficulty in procuring consent, and he departed, taking fishing
tackle enough to have supplied the whole Atlantic coast for a season.
When his father learned the real object of his visit to Boston, he raved
like a madman; he came to see me, and told me the whole story, most of
which I had learnt before from other sources and he persuaded me to
go to Boston and to take on my self the painful duty of informing Miss
Montague who and what she really was, and why it was impossible that she
could ever marry Charles Dombey. The poor girl was almost heart-broken,
for she had learnt to love her stepbrother dearly, and now she would
have to be separated from him entirely. It was not for herself, however,
that she mourned the most, it was for him, when he should learn of the
wide gulf which separated them from each other. He never did learn it,
however; Miss Montague consented (for his sake) to accept an engagement
in England, and to trust in years to soften the blow which had smitten
her so severely. She wrote to Charles, telling him that, for reasons
unexplained, she never could be his wife, although she loved him dearly,
and that as there was no use striving against fate, she had bowed to
the inevitable, and taken a foreign engagement. At first Charles was
desperately cut up, but time, that physician _par excellence_, healed
his wounds, and he is now married to a respectable lady of this city;
deservedly successful in his business, and with a stainless reputation.
Jacob Dombey staggered along under his load for years, but, unable
to contain himself, he one day confessed the affair to his wife, who,
instead of denouncing him as the wretch he was, pitied and sympathized
with; aye, and not only that, she received his mistress into her house
as before, rather than make public his heartless conduct. Truly such
an angel never received such heartless treatment, or was so little
appreciated. It broke her heart however, and over her grave Dombey
resolved to cast Mrs. Trotter off forever, and send her away from the
city. He accordingly arranged with her to take an annual allowance and
go to New York with her family, vowing that he could no longer endure
her presence, which was grown distasteful to him.

This did not at all suit Mrs. Trotter, who had now hoped to become
the legal mistress of the Dombey mansion. But all her tears were of no
avail, the bitter pangs of remorse were tearing Dombey's bosom, and
he would hear of nothing but, her immediate departure for the United
States. He determined that however he might have blighted the life of
the wife whose excellent qualities he had only now begun to appreciate,
nothing should stand in the way of her children's advancement; and the
voice of a scandal having already been heard concerning Mrs. Trotter,
he felt that her immediate departure was a necessity. She argued and
entreated, but it was of no avail, and she accordingly made the best of
her case and got from him a liberal allowance. Hers was not of a nature
to reform, however; she went from bad to worse, and finally took to
smoking opium as a means to relieve her gnawing conscience, ending her
days prematurely.

Dombey survived her but a short time. He tried hard to make amends for
the past by increased attention to the children of his late wife, but he
never fully recovered himself, and finally succumbed to a wasting fever,
superinduced by late hours and immoderate drinking. To his last hour
his conscience smote him at the triple wrong he had inflicted on his
children, his natural daughter, and his confiding wife.



CHAPTER III.


The Bag Baby.

Madame Charbonneau gave such entire satisfaction as _Maîtresse
d'Hôpital_ that I purchased her interest in the lease of the house,
and employed her permanently as my aide-de-camp. In a short time we
established quite a reputation, and applications for accommodation
poured in from all quarters.

One bitter cold day towards the end of March a lady and gentleman
arrived by the morning train from the United States. The lady was
apparently about thirty-five years of age, while the gentleman might
have been from five to ten years her senior, and, although plainly
attired, they had the appearance of belonging to the better class of
society. The gentleman informed me that they had just arrived from New
York, and had put up at the St. Lawrence Hall; but that his wife had
taken ill unexpectedly, and, hearing that she would be better cared for
in my house than at the Hall, he wished, if possible, to secure rooms
and professional attendance. The house being rather full at the time,
Madame Charbonneau was obliged to give her the nurse's room (which
contained two beds) till some of the other rooms should become vacant;
this her husband readily assented to, and arranged to call in the
afternoon and bring the necessary funds, which I always made it a
point to collect in advance. The lady seeming tired and exhausted, I
recommended her to divest herself of her clothing and retire to bed,
which she accordingly did, and soon fell into a deep sleep. In the
afternoon the gentleman returned, and, having settled the bills, went
upstairs to see his wife who was just then partaking of some light
refreshment. He expressed himself well pleased with our arrangements,
and said he would call regularly to see how his wife progressed.

That night as the nurse was about to retire, she was surprised to find,
under the coverlet of her bed, an enormous rag baby, as large as a child
of two years old, dressed completely, with shoes, bonnet and veil. Her
astonishment can easily be imagined as she held it up to the light
and carefully examined it; then, laughing heartily, she turned to Mrs.
Roberts (my patient) and said:

"My! who could have put this baby in my bed?" On which that lady replied
with evident embarrassment that the baby was a doll belonging to
her niece, and that, imagining the bed to be unoccupied, she had, in
unpacking her trunk, placed it there for the sake of convenience, and
apologized for being so careless. The nurse made no reply, but, being of
a jovial disposition, danced with it into the other rooms, exclaiming,
much to the chagrin of the lady, that she had found a beautiful baby in
her bed. The other patients wondered what it was, and whence it came,
and appealed to me for information, but, as I knew nothing about
it myself, their curiosity was not gratified in the least. On my
questioning the lady she told me a story similar to that which she told
the nurse, but her countenance contradicted her assertions, and the idea
of any child carrying a doll of the dimensions of the rag baby was too
absurd for credence. No more was said about it, however, and the matter
passed almost completely from our memory.

For three or four days things went on as usual, Mrs. Roberts getting to
all appearances better every day, and her husband's visits being paid
with due regularity; one day, however, he failed to appear, and Mrs.
Roberts seemed very uneasy. After tea she asked for the evening paper,
and hastily scanned its columns, when her eye fell on some item of
interest, and she became deadly pale. The American war being then in
progress I thought she might have learned of the death of a friend or
relation, so I inquired if anything were amiss, and was astonished
when she pointed out a paragraph containing an account of her husband's
arrest for enlisting British subjects for the American army, and
smuggling them across the line, She now took me into her confidence, and
explained that she was an accomplice of her husband, and that they
had made a practice of enlisting men in Montreal. Her husband usually
remained here, as it was dangerous for him to travel to and fro, but she
was sent as an escort for each recruit, and the baby was used to avert
suspicion, as no sentinel would think of scrutinizing a man closely who
went across accompanied with his wife and child. The excess of travel
had weakened her frame, and now this shock came to still further shake
her system; the result was a premature confinement, and a long and weary
illness.

Ere she recovered she got a letter from her husband, bearing the
New York postmark. It seems he had been liberated on bail, (having
influential friends) and had at once made the best of his way to the
United States. His wife soon joined him, taking with her the redoubtable
rag-baby, which had afforded us so much food for gossip and conjecture.



CHAPTER IV.


A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing.

Alfred Grandison was born in the ancient city of Bristol in the year
1831. His father had been bandmaster in a British Cavalry regiment,
but had retired some years previous to the birth of little Alfred, and
made a comfortable livelihood by teaching the children of the wealthy
residents of Clifton, the fashionable suburb of Bristol. Young Alfred
soon gave evidence of great musical talent, and used to amuse himself
blowing trumpet calls on his father's French horn, although the
instrument was almost as big as himself; he also achieved considerable
mastery over the piano, the flute and the violin, but, though bright
and intelligent enough, and always maintaining a creditable position at
school, it was evident that nature had intended him for a musician,
and that he could never succeed in anything prosaic or mechanical.
Accordingly his father taught him not only to play, but also instructed
him in the theory and literature of music, and, when he was old enough,
had him entered as a chorister in Bristol Cathedral, where, in addition
to vocal music, he was carefully taught the art of organ-playing by the
Cathedral organist.

The boy soon became able to play quite skilfully, and when his voice
began to give way he obtained a position as organist in the church at
Shirehampton, performing on a small instrument with one row of keys.
From Shirehampton he shortly removed to a more remunerative position
in Bristol, and he was not long there before he fell in love with the
daughter of a hotel-keeper in one of the suburbs, whom, in spite of
the remonstrance of both relatives and friends, he eventually married,
although she was both poor and plain-looking, and at least ten years his
senior. "A young man married is a man that's marred" says Shakespeare,
and, without venturing an opinion as to the correctness of this theory,
we may say that young Grandison had made a great mistake. In a short
time his affection, or fancied affection, for his wife became less
ardent, and he found himself at the age of twenty-four, married to a
woman who had neither taste nor sympathy in common with him, the
father of three helpless children, and the recipient of the stupendous
emolument of sixty pounds a year. Added to all this his friends, being
unwilling to associate with his wife and relations, had, one by one,
deserted him, and left him almost alone to brood over his ill-advised
alliance.

Whilst moodily glancing at an evening paper he saw an advertisement for
an organist who would be willing to go to Canada, and at once seizing at
the idea he applied for the post, which he eventually obtained without
great difficulty, sailing for Montreal in the spring of 1855, to play
the organ and direct the music of one of the leading Episcopal churches
in this city. At that time there were, very few musicians of ability
in Montreal, and Mr. Grandison soon became quite popular, both
professionally and socially. His wife was at first invited out, but,
finding that she seldom accompanied her husband on these occasions, her
name was, in time, dropped from the invitations, and Mr. Grandison was
treated as if he were a bachelor, many indeed being altogether unaware
of the fact that he had a wife and family.

Among those who took Grandison by the hand was a certain Mr. Sedley,
a professional man of high standing. Mary Sedley, the daughter of the
latter was possessed of a remarkably fine voice, and was one of the
ornaments of the church choir, so that the family were naturally
interested in the advent of a new organist from England, under whose
careful training the music of the church was to be developed and
improved. It was decided to place Mary Sedley under the special charge
of Mr. Grandison, and he accordingly went twice a week to the house to
give her lessons in singing, and when there was a special Anthem to be
sung his visits were much more frequent. Then the Sedleys gave grand
musical parties to which Mr. Grandison was of course, invited, playing
Miss Sedley's accompaniment on the pianoforte, while she entranced the
assembled company with her singing; in fact, no gathering of the
Sedley family was complete without the presence of the handsome and
accomplished Mr. Grandison.

All this, in its way, was harmless enough, but Mary Sedley was a
blooming girl of seventeen, and Grandison, as I have said was quite
a young man, and from the frequent walking home with her alone from
services and rehearsals, and other meetings in society, there arose an
intimacy which, though unnoticed by Mary's parents, and possibly not by
the young people themselves, could not be productive of anything in the
long run but sorrow and remorse.

One Saturday night when Mary came home rather later than usual, her
father (who, though fond of her, was an austere man) questioned her
gruffly as to the cause of her delay, when she replied:--"Oh! papa, I am
to sing 'As Pants the Hart' to-morrow, and Mr. Grandison insisted on my
trying it with the organ after practice. It is exceedingly difficult,
you know."

Her father _did not know_, and was inclined to be very angry. The next
day, however, he forgot it all in the delight of hearing his daughter's
voice resounding through the sacred edifice; Grandison was invited to
dinner, and everything was once more _couleur de rose_.

The first winter after Grandison's arrival in Canada he gave a grand
concert in Nordheimer's Hall, then the principal concert hall in the
city. Mary Sedley was the Prima Donna, and bouquet after bouquet was
thrown at her feet, as she retired amid the plaudits of the multitude.
After the concert Grandison accompanied them home to supper, and about
twelve o'clock took his leave of the family.

About an hour afterwards Mr. Sedley, thinking he heard a noise, got
up and searched the house, when, to his surprise, he found the door
unfastened. He thought he remembered having secured it as he retired to
rest, but was not certain; however, he proceeded, in his search, and
on coming to Mary's room, found the door locked, and heard his daughter
breathing heavily, as if asleep. Being unwilling to disturb her, he
returned to his bed, and, ere morning, the affair had passed from his
memory. Had he remained awake, however, he might have seen a man emerge
from his daughter's room, and, creeping stealthily along the passage, go
out at the hall-door, his daughter, the pure, spotless Mary, _leader of
Psalmody and sacred lays_, following close at his heels, to fasten the
door and make good his retreat.

This sort of thing went on for a long time, unsuspected by either Miss
Sedley's parents or friends, when Mary became suddenly placed in a very
awkward position. A certain Mr. Hazelton, junior partner in a large
hardware firm, had long been a suitor of hers, and had asked repeatedly
for her hand; her father had hitherto refused to give his consent, owing
to her tender age, but he had now withdrawn every obstacle, and left her
free to get married if she chose; more than that, he urged Hazelton's
suit, and, though unwilling to coerce his daughter in any way, gave her
to understand that he was particularly desirous that she should give
Hazelton a favorable reply.

Under ordinary circumstances Mary would have had no hesitation in
refusing to have anything to say to Hazelton, but for some time rumor
had been busy circulating scandal concerning herself and Grandison, and,
as she was at that moment not in a condition to bear scrutiny, she was
afraid to awaken suspicion by refusing Hazelton's offer, and so he was
made the "happiest of men" (?)

A short time after Miss Sedley had become engaged to Mr. Hazelton she
went with her father and mother to Cacouna, where they had a summer
residence. By a strange coincidence, Grandison also chose Cacouna at
which to spend his holidays, and combined business with pleasure by
giving occasional concerts at the St. Lawrence Hall, which hotel had
just been erected, and was the fashionable resort of those people from
Montreal and Quebec who could manage to exchange the heated atmosphere
of these cities for the more bracing air of Canada's popular watering
place. Mr. Hazelton was unable to leave Montreal, and Mrs. Grandison was
not disposed to accompany her husband, even if he could have afforded
to take her, in fact, the poor woman, feeling that she was a burden and
drag on her husband, had taken to drinking, and had gradually removed
herself still further from the pale of fashionable society. Her house
(which was situated in a back street in Montreal) was not only untidy,
but positively dirty, and her children ran about the streets unclad
uneducated, and uncared for.

The Sedleys had not been long at Cacouna when one morning the old
gentleman walking out, as was his wont, before breakfast, saw through
the fog (which in this district usually hangs about for some time after
sunrise) a man descend from his daughter's bedroom window and walk
hastily in the direction of the hotel. Both the distance and the fog
prevented him from positively recognizing the man's features, but the
form and carriage were unmistakably those of Alfred Grandison. Mr.
Sedley was, so to speak, "struck all of a heap," he could not believe
the evidence of his own senses, and for a few moments he stood rooted to
the spot as if thunderstruck; then he rushed into the house, and going
straight to his daughter's room upbraided her with her shameful conduct,
but was met by a bold and unqualified denial, the young lady stating
that she had been till that moment asleep, and that possibly some
burglar had been in the premises, whom her father had mistaken for a gay
Lothario. She burst into tears and wondered that her father could have
such an opinion of her, and suggested that immediate search should be
made, to see if any articles of value were missing. Her father was by no
means convinced of his mistake, however; he thought it possible that his
daughter might not have been aware of Grandison's presence, or that he
might only have been _about to enter_ the house when he was frightened
away; but that Grandison was there he felt certain, so, going
immediately over to the hotel, he charged him directly with his
crime, at the same time, presenting a loaded revolver at his head, he
threatened to blow his brains out. This, as may be supposed, did
not prove a ready means of eliciting a confession from the cowardly
Grandison. The poor wretch cowered before the righteous indignation of
the broken-hearted father, and swore by every saint in the Calendar that
the latter must have been mistaken, and that nothing criminal had ever
taken place between the young lady and himself.

Mr. Sedley only half believed these asseverations, but, as may be seen,
he was a poor diplomatist, and took the very worst way to arrive
at anything like the truth. So saying "Not guilty, but _don't do it
again_," or words to that effect, he left the hotel and returned to his
own house. Here he disclosed his fears to his wife, but she scouted
the idea as preposterous, and urged him to have Mary's marriage with
Hazelton celebrated as soon as convenient, and so put an end to all
possible contingencies.

Shortly after the return of the family to Montreal Mr. Hazelton led to
the altar with pride the "blushing" Mary Sedley. Good cause, indeed, had
she to blush, for never was man more egregiously "sold" than was "Mr.
Samuel Hazelton, of the city of Montreal, merchant." The _happy couple_
left by the evening train for Boston, the "Wedding March," which was
admirably performed by Mr. Grandison, still ringing in their ears.

About five months after this unholy marriage Mrs. Hazelton called on me,
and disclosed to me the whole state of the case, informing me (of which
there was little necessity) that her confinement was close at hand, and
soliciting my aid to get her out of the difficulty. My first impulse was
to call on her husband and acquaint him with the facts: but, remembering
that he occupied a prominent position, not only in the mercantile, but
also in the religious community; moreover, that a disclosure would in
no way mend the matter, and would be a lasting disgrace not only, to the
two culprits, but also to Messrs. Sedley and Hazelton I listened calmly
to her plans for getting out of the difficulty. She suggested pretending
a miscarriage, wished me to invite her to my house, where she would
become ill, and unable to leave till after her child was born. The child
was then to be conveyed to the nunnery, her husband being deluded into
the belief that she had miscarried.

Now, in the ordinary course of business, I would have been perfectly
justified in attending her without troubling my head about her
antecedents; indeed, had she been unmarried I would possibly have
given my services, but in this case the lady was married, and the child
lawfully belonged to her husband, _whose heir it was_, although actually
belonging to another man.

I accordingly declined having anything to do with her case, although I
promised that, as her confession was made to me in confidence and as a
professional secret, I would not disclose it to anyone. Having friends
in Boston, she made some excuse to visit them, and she was not long
there when her husband received a telegram, stating that his wife had
had a premature confinement and lay in a precarious state in Boston,
whither her loving husband instantly repaired. The child (a beautiful
girl) was sent to Mrs. Sedley in Montreal, and given out to nurse. She
was eventually adopted by a childless dry goods merchant in this city
who had her educated as his daughter, employing, by-the-by, _her own
father_ to give her lessons in music.

One would think that now Mrs. Hazelton had got over this great
difficulty, and started in life as a respectable married lady, she
would have eschewed her former errors and turned over a new leaf.
Unfortunately for all parties, her husband was proud of her musical
ability, and insisted that she should continue to take lessons from
Grandison, for whom strange to say, he had conceived a great regard. The
frequent meetings consequent upon this proved too much for both of the
culprits, and in a short time they became as intimate as ever. Since
Mary's marriage, Mr. Sedley had quite forgotten his former suspicions
of Grandison, and he was cordially received into both houses, being, in
fact, almost a member of the family.

Mr. Hazelton was a prominent member of the church and, being a capital
speaker, had undertaken to give a lecture in the basement of that
edifice addressed to young men; Mrs. Hazelton and some other ladies
were to enliven the evening with music, accompanied on the piano by
Mr. Grandison. The lecture animadverted at some length concerning the
temptations which beset young men, and warned them to avoid vice of all
kinds, drinking, gambling, and the rest. Among other things he mentioned
the social evil, and contrasted the happy home of the chaste man and his
virtuous wife with that of the drunken, vicious libertine. The seducer
was anathematized, and a graphic description given of the poor degraded
women who had lost the one jewel in their crown. It is needless to say
that both Mrs. Hazelton and her paramour felt exceedingly uncomfortable
during this discourse; the former who was to have sung a brilliant aria
at its close, grew deadly pale, and had to leave the room. The lecturer
requested Mr. Grandison to substitute a piano solo, but strange to say,
he was unable to perform anything without notes, so the announcement was
made to the audience that, owing to the excessive heat (the temperature
was about 70 degrees Fahrenheit), Mrs. Hazelton, was unable to perform
that evening, and begged to be excused. Grandison was to have gone home
with the lecturer to supper, but he said he considered Mrs. Hazelton
would be the better of a little quiet, and, stammering out some excuse,
slunk away in the direction of his own home.

Mr. Hazelton found his wife reclining on a sofa in the drawing-room, and
he at once exerted himself to alleviate her suffering, and gratify her
every whim. He propped her up with pillows, and ordered the maid to
prepare whatever delicacies the larder afforded, blaming himself as
being the cause of all her sufferings. His solicitude in her behalf made
her only the more miserable; she had never loved, and never could love,
him, but his uniform kindness and attention had excited within her a
feeling of gratitude which made her remorse all the more bitter as she
thought how he had been duped by the woman who had sworn to love and
honor him. The next day was one of those appointed for receiving her
singing lessons, but she sent a messenger to Mr. Grandison, telling
him not to call for a few days, as she was unequal to even that slight
exertion. Mr. Hazelton called to see me in great alarm, informing me
that his wife's first child was prematurely born, and that he dreaded
a recurrence of that terrible calamity. I, of course, had my own ideas
concerning what was the matter, but I promised to call and see her, and
do what I could to alleviate her sufferings. I found her well enough
physically, but in very low spirits and in tears. She told me what I
have informed the reader, adding that she was at the moment _enceinte_,
the father of this child being also Alfred Grandison. I was very much
shocked at this disclosure, but contented myself with remonstrating with
Mrs. Hazelton concerning the course she was pursuing, urging her to
drop all connection with Grandison. This she promised to do, but I
subsequently discovered that, far from keeping her promise, she had even
gone so far as to plan an elopement with him to the United States.

About two years after Mrs. Hazleton's marriage, Grandison received the
appointment of organist to ---- Church, Chicago, and, together with
his wife and family, left Montreal for the Western city, leaving Mr.
Hazelton in undisturbed possession of his wife; the latter, instead of
rejoicing at this providential release from temptation, fretted at the
loss of her paramour, attributing, however, her fitful humor to her
delicate condition.

Shortly after Grandison's departure for Chicago I was summoned to attend
Mrs. Hazelton, who gave birth to a fine boy. Mr. Hazelton was in ecstasy
at the thought of becoming a father; he gave a grand entertainment on
the occasion of the child's christening, and when the guests all agreed
that the child had "its father's nose" (which was doubtless the truth)
the poor man's delight knew no bounds. Mrs. Hazelton gradually began
to be more cheerful, and to try in some measure to make amends to her
husband for the wrong which could never be repaired. When, however, he
carried her baby up and down, or fondled it upon his knee, the bitter
pangs of remorse gnawed at her heart, and made her captious and bad
tempered. With all this there was no deep repentance, and when Grandison
came to Montreal for his holidays, her husband was completely forgotten
once more. Grandison was invited to stay at the Hazeltons' residence,
an invitation which to do him justice he endeavored to decline, but Mr.
Hazelton pressed him so strongly that he was afraid to awaken suspicion
by refusing, and so the wolf became ensconced snugly in the sheepfold,
not only without difficulty, but on the pressing invitation of its
occupants. Mrs. Hazelton during this visit urged Grandison so strongly
that he promised to elope with her so soon as he could conveniently
leave Chicago.

He had not been long back at his new residence when his wife died, and
letters of condolence were sent to him from all quarters. His wife, who
had never been received into society, was suddenly discovered to have
been one of its brightest ornaments, and her loss was deeply felt and
proportionately deplored. Mrs. Hazelton now thought her opportunity had
come, and accordingly wrote to Grandison that she was ready to go to the
end of the world with him. He, however, was not particularly anxious to
go to such a remote locality; in fact he had made up his mind to remain
in Chicago, and (now that his wife was no longer a burden upon him)
to turn over a new leaf and become a respectable member of society.
Whatever charms Mary Sedley may have had had long since disappeared, and
Mr. Grandison's affection was not so deep-seated that he was prepared
to tie himself to a comparatively plain old woman for whom he had long
since lost every particle of respect. He accordingly took no notice of
her letter, and received a second and a third couched in the strongest
language of affection. But the more importunate she became, the more did
Grandison lose his respect for her; he therefore took no notice of her
letters, and determined to keep aloof from her in the future.

When Mrs. Hazelton began to realize that he had deserted her, she grew
frantic indeed. She would not believe it; the letters had miscarried, or
something else had interfered to prevent his writing. She resolved that,
come what would, she would go to him, and, throwing herself at his feet,
demand his protection. In the dead of the night she collected her most
valuable clothing and jewellery, and, with a little money in her purse,
stealthily left her husband's house, carrying her bundle in her hand.
She wandered about the streets till daylight, and in the morning entered
the Grand Trunk Depot in St. Bonaventure street, and procured a ticket
for Chicago. Her husband at first thought she had merely gone to
Bonsecours market to purchase provisions for the ensuing week, and that
she would shortly return. Breakfast time came, however, and she did not
return, and he began to get uneasy; enquiries were made of neighbors and
friends at whose houses she might possibly have stayed, but no one had
seen her, or knew anything of her whereabouts. The police were next
communicated with, and a regular hue and cry was raised in the city
concerning her mysterious disappearance. In the meantime the object
of their search arrived in Chicago, and at once proceeded towards
Grandison's residence. She had not gone far when he approached her with
a fashionably dressed young lady on his arm. Mrs. Hazelton ran towards
him with a cry of recognition, but, whatever he may have felt towards
her before, the sight of her as she now appeared drove every trace
of affection from his heart, he looked at her coldly, and without the
faintest sign of recognition The effect of this treatment under the
circumstances can well be imagined; the wretched woman fell fainting
at his feet, raving wildly and uttering the most awful imprecations. By
this time a crowd had collected, and the police, thinking she was some
madwoman who had escaped, had her removed to an asylum, and placed under
medical treatment.

During all this period Hazelton was like a man demented; he caused
advertisements to be inserted in the principal papers, describing his
wife, and offering a reward for her recovery. The canal locks were
dragged from end to end, and every place likely to have been visited by
her was thoroughly searched and examined. At the end of about a week Mr.
Hazelton received the following telegram:--

  Chicago, Oct. 14, 18--.
  To S. Hazelton, Esq.,

  Montreal

  Person answering description in advertisement in _Tribune_
  found here to-day, and placed under medical treatment.
  What shall we do?

   J----P----,

   --for Chief of Police.

Mr. Hazelton immediately telegraphed a reply, and, taking the next
train, was soon able to identify his lost wife. The sight of him made
the poor creature worse, and he was forbidden to call till she was in a
less excitable condition. In about a week, though still suffering, she
was removed to Montreal, and placed under the care of Dr. X----, to
whom I communicated what I knew concerning her antecedents. In a
comparatively short time she grew much better, and was able to converse
intelligently, the subject of her departure and her illness being
carefully avoided. Her husband attributed her mental aberration to the
old cause, although why she should have gone to Chicago, he never could
exactly understand.

Many years have now passed since these occurrences, and all the parties
to this narrative are still alive. Mrs. Hazelton has never recovered
from the effects of the shock received in Chicago, and sits brooding
mournfully and in secret over her past transgressions, while her husband
with unceasing devotion heaps coals of fire on her head. Grandison has
since moved to New York, where he married again, and became an altered
man. I met him in Montreal a short time since, but he carefully avoided
all mention of either Mr. or Mrs. Hazelton, and did not dare to call
either on them or the Sedleys. Once or twice his name was mentioned at
the house of the latter, but it seemed to awaken sad recollections in
the breast of Mrs. Hazelton, and was consequently avoided by the family.
The latter have lived so far in ignorance of these occurrences, and it
is to be hoped they will never be undeceived.



CHAPTER V.


Among the Fenians.

While still young, and unused to the many strange phases of life I had
an adventure which, at that period of my career, made a deep impression
on my mind. A rough-looking man called on me, and requested my immediate
attendance on a sick woman at Point St. Charles, at that time a remote
suburb of Montreal. As I hesitated to go with him, having a strange
dread of accompanying him to such a lonely place, he seemed to think I
was afraid of not receiving my fee, and, pulling a long purse out of his
pocket he took out a handful of gold pieces, one of which he tendered me
an advance. This made me all the more reluctant to accompany him, as
I feared he might be a robber or freebooter of some kind, but, quickly
controlling my emotions, I set my reason to work, and argued that,
whatever he might be, he could have no motive other than that assigned
for taking me with him, that he could gain nothing by way-laying or
even murdering me, and so I put on my outer garments and got into the
carriage beside him. The night was wet and stormy, and, just as we
started, forked lightning flashed across the heavens in all directions,
causing the horse to dash madly along as if to overturn the vehicle.
This of course was a mere coincidence, but, with all my firmness of will
and sound logical reasons for not being afraid, I could not altogether
control my emotions as we drove through the lowest and dirtiest parts
of Griffintown, which had at that time the reputation of harboring all
sorts of Fenians, thieves and marauders. We crossed the canal and got
out into the country, the rain descending in torrents, while the thunder
crashed louder than ever. I believe that, had I been able to get out, I
would have even then retreated, but I had no alternative but to remain
and make the most of my position. Beyond a few words at starting, my
companion said little; indeed conversation was impossible, as were
jolted from side to side of the street, and the crashing of the thunder
overhead would have drowned our most powerful efforts.

After about half an hour's ride, the carriage stopped at a lonely house
some distance on the Lower Lachine road, and, alighting, we entered,
when I was piloted into an upper chamber, where a woman lay on a couch
in need of my attendance. I felt altogether re-assured now, and at once
opened my satchel to make the necessary preparations for my stay; still
the room had not the air of an ordinary bedroom, and the presence of
three men, all as rough-looking as my guide, made me suspicious as to
their calling, more particularly as there was not a woman to be seen
save my patient.

As soon as I had divested myself of my wet garments and hung them at the
fire to dry, the men left the room, and I ordered the woman to undress
and go to bed, which she did. I then tried to get some information from
her as to who her husband was, and what was the occupation of the men I
had seen, but she either was or pretended to be too sick to enter into
conversation, and I was obliged to restrain my curiosity for the time at
least. In about two hours the woman gave birth to a boy, and as soon as
I could leave with safety, I donned my clothes and left for home, the
man who had engaged me putting me into a cab with great politeness,
and paying the driver, he ordered him to deposit me in safety at my
residence.

The next morning I was surprised to read in the paper that a quantity of
arms and ammunition had been sent here from the Fenian headquarters
in New York, and that although it was known that they were secreted
somewhere about Griffintown, the police had been altogether baffled in
their search for them. A new light now dawned upon me, particularly as I
recollected that the room in which my patient lay was filled with long,
coffin-shaped boxes, the uses of which I had been unable to guess. I
accordingly consulted with my husband as to what course I should pursue.
Was I, having come by this information in my professional capacity, to
shut my eyes to these doings, or, taking advantage of my position, to
inform the police? My husband argued in this way:--If these people had
been guilty of a crime, which could not now be ameliorated or averted,
it would be a straining point for me to take advantage of what I had
learnt by accident and to bring them to justice; but that as in this
case a great national trouble _might be averted_, and many lives saved,
by timely information, it was my duty to exert myself in the interests
of the community by putting a check on their movements. With this end
in view I communicated with Mr. P----, then Chief of Police, and from my
description he said he had no doubt but these were the very persons of
whom they were in search, and that if I could only manage to frame an
excuse for the introduction of a detective, he would make sure of their
identity before making any arrests.

My second visit to the house was made in the morning. I found my patient
very weak and feverish, and, although it was only what I had expected,
took advantage of the fact to express my fears that the case was one
requiring the most skillful treatment, and that unless I were permitted
to call in a medical man of eminence, I would not be responsible for the
consequence. The woman's husband was very much averse to this; but, as
I urged it strongly, and his wife (of whom he was apparently fond)
seconded my request, he finally consented, and the same afternoon
called, accompanied by Detective F----, whom I introduced as my
consulting physician. Whilst I mixed some simple remedies for my
patient, the detective carefully examined the boxes, which he was unable
to move, and which we were both convinced contained arms and ammunition
for the destruction of the peaceful inhabitants of Montreal. Mr. F----
carefully noted the position of everything in and about the house, he
also took a good look at the surroundings, and then we departed for
the police station. The Chief was for making an immediate arrest of
the whole party, but I dissuaded him, urging him, in the interests of
humanity, to wait till the woman was out of danger; he then agreed to
wait for a few days, keeping the house and its inmates under constant
surveillance.

The woman got better day by day, and at the end of a week, the Chief,
fearful lest something might occur to mar his plans, sent a detachment
of armed policemen to arrest the Fenian emissaries and capture the
stores. In some way or another the men got wind of the affair, and made
their escape across the lines, leaving the poor woman and her helpless
babe alone and unprotected. The police entered the house unopposed;
they found there several dozen, muskets and rifles, also about a hundred
bayonets and five thousand rounds of ball cartridge. The woman refused
to give the slightest information as to the names or identity of her
companions; she said she knew nothing about the arms contained in the
boxes, that the latter had been brought there by a strange man, and left
in charge of her husband, and that she had never seen them opened. As
the men were evidently by this time safe in Uncle Sam's dominions, the
police contented themselves with securing the ammunition, leaving the
woman to shift for herself. As I did not like the idea of leaving her in
the room alone and uncared for, I explained the matter to the neighbors,
who good-naturedly undertook to look after her till she received money
from her husband to pay her passage to New York. As, although I had no
compunction in assisting to break up this den of ruffians, I pitied the
poor woman, who was probably innocent of any crime, I handed her the
gold piece which her husband had given me, and did not leave her till
assured that the neighbors would look after her till her departure. In
later years I have often passed the scene of these transactions, and a
shudder passed through my frame as I remembered my experiences among the
Fenians.



CHAPTER VI.


A Disciple of Satan.

About the year 1866 I was summoned to attend a lady in Berri street, the
wife of an officer in the ----th Rifles. Her husband, Captain O'Grady,
had taken a furnished house for the winter, the quarters in the Quebec
Barracks being unsuited for the accommodation of a lady of her station,
and round the house on every hand evidences might be seen of both
wealth, taste and refinement. Mrs. O'Grady was a beautiful woman of
about twenty-two, and had only been married about a year; her husband,
who was an Irishman, loved her passionately, and gave me particular
charges concerning her, bidding me spare neither trouble nor expense to
render her illness as little irksome as possible. After her baby (a
fine boy) was born I attended her regularly every day, and, as she had
travelled in her youth and lived for some time in Germany, she invited
me to come and see her in the evenings whenever I was at leisure, so
that we might converse in the beautiful language of Schiller and Goethe,
and chat about that beautiful far-off land. Captain O'Grady
quite approved of this arrangement, and often used to join in the
conversation; it was in Germany he had met his wife, and he had a great
fancy for the soft German language, although speaking it but imperfectly
himself.

Shortly after the birth of his child, Captain O'Grady's regiment was
ordered to Chambly, and he was obliged to separate from his wife for a
time. He used to drive in occasionally to Montreal to visit her, but at
this season of the year the roads were very bad, and, as the thermometer
sometimes fell 20 or even 30 degrees below zero, the journey was usually
attended with much discomfort and even some danger. On Christmas Day,
Mrs. O'Grady wished her husband to remain at Chambly and dine at the
mess, but he insisted on coming into Montreal and dining with his
family. He accordingly set out about eleven o'clock in the morning,
accompanied by a brother officer named Churchill, a lieutenant in the
same regiment.

It was a bitterly cold day, and the snow, which had been falling heavily
for some days, was blown in immense drifts across the roads, rendering
them almost impassable. The groom, being accustomed to obey, brought the
horses round with alacrity when ordered to do so, but he shook his head
ominously as he handed the reins to Captain O'Grady, and jumped into the
dickey.

Off they flew through the blinding snowdrifts, the fine horses going
at a tremendous speed, and threatening to overthrow the sleigh every
instant. The hot breath of the horses froze to the head-gear and
harness, rendering it perfectly white, and the three men were obliged
to pull their fur caps over their ears to avoid their being frozen. They
had not proceeded far on their journey when the road, which in summer
was clearly defined by fences on either side, diverged somewhat from
the ordinary course, and was made, for convenience, through an adjoining
farm, being marked with pine branches, stuck at intervals in the snow.
As our party proceeded, even these slight indications were invisible,
the drifts rising in some places to a height of twelve or fourteen
feet. In one of the latter the sleigh stuck fast, and the occupants were
obliged to get out, and wading up to their knees in snow to assist the
horses to regain _terra firma_, or at least a more compact body of snow.
Whilst engaged in this operation, Mr. Churchill noticed that the groom's
nose was perfectly white, and on examination it was found to be frozen;
they accordingly set to work to rub it with snow, and at Captain
O'Grady's suggestion he held a large body of snow to it for the
remainder of the journey, which had the effect of thawing it out.

In a short time they regained the high road, and went along at a
tremendous pace for three or four miles, when they entered the village
of Longueuil, which is situated on the south bank of the St. Lawrence, a
little below Montreal. They found the river completely frozen over, the
cold being intense, but the ice-bridge had only just been formed,
and the surface was rough and uneven, causing the sleigh to oscillate
fearfully, threatening every moment to overturn. The storm had by this
time increased to a perfect hurricane, and the drifting snow was driven
with intense force into the faces of both men and horses, causing the
latter to bound and gallop fearfully, to the extreme peril of those
behind them. O'Grady, however, was a skillful driver, and kept the
horses well in hand, calling to them from time to time in a reassuring
manner; as for Churchill, he rather enjoyed the little spice of danger,
and, as conversation was out of the question, he lit a cigar, and,
drawing the buffalo-robes tightly round him, made himself as comfortable
as possible. In a short time they arrived at their destination, and
throwing the reins to the groom, O'Grady dashed up stairs and in an
instant had his wife in his arms. She remonstrated with him about coming
in on such a terrible day, but descended to the drawing-room, and,
having welcome Mr. Churchill to her house, ordered the servant to set
the table for dinner. Just then the groom entered the house to enquire
when the carriage would be required in the evening, and the appearance
of his nose set the whole party laughing heartily; his proboscis had
assumed a deep red hue, and was swollen to an enormous size, giving him
a most comical appearance. O'Grady ordered him to bring the carriage
round at ten o'clock, and, dinner just then being announced, they
prepared, in true English fashion, to celebrate the Nativity.

After dinner, Mrs. O'Grady entertained the gentlemen with music, and,
having chatted on various topics very pleasantly they were aroused to
the fact that the evening social intercourse must draw to an end by the
clanging of the door-bell announcing the arrival of the groom from the
neighboring livery-stable with the horses. Taking an affectionate
leave of his wife, and promising to come into Montreal to dinner on the
following Sunday, O'Grady mounted the box, followed by the light-hearted
Churchill, and cracking his whip was soon speeding rapidly along into
the howling storm. Churchill lit another cigar, and shut his eyes to
avoid the blinding snowdrifts, while the driver was with difficulty
enabled to see his way. Arrived at the suburb known as Hochelaga,
O'Grady turned his horses' heads towards the river, and they dashed
across the ice-bridge at the rate of about twelve miles an hour. On they
went at a terrible pace, the sleigh bumping and jolting over the rough
road, till bang they came upon a piece of ice, on to which the snow had
drifted, and over went the sleigh, turning its occupants head first on
the hard, icy road. Churchill was first on his feet, and, though bruised
and bleeding, succeeded in arresting the horses, who, now thoroughly
frightened, were about to run away; the groom also soon recovered
himself and ran to the assistance of his master, but the latter was
past all human aid, having fallen from the upper side of the sleigh bead
foremost on a piece of ice, and broken his neck. His companions were
struck dumb with grief and astonishment; however, they could not stand
freezing in the middle of the river, so, righting the sleigh, they
placed the dead man gently inside it, and drove slowly to Longueuil,
where a friendly _habitant_ placed the best room in his house at their
disposal.

Mrs. O'Grady, as may well be supposed, was very much shocked at the news
of her husband's death. The body was brought to her house in Montreal,
and from thence to Mount Royal Cemetery, where it was interred, a
company of rifles firing a volley over the grave. For a time the young
widow was undecided whether to go back to her friends in England or
to remain in Canada, but, being unwilling to become dependent on her
relations, she accepted a situation as governess in a wealthy family
residing in the west end of Montreal, placing her infant son under the
charge of a nurse.

Mrs. Thomson, in whose service Mrs. O'Grady was employed, was the wife
of a wealthy English gentleman who had invested largely in Canadian real
estate and national enterprises. She had two daughters, aged 18 and 16,
respectively (whom Mrs. O'Grady was expected to train and prepare for
entrance into society), also a son about 22, who, although educated as
a lawyer, pursued no avocation other than the collection of rents on his
father's estate, and minor offices in connection with the investment of
his money. Randolph Thomson, the young gentleman in question, suddenly
became very attentive to his sisters. There was not a single concert
or ball of importance to which he did not take them, whereas before
he could rarely be induced to accompany them anywhere. The girls never
tried to account for this sudden change in their brother's behavior,
being too much engrossed in the enjoyment of the entertainments
aforesaid to trouble their heads about the matter; Mrs. Grundy, however,
had an idea that the handsome widow who officiated as governess had
something to do with the affair, and, a rumor of the kind reaching the
ears of Mrs. Thomson, the unfortunate widow was eventually obliged to
leave the house, much to the regret of the whole family, but especially
that of Randolph, whose brotherly attentions suddenly became less
marked, and in time ceased altogether.

Mrs. O'Grady, being once more thrown on her own resources, departed for
Sherbrooke, one of the most thriving towns in the Eastern Townships,
where she endeavored to make a respectable livelihood by teaching music.
She chose Sherbrooke rather than Montreal, because in the latter place
every lady who wished to earn her own living started out as a music
teacher, and the teachers were rapidly threatening to outnumber the
pupils, and to equal many of them as regards want of knowledge.

Close to Mrs. O'Grady's new residence, and removed a short distance from
the town, there dwelt a wealthy old farmer named Clarkson. Mr. Clarkson
was a bachelor about 65 years old, who, by steady attention to his
farm and shrewd speculations, had amassed a considerable fortune, being
considered one of the "solid men" of Sherbrooke. Clarkson happening to
meet Mrs. O'Grady at the house of one of the principal clergymen, became
enamored of her at first sight, and at the first opportunity proposed
for her hand. This she was at first loth to give, her heart at the time
being elsewhere; but, as Clarkson offered to settle all his property on
her and her children, and he himself, though neither young nor handsome,
was very agreeable, and held a high position in the community, she
finally consented, and was led a second time to the hymeneal altar.

Mr. Clarkson was very proud of his handsome wife, he ordered a handsome
phaeton and pair of bay ponies from Montreal for her private use, and
gave her an unlimited allowance of pin money, and she might be seen
any afternoon, fashionably attired, driving from one shop to another,
followed by the admiring eyes of the bank clerks and beaux, and the
envious glances of the single young ladies of Sherbrooke.

After three or four months Mrs. Clarkson told her husband that she had
been invited to go on a visit to Montreal, and urged him to allow her to
accept it, particularly as her little boy was afflicted with sore eyes,
and there was no oculist of ability in the town. Her husband readily
consented, and, with the promise that she would return in a few weeks,
Mrs. Clarkson came to Montreal, and calling at my house informed Madame
Charbonneau (in my absence) that she wished to remain there if possible,
as she was about to be confined. When I got home she confessed to me
that she had been on terms of intimacy with Randolph Thomson, and begged
me not to inform her husband, as he was exceedingly jealous, and would
kill her if he suspected the true state of affairs.

Promising to do the best I could under the circumstances I had rooms
prepared for both her and her boy, and secured the best medical
attendance for the latter, whose eyes were in a very bad state from long
neglect. It was two weeks before Mrs. Clarkson's baby (a boy) was born,
and very unpleasant rumors were circulated round the town, which,
coming to the ears of the old gentleman caused him to write a very stiff
letter, ordering his wife to return immediately. This, of course, she
could not do, and as she was unable to frame an excuse for refusing to
I do so, she determined to take no notice of his letter, and, if brought
to task concerning it, _to deny having received it_, the letter being
unregistered. Fortunately for her, if not for himself, her boy's eyes
continued to defy the skill of Dr. Fulford, the oculist to whose care
she had committed him, and it was imperative that they should remain
in Montreal a week or two longer. This fact was communicated to Mr.
Clarkson, but his sister (who had continued to reside with him after his
marriage) persuaded him to have nothing more to do with his wife, and
related to him the rumors she had heard, allowing them (as may well be
supposed) to lose nothing in the narration.

Mrs. Clarkson was naturally very much put out when she learnt how her
sister-in-law had acted; but, being both a strong-minded and crafty
woman, she determined to put a bold face on the matter, and if possible
to pay off old scores with her sister-in-law. She accordingly placed her
baby out to nurse, and, as soon as she felt strong enough, set out
for Sherbrooke. She found her husband's house locked against her,
but, nothing daunted, she went straight to the mayor's residence, and
explained that, having gone to Montreal with her husband's permission,
she had (as soon as _her boy_ was sufficiently recovered) returned to
her home, and found the door locked against her. The mayor (a particular
friend of Clarkson's) told her to come with him and he would see her
righted, but she refused, saying that she had already gone to her
husband's house and been refused admission, and that she would not go
again until he came to fetch her; she then departed and engaged rooms at
the hotel.

The mayor, wishing to save his friend any public scandal, went to him,
and remonstrated with him on his conduct, explaining that, as his wife
had gone to Montreal with his permission, he was legally responsible for
all her expenses, and that in refusing to admit her into his house
he had rendered himself liable for an expensive lawsuit. On this poor
Clarkson got so frightened that he ordered his team to be brought round,
and, driving to the hotel, implored his wife to accompany him to his
house, begging her forgiveness for his conduct, and promising that he
would do anything to make amends.

Mrs. Clarkson now felt that she had obtained a grand advantage, and,
assuming an air of injured innocence, enquired who had set him against
her. Poor Clarkson was reluctantly compelled to admit that his sister
had had something to do with it, on which his wife refused to live under
the same roof with such a vile slanderer ('), and insisted that, before
she returned, the lady _who had taken away her character_ should leave
the house. In fact, she managed the affair so well, and exhibited such
an amount of "cheek," that the poor man actually sent his sister away,
and drove with a magnificent team of horses to bring home the woman whom
he had refused to admit into his house.

For several months they lived happily together, Mrs. Clarkson _going on
a visit to Montreal_ whenever it stated her. In process of time she gave
evidence of being _enceinte_, and old Clarkson's joy knew no bounds, as
he evidently rejoiced at the prospect of having an heir. Had he known,
however, that his wife, in visiting Montreal, was invariably met by
Randolph Thomson, it is questionable whether his joy would not have
been considerably moderated. Before the child was born the old man died,
leaving all his property to his wife and his expected heir. His sister,
who really was devoted to him, was left without a penny, and entirely
dependent on the charity of Mrs. Clarkson. The widow, however, had
not forgotten the part played by Mrs. Clarkson during her brother's
lifetime, and being now steeped in wickedness, her better nature was
almost entirely lost. She turned the faithful sister from her door,
and she, the false wife, was with her illegitimate child (born almost
immediately after the old man's death) snugly installed in the home that
in all equity and justice should have belonged to the woman she ejected.

"_Facilis descensus Averni_."--It is wonderful how easy the descent
really is, when once the first false step is taken. As the avalanche,
which at first becomes slowly loosened from its lofty position,
gradually descends with greater and greater rapidity till it is dashed
into the abyss, so does the frail mortal, who at first shudders at
the bare thought of an immoral act, rush headlong into sin till her
desperate career is suddenly checked, often in a manner fearful to
contemplate. Mrs. Clarkson had now all that any woman could reasonably
be expected to desire. She had triumphed over her sister-in-law and
those of her husband's relatives who had circulated rumors detrimental
to her character, and had become the possessor of a comfortable home,
without the incubus of an impotent husband. But she was not content;
Randolph Thomson, turning his back on her and his boy, had married a
young lady of fortune; so vowing vengeance against men in general for
their _falseness and inconstancy_. Mrs. Clarkson laid herself out to
entrap and ensnare every man who came in her way, and in this manner to
revenge herself (as she by some strange mental process led herself to
imagine) on her false lover.

The deceased Mr. Clarkson had a brother named William, a bachelor, whose
farm was adjacent to that now possessed by the widow. William was nearly
twenty years younger than his brother, and was considered rather a
good-looking man by his acquaintances. It is possible that, but for
her _liaison_ with Thomson, Mrs. Clarkson would, long ere this, have
fascinated him with her beauty and blandishments; but, he had hitherto
escaped unscathed, though openly admiring his brother's wife, and taking
her part against the scandal-mongers when speculation was rife as to the
cause which detained her in Montreal. In looking round for some one to
entrap and ensnare, Mrs. Clarkson's eye naturally fell upon William, as
the most eligible party in her immediate vicinity; and she was the
more anxious to secure him, because, with a woman's far-seeing eye and
long-reaching vengeance, she wished to circumvent her sister-in-law,
who, being unmarried (and likely to remain so), had undertaken to keep
house for her younger brother, and would, as matters at that moment
stood, have likely outlived him and inherited his property. Opportunity
was not long wanting for her to effect her object; William was the sole
executor to his brother's estate, and, as business often brought them
together at the late Mr. Clarkson's lawyer's office in Montreal, it was
not strange that the widow should almost immediately have opened the
campaign, which she did on the first occasion of their meeting in the
city, beginning, as most great generals do, with a little skirmishing,
in order to draw out her opponent. It was a beautiful spring morning,
and, as they had appointed to meet in Montreal at eleven o'clock, Mr.
Clarkson called to drive his sister-in-law to the depot to meet the
train. To his surprise, that lady declined to accompany him, reminding
him that she was now alone in the world, and that if during her
husband's life-time the tongue of scandal was directed against her
reputation, how much the more would it be so now that her natural
protector was no more. William, being little of a gossip himself, urged
her to be above such petty pandering to public opinion, and to follow
her inclinations, but she replied naively.--"A woman has nothing to
depend on but her reputation, and she cannot be too careful, you know."
"Perhaps you are right," William replied, laughing, and so he permitted
the widow to order her own buggy round, and follow him a few minutes
later to the depot. But even this precaution did not satisfy the wily
Mrs. Clarkson. She knew that many Sherbrooke people would be on the
trains both going and coming, and that inquisitive eyes would watch, and
gossiping tongues would relate all that passed during the journey,
so she induced Miss Cuthbert, a neighbor of hers, to accompany her,
promising her a pleasant day in Montreal.

The train had not arrived when the ladies alighted at the depot, but the
ever-acute widow instructed her servant man not to drive away, but to
wait and see if any parcels had been sent from Portland. She did not
expect any parcels from Portland, but she wished all the neighbors who
might be going on the train to see her man with the buggy, in case they
might imagine she had come in the carriage with William. When they got
on board the train, of course, her brother-in-law took a seat with her
and Miss Cuthbert, but the widow pretended to be engrossed in a novel,
leaving the younger lady to carry on the conversation. A boy approached
with "prize packages" of candies, and William, buying two, handed them
to the ladies, requesting them to see what fortune had in store for
them. Miss Cuthbert opened hers eagerly, and, amidst the almonds and
lozenges, discovered a gilt brooch, which she laughingly fastened on her
breast. William offered to open the widow's for her, but she interrupted
him, saying:

"My fortune has been told already, give it to Miss Cuthbert."

"Oh, yes! give it to me," said the sprightly girl, and hastily opening
it, she poked amongst the candies and pulled out a small article rolled
in tissue paper; unrolling the paper eagerly she disclosed _a plain gilt
ring_.

"Put that on, also," said Mrs. Clarkson.

"Oh, no!" answered Miss Cuthbert, "I will try to get some one to put it
on for me."

With this careless banter the time passed away till they reached
Montreal, Mrs. Clarkson playing the shy widow to perfection, and, as may
naturally be supposed, not only raising herself in the estimation of her
brother-in-law, but drawing him in a strange manner within the radius of
her fascinating influences.

On arriving in the city they entered a carriage, and were driven to St.
James street, where Mr. St. Jerome, the lawyer, had his office. In about
an hour their business was transacted, and William invited the ladies
to Alexander's to partake of luncheon, but this the widow discreetly
declined, being aware that the pastry-cook's in question was a
celebrated rendezvous for all country-folk. Pleading as an excuse that
she wanted, to do some shopping, she advised William not to trouble
about them, as they would prefer shopping alone, and that, if fatigued,
they could easily drop in for an ice at some respectable confectioner's.
"Besides," added Mrs. Clarkson, "I have promised to take Miss Cuthbert
up the mountain this afternoon, as she has never been to the summit of
Mount Royal, though living so near the city bearing its name."

"If you are going up the mountain, I pray you will allow me to accompany
you. I never visit Montreal without ascending it at least once," said
Mr. Clarkson. "If you do not wish me to go shopping, I will not intrude,
but I will feel myself slighted if you compel me to ascend the mountain
alone."

The widow feigned to give a reluctant consent, and accordingly they
arranged to meet on Place d'Armes at two o'clock, and to drive to the
base of the mountain together. At that time the beautiful mountain from
which Montreal derives its name, and most of its beauty, had not been
acquired by the city. It was private property, and there were no elegant
roads by which to drive to its summit; indeed, it was only by the
courtesy of the proprietors that persons were allowed to ascend the
famous hill, and enjoy the beautiful scenery and bracing air: even then
the task of ascending was no easy one, and ladies were generally glad of
the company of one or more of the hardier sex, if only to assist them in
clambering up the steep ascent.

Mr. Clarkson went to lunch, and then to the Corn Exchange to transact
some business, arriving in Place d'Armes precisely at two o'clock.
Shortly afterward she saw the ladies emerge from the French Church
of Notre Dame, and cross the square to meet him. Miss Cuthbert was
delighted with the church. Although a Protestant, she admired it as an
architectural art-work, the elaborate adornment, too, of the interior
pleased her, and accorded with her womanly tastes. Mrs. Clarkson had
seen both inside and outside so often that neither had now any more
effect on her; indeed, not only was her heart steeled to the refining
influences of the building, but also to the doctrines inculcated within
it; she had started on the downward path, and never once dared to look
up again, even for a moment.

"Well, you are sharp on time," said Miss Cuthbert, addressing Mr.
Clarkson.

"Yes, indeed, I have been walking the streets for nearly an hour,
wondering if the hands on the Seminary clock would ever indicate the
hour of two. I had almost persuaded myself that the public clocks had
all stopped, but my watch, which was ticking, told me that they were
going on with methodical regularity." He addressed himself to Miss
Cuthbert, but his eyes were turned slightly towards Mrs. Clarkson, who,
blushing slightly (she could blush at pleasure), turned away her head,
and appeared to be quite confused.

William hailed a cab, and they drove up University street, as far as the
carriage road permitted them. Dismissing the "carter," they entered the
adjacent field, and ascended by a winding path which at that time
ran through the property of Mr. (now Sir Hugh) Allan. Miss Cuthbert,
although she lived faraway from all mountains or hills of any kind, was
remarkably active, and bounded up the steep ascent like a deer. Mrs.
Clarkson was a _dear_ of another kind, and she was obliged to cling to
her brother-in-law for support, which latter he was by no means adverse
to giving, after about twenty minutes climbing they arrived at the "view
point" immediately over Sir Hugh Allan's residence, when everything
was immediately forgotten in the inspeakable emotion excited by the
magnificent panorama before them. At their feet lay the beautiful
city, the rows of shade trees, clothed with verdure, lending a gorgeous
setting to the elegant limestone buildings. In front rolled the mighty
St. Lawrence, nearly two miles wide, the vast expanse being relieved
by St. Helen's Island, with its luxuriant foliage. On the right the
Victoria Bridge, that monument of engineering skill, stretched across
the mighty river towards the picturesque village of St. Lambert; while
further to the westward might be seen Nun's Island with its shady
groves, at the head of which rushed the boiling waters of the famous
rapids of Lachine. I have in my youth travelled through both Germany and
Switzerland and, later, through the beautiful scenery of New Hampshire
and Vermont, but nowhere do I remember having seen a view so grand, or
a panorama so picturesque, as that to be seen from the brow of Mount
Royal.

For a while the entire party gazed in speechless admiration at the scene
before them, when Miss Cuthbert exclaimed:

"I can say, with the apostle of old, 'It is good for us to be here.'"

"And build _three tabernacles_? queried Mrs. Clarkson.

"Oh, no, two would do. One for me, and another for you and Mr.
Clarkson."

At this rejoinder Mrs. Clarkson bit her lips, and changed the
conversation immediately.

When they had surveyed the city, the river, and the country on the
opposite shore, they prepared to ascend to the highest part of the
mountain, where the observatory stands, imbedded in trees. Here they
sat down for a time to rest, and partake of some light refreshment which
they had brought with them; they then proceeded to descend on the other
side, passing through the Protestant and Catholic cemeteries, both
elaborately laid out, and looking like beautiful flower gardens, rather
than burial grounds. As they neared Côte des Neiges Miss Cuthbert
commenced to scamper along like a child, and at one short declivity, she
started off at a run, calling on the others to follow. Clarkson took his
companion's hand and invited her to descend in like manner, but, almost
at the first step, his sister-in-law uttered a sharp scream and fell
forward on the grass, informing them that her foot had turned under her,
and that she had sprained her ankle.

William was almost beside himself. He felt that he had foolishly induced
her to forget herself so far as to indulge in a wild romp and thus
injure her ankle. He wished Miss Cuthbert at the bottom of the sea, and
wondered how they were to get the beautiful cripple home, as they were
removed from residences or conveyances of any kind, and Mrs. Clarkson
was no small weight. There being nothing else for it, however, the
sturdy farmer lifted her in his arms and carried her to the house of
the caretaker of the cemetery; then, leaving her gently on a sofa, he
started for the inn at Côte des Neiges, thinking he might obtain the
means of conveyance to Montreal.

On his arrival at the inn he was informed that there was no livery
stable of any kind for miles around, and that the private buggy of
the proprietor was at the moment in Montreal, whither the landlady had
driven for provisions. Just then a team was driven at a rapid speed
from the direction of St. Laurent; it contained two young gentlemen
from Montreal, who had driven round the mountain attended by a groom.
On hearing the particulars of the accident they at once, with great
gallantry, gave up their vehicle, a mail phaeton, for the use of the
disabled lady, cheerfully undertaking to walk the remainder of the way
(about four miles), and enjoining Mr. Clarkson to bring the carriage to
their stable so soon as he had deposited his fair companions in a place
of safety.

On reaching the cemetery, William found the widow looking wretched,
indeed, and apparently suffering great pain. Her face brightened,
however, as she saw the carriage and was convinced that they would be
able to get to Montreal in time for the night train for Sherbrooke.
William assisted Miss Cuthbert into the trap, and placed Mrs. Clarkson
carefully beside her; then, mounting the box, he thanked the caretaker
for his kind offices and drove, via Côte des Neiges hill, to Montreal.
He suggested to Mrs. Clarkson that it would be better for her to take
a room at the St. Lawrence Hall for a few days, and enjoy perfect rest
till her ankle got better, but she, remembering her past experiences,
preferred to travel at once to her home, and so avoid all scandal.

William drove straight to the Grand Trunk terminus in St. Bonaventure
street; and, placing the ladies in a Pullman car, drove up to Sherbrooke
street with the team, which he left, as directed, at the young
gentleman's residence. He proceeded along to St. Lawrence Main street,
where he hailed a cab, and drove back to the terminus. Shortly after his
return to the depot the train started, and in a few hours they reached
Sherbrooke.

It was considerably past midnight when they got to Mrs. Clarkson's
residence, so Miss Cuthbert remained with her till morning, doing all
she could to alleviate her pain. Shortly after breakfast William called;
and as his sister-in-law was confined to her room, he considerately kept
her company till Miss Cuthbert had gone home and obtained permission
to remain a while longer with the disabled lady. There is nothing that
tries a man's heart so much as to see a woman (particularly a beautiful
woman) in pain. The widow was aware of this, and so, although the sprain
was purely accidental, and was not included in her programme, turned it
to such good account that the poor bachelor was fairly hooked, and began
to think seriously that he had got into an awkward fix.

Marriage with a deceased brother's wife was illegal, and no clergyman
could perform the marriage ceremony without violating the laws of
both Church and State; even if one could be prevailed on to follow the
dictates of his conscience, and to stretch a point in their favor (as
was sometimes done) society would not recognize their union, and would
shun them as open adulterers. In vain did his sister-in-law urge on him
that the law was absurd, and that, as there was no blood-relationship
between them, there could be nothing criminal in their living
together; he had not the moral courage to face the cold criticism of
a narrow-minded and bigoted community, and, though mad with passionate
love, he hesitated to take the fatal plunge.

Mrs. Clarkson, however, having carried the outposts and principal
barriers successfully, was not to be thwarted by a mere matter of
sentiment. She expressed her intention of departing forthwith for
Detroit, assuring him that she would no longer remain in a country where
such intolerant bigotry existed, and instructed him, if he loved her as
he pretended, to sell his property in Canada and follow her thither.

Clarkson was loth to leave his relations and the home of his childhood,
but the temptress lured him gradually on, refusing at times even to
see a man who valued his narrow-minded friends' opinion rather than her
love, and at length he consented to sell his farm for whatever it
would bring, and to rejoin her in Detroit. This was another piece of
generalship on the part of the widow, as, did they remain in Canada, she
could not, in the event of her husband's death hold the property which
would revert to her hated sister-in-law; but that being now converted
into cash she was at liberty to squander it during her husband's
life-time, retaining the fortune left by her first husband for the
future use of herself and children.

For a time Mr. Clarkson lived with his sister-in-law in a princely style
in Detroit. They entertained largely and handsomely, and most of their
guests neither cared nor enquired who they were, or whence they came.
They had not been there more than six weeks when Mrs. Clarkson made the
acquaintance of Count Von Alba, who for some time had been the lion
of fashionable circles in Detroit. Von Alba was a Russian, who (for
political reasons said his friends, for criminal reasons said his
enemies) had emigrated to America and lived on his fortune (his friends
insisted)--his wits, said his enemies again.

Whichever surmise was correct, Von Alba was undoubtedly good-looking.
He stood five feet eleven inches in his stockings, and was powerfully
built; his complexion, like most Russians was dark, and his lofty
forehead was surmounted with curls of the darkest brown. At the time of
the Clarksons residence, the Count was about five-and-thirty years
old; he had naturally a genial manner and a good-humored expression of
countenance, and a scar on his forehead (obtained, he said, when a lad,
at Inkerman) made him an object of feminine admiration, while he was at
the same time greatly envied by the opposite sex.

Von Alba was a sort of Admirable Crichton. He rode like Nimrod, danced
like Terpsichore, drove like Jehu, shot like William Tell, and sang like
Sims Reeves. It was in the _latter_ accomplishment, however, that
he chiefly excelled; he would stand up at the end of a crowded
drawing-room, and, playing a delicate accompaniment on his guitar, would
vocalize one of the passionate love-songs of his native land. Sometimes
he sang in English, then his defective pronunciation lent a strange
charm to his singing, which, although it could scarcely be accounted
for, made itself felt even in the bosoms of the dilettanti.

Strange to say, although courted and run after by nearly all the
eligible young ladies, the Count became so fond of Mrs. Clarkson's
society that scarcely a day passed but he was found at her house. At the
fair lady's "Thursday Evenings," of course, he was one of the principal
attractions, added to which he dined and lunched frequently at her
house, and escorted her to balls and parties: her husband not caring for
the everlasting round of excitement, and, far from feeling jealous of
the Count, he was proud to think that his choice of a companion should
be endorsed by one who presumably was a competent judge.

It was not long till the lady was at her old tricks again, and what
Randolph Thompson had been to her before, Von Alba soon became, the
simple husband encouraging these visits, and allowing his wife to
squander his money lavishly on her paramour. Mrs. Grundy in the
meanwhile began to be suspicious, and rumors, at first vague and
indefinite, became almost pointed accusations against Mrs. Clarkson. The
poor husband, although not altogether crediting the fact that there
was a foundation for these reports, saw the necessity, in the equivocal
position in which both he and his wife stood, of putting a stop to all
suspicious intercourse with the Count; and, being resolute enough when
so disposed, he forbade his wife to meet Von Alba any more in private,
or to invite him to her house.

This, as may be supposed, brought matters to a crisis and brought on a
terrible quarrel between the abandoned woman and her husband. She saw
that the game was up as far as Detroit was concerned, and so, managing
to forge her husband's name to a cheque for several thousand dollars,
she went the next day with great boldness to the bank where he kept his
money and presented it; it was cashed by the clerk without hesitation,
and that evening, abandoning both Clarkson and her children, she
went, accompanied by her paramour, to the depot and took the train for
Montreal, where they went to an hotel, registering their names as Mr.
and Mrs. Mortimer, of New York. Notwithstanding their false names and
altered attire they were traced to the St. Lawrence Hall, Mrs. Clarkson
being surprised, on coming from breakfast one morning, to observe her
husband busily scanning the register at the office counter. The Count
had not seen him, but Mrs. Clarkson hurried him upstairs and told him
that their whereabouts was discovered, and that they must take refuge in
flight before Clarkson had time to take steps for their apprehension.

Ringing the bell, Von Alba bade the boy to have their bill made out and
receipted, and to have their luggage sent to the station in time for the
next train for New York.

"There is no New York train till 3.15," said the boy.

"When is there one for Toronto?" asked the Count.

"Not till eight this evening, but the Lachine train, which meets the
mail boat, leaves at 11.30."

"That is what I mean," said Von Alba; "we will go by that;" then,
packing hastily, the two culprits descended by the ladies staircase,
and, entering a carriage, drove off to procure tickets for Toronto.

All this time Mr. Clarkson was quietly seated in the breakfast-room,
taking light repast after his long journey. That the persons he sought
were in the hotel he felt confident; but there were so many gentlemen
with their wives real or pretended, from all parts, that he was puzzled
to conjecture which of the names in the register was that assumed by the
Count. At length he resolved to take the boy into his confidence; and,
handing him a gold piece, he began to question him concerning the guests
now quartered in the hotel. When he had described the pair he wanted,
the boy said: "W'y these ere must be the pair wat's just gone to the
Toronto boat!" Clarkson said not a word; but, handing a card to the
cashier, rushed out of the hotel, and, jumping into a cab, bade the
driver to go with all speed to the Upper Canada boat. Had he thought for
a moment he would have recollected that the boat leaves the wharf early
in the morning, and proceeding slowly through the canal, stops to take
on passengers at the head of the Lachine Rapids. In his blind haste,
however, he had forgotten this; and lost so much time in going to the
wharf that, when he eventually learnt the truth and got to the depot,
the train was just leaving the platform.

There was nothing for it now but to wait for the train for the west,
and to get on board the steamer at Kingston. He had at least the
satisfaction of knowing that they were on the boat like rats in a trap,
and that, except the delay in confronting the villain Von Alba and his
wretched companion, he was as successful as possible in his pursuit of
the fugitives. Returning to the city, he procured the assistance of a
detective, who undertook to accompany him to Kingston, and assist him in
apprehending and arresting the fugitives.

By this time the steamship "Hungarian," on which the wretched pair had
embarked, was ploughing the waters of Lake St. Louis. After a time they
passed through the Beauharnois and Cornwall canals, and entered the
labyrinth of beautiful patches known as the "Thousands Islands." As they
emerged from this lovely spot the saloon became suddenly filled with
smoke, and in a few minutes cries of "Fire! Fire!" were heard on every
hand. A rush was made for life preservers, while the crew of five or
six men vainly endeavored to extinguish the flames. The captain ordered
boats to be lowered, but, the men being excited, and badly drilled at
best, the boats were successively swamped, leaving the poor terrified
creatures only a choice of two fearful deaths.

One of the sailors handed Mrs. Clarkson a life preserver, which she
requested Von Alba to fasten round her waist, but the cowardly fellow
_snatched it from her_, and, hastily securing it round his own waist,
swung himself overboard, leaving her to perish in the flames! He was
not to escape so easily, however; with a bitter yell of mingled rage and
despair the wretched woman mounted the taffrail, and plunging straight
for the spot where he rose to the surface dragged him under again and
again with fearful maledictions. The passengers who still remained on
deck could do nothing to separate them, and although the life preserver
would have sustained both of them easily in the water, so great was the
woman's bate on the discovery of Von Alba's cowardly treachery, that
she did not even give a thought to her own escape, so intent was she on
dragging him to the bottom. The expression of her face, lit up as it was
by the blaze of the burning; steamer, was terrible to behold: the veins
in her head and neck were swollen almost to bursting, and she died
cursing with bitter malediction the man for whom she had sacrificed not
only herself, but her husband and her children.

The steamer burned to the water's edge, only a few of those who had
jumped overboard escaping. The bodies of the guilty pair were discovered
at some distance from the wreck, Mrs. Clarkson's hand being tightly
clutched round her companion's throat, while his tongue and eyes
protruded fearfully.

With sad and heavy heart Clarkson returned to Detroit, and, having
gathered together what remained of his former property, prepared to
return to Canada. He took with him the children of his late wife,
placing them both as boarders at the College at Lennoiville till they
were old enough to be apprenticed to some trade or profession. He never
quite recovered from the shock received on hearing of the manner of Mrs.
Clarkson's death and that of her paramour, but became prematurely aged
when he realized that, instead of the sweet angelic creature whom he
thought he had married, he found that he had wedded a regular disciple
of Satan.



CHAPTER VII.


The Frail Shop Girl.

The many fine ladies who patronize the fashionable emporiums of
Montreal little think (as they sit comfortably at the counter, leisurely
examining dozens of articles they never intend to purchase) of the
sufferings undergone by those who minister to their wants, and, it may
be, their caprices. Dozens of these poor creatures stand day after day,
from morn till night, without a moment's rest except at meal-times; even
then the short period allowed them barely suffices to permit of a hasty
meal, when they have to hurry back again to undergo another term of
misery.

It is strange that we should be so careful of brute beasts that we form
ourselves into societies for their protection, prosecuting rigorously
any one who shall have the temerity to ill-treat or abuse them, and yet
allow our fellow-creatures (and those, too, of the weaker sex) to be
treated with the most barbarous cruelty. A bruise or a blow may be
brutal and severe, yet neither is so hurtful, so systematically cruel,
as the forcing young girls to stand erect for lengthened periods,
without change of posture. I am sure if the members of the House of
Commons were deprived of their seats even for one session, we would,
without further ado have a Bill enacted making it criminal for
shopkeepers to make slaves of their employees, or individuals to
patronize such establishments.

Were shop-girls provided with even the commonest of seats, untold
numbers of crimes and diseases would be heard of no more. I am confident
that but for this most refined cruelty the circumstances which gave
rise to this story would never have occurred, and that I would have been
spared the narration of a history which, though painfully true, is none
the less shocking.

M----'s dry goods store has long been known in Montreal as a
well-started and well-appointed establishment. Carriages daily blocked
the thoroughfare while waiting for their fashionable owners outside its
door; and inside busy walkers and clerks could be seen running hither
and thither, serving customers. Young women, also, some of them still
bright and cheerful, many, alas, pale and heavy with sadness, might be
seen grouped behind the counter, engaged in handing goods down from
the shelves, and displaying them to the fashionable loungers behind the
counter.

One of these girls, by name Esther Ryland, was noticed by many who
frequented M----'s store on account of her unusually attractive person
and elegance of manners; she was a little above the average height, yet
graceful and well-formed, with remarkably handsome features, and eyes
that sparkled like a pair of diamonds. Esther had not been long in
Messrs. M----'s service, yet she had become so popular as a saleswoman
that crowds frequented the particular counter at which she assisted, and
she was known to many who were unacquainted with her name as the Pretty
Shop-girl at M----'s.

Esther was very proud of her attractions, both professionally and
otherwise; she did not calculate, however, that the more popular she
became the more work she would have to do, and that she would, in time,
pay for her popularity with her health, if not her life. She had, in and
out of the store, a great many admirers amongst those of the opposite
sex, but there was one she prized above all others, a certain Mr.
Quintin, a merchant tailor, who had just started business for himself,
and had persuaded Esther to promise that, after another year's service,
she would give up business and become his wife.

It had been their custom to go for a stroll together on the long summer
evenings, and together they might have been seen, fondly looking into
each other's faces, as, arm-in-arm, they perambulated the more remote
portions of Sherbrooke and St. Denis streets, which at that time were
scarcely built upon.

One evening when Quintin called, as usual, to take his enamorata for
a walk, she said she would prefer to stay at home, as she was quite
fatigued with the day's work. Nothing disconcerted, her lover remained
with her in the house, and they amused themselves with a pack of cards
and a chessboard. The following evening, however, Miss Ryland was again
indisposed, and, on questioning her closely, Quintin drew forth the
avowal that she _had not sat down for a quarter of an hour_ during the
whole day! It seems it was the busy season at M----'s, and, besides
being engaged incessantly in serving customers, Miss Ryland was obliged
to shorten her dinner hour, and to hurry back to meet the increased
demand.

Quintin was quite shocked at this discovery. Although well aware of
the brutal treatment of shopkeepers' assistants, he had never been an
interested party, and so had the matter placed before him _in all its
horrors_ for the first time. He resolved that, come what might, he would
emancipate his intended wife from a life of such slavery, and so, having
carefully arranged his business and purchased a neat little cottage in
Cadieux street, he urged Miss Ryland to consent to marry him without
delay, and so avoid her life of thraldom. She agreed to marry him during
the ensuing month, pleading with feminine weakness that it would take
at least that time to get her trousseau ready, and the day was finally
arranged to their mutual satisfaction.

The excitement of preparation before marriage, and the change of scene
during her wedding-tour, wrought such an effect on the woman that Mr.
Quintin became convinced that his wife's health was thoroughly restored,
and he labored assiduously at his business, looking forward cheerfully
to the time when she should become a mother, and the merry laughter of
his children should, in his hours of rest from worldly cares, gladden
and enliven their home.

A year rolled by, and both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin looked hopefully towards
the future; two years passed and still they were childless. Mrs. Quintin
would have given all the world, had she possessed it, for one of God's
blessings; she loved children, even those of other children, and _one of
her own_ would have been a priceless treasure. But she lamented more on
her husband's account. She knew that he doted on children; and when she
saw him take the neighbours' children on his knee, and, after looking
wistfully in their faces, rise and dash his hand across his eyes,
she knew what it meant. "Oh," she would cry, "if only these abandoned
wretches who desert their offspring could realize what it is to desire
them and yet live unblest! If they but knew the priceless treasures
they were casting from them, they would turn and repent in sackcloth and
ashes."

Mr. and Mrs. Quintin had been married about three years when one day the
former called on me, his face beaming with joy, and informed me that his
fondest hopes were about to be realized, and that he would like me
to call and consult with his wife. I was a little surprised at this
intimation, as, from what I knew of Mrs. Quintin, I had fully made up my
mind that she would never become a patient of mine; however, I was glad
to hear that I had been mistaken, and so, when next in the neighborhood
I waited on that lady and congratulated her on her improved prospects.
To my great surprise she burst into tears, and confessed that she was
not _enceinte_, or likely ever to become so; that her career in M----'s
store, and continued standing for hours together, had rendered her
physically unable ever to become a mother. She added that her husband
had so set his heart upon the one object (viz., the desire to have
children), and had spent so much money for medicine and medical advice
with a view to that end, that she could not bear him to think that all
his efforts were unavailing, and her complaint having assumed a form to
all outward appearances similar to pregnancy, she had permitted him
to delude himself with the belief that the latter was the cause of
her altered appearance, and that scientific skill had counteracted the
effects of years of abuse.

I was greatly taken aback at this disclosure, but my surprise was as
nothing compared to that in hearing the plot which the woman's now
diseased mind had concocted. She said she was going to bear reproach no
longer (for, though her husband never murmured, at least in words,
his friends and her neighbors were ever ready to deepen her sorrow and
humiliation by taunting her with her impotency), and her eyes rolled in
frenzy as she almost shouted: I MUST AND SHALL HAVE A CHILD'! Why am I
prohibited from having what many do not know how to value? Many of them
cast their treasures from them; shall I, frantic with despair, _refuse
to pick one up_!

As she walked up and down the room in her fury, she looked like one
demented. Her hands were clenched till the nails entered her flesh, her
eyes rolled wildly, and, were I more easily frightened, I would have
felt impelled to call for help. Gradually becoming cooler, Mrs. Quintin
unfolded to me her plan for deceiving her husband, and, with a coolness
that I would not have pardoned but for her evidently unhinged condition,
actually _requested me to assist her?_ She said she had been offered
a child for adoption by a lady who was more guilty and unfeeling than
herself, and that the person in question had promised to send her word
when she was taken ill, so that she might send for me, and make her
arrangements for the reception of the child, which was to be transported
secretly into her bedroom.

I was so astonished that I was for a time unable to a speak. The deep
plot itself, the proposition made to me to assist her, and the cool
manner of the lady herself, fairly staggered me. At length, speaking as
calmly as I could, I tried to convince Mrs. Quintin of the enormity of
the crime she intended to commit, telling her that, if she wished to
adopt a child, she would find it quite an easy matter to do so without
taking any such course as she evidently intended; and, after arguing for
some time, she seemed to yield a little to reason, and promised to do
nothing rashly. She had already, however, committed herself to the first
part of her programme, and told her husband a falsehood; how was she to
undeceive him? I suggested that she should tell him on his return that
she had been mistaken, and that on examination I had found nothing
unusual the matter with her. This she positively refused to do, saying
that her husband had so set his heart on this one object that, were his
hopes suddenly dashed to the ground, he might do something desperate.
She said she would break it to him gently, and, imploring me to say
nothing to him of what had passed, she escorted me to the door, and,
with tearful eyes, bade me farewell.

Several months elapsed, and I had, for the time, thought little of
either Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, when one evening in glancing over the
papers, my eye fell on the following announcement: "On the ----th inst.,
at ---- Cadieux street the wife of R. Quintin of a daughter." I let the
paper drop as I gazed vacantly at the ceiling and tried to realize the
whole affair. Undecided how to act, I mechanically put on my bonnet and
cloak, and walked up Cadieux street, when, coming out of the house, I
spied my friend, Dr. P----.

"Good evening, Doctor," said I.

"Oh, good evening, Mrs. Schroeder. I have just been attending a patient
of yours; it seems they were not at all prepared, and had not time to
notify you. Indeed, I was late myself, as I did not arrive till some
minutes after the child was born."

Without saying a word I beckoned the Doctor aside, and made a sign that
I wished to speak with him privately. He invited me to step into his
carriage, and we drove in perfect silence to his residence in Beaver
Hall Terrace. Alighting, he preceded me to his surgery, and closed the
door; then, with a look full of meaning, he said:

"Well, what is there wrong here?"

"I said, Before I reply, will you permit me to ask you one or two
questions."

"Who called you to attend Mrs. Quintin?"

"A carter came and requested me to come with all speed to attend a lady
in Cadieux street. I went as quickly as possible, but the child was born
before my arrival."

"Who, then, attended the lady?"

"The nurse did, and apparently very satisfactorily indeed. I found
the bandages so well arranged, and the patient's pulse so strong and
regular, that I left, perfectly satisfied that all was properly attended
to till your arrival. They explained to me that the lady was your
patient, but that being unexpectedly taken ill, she had ordered the
carter to bring the first doctor he found at home."

"Was Mr. Quintin at home?"

"No; he is gone to England to purchase some goods."

"Ah! That accounts for it then."

"Accounts for what? Really you must not catechize me any further. What
is there underneath all these questions?"

I drew my chair closer to him, as I said tragically:

"Mrs. Quintin _never had a child_."

"This rather staggered the good old doctor, who had just come from the
house, where he had examined and weighed the infant. He started up from
his chair, and, drawing back, exclaimed:

"What do you mean? Explain yourself."

I then at length narrated all I knew concerning the Quintin family, and,
as I proceeded with my story, the old man's eyes opened wider and wider
as he exclaimed:

"My God what a diabolical plot"!

"Yes, indeed, and I was invited to join in it."

"Well, well. _I_ certainly would never have suspected anything of the
kind."

"Nor would anyone. The thing was well arranged, and artfully carried
out."

"I suppose they will send for _you_ now."

"Not at all. That is only a sham to get rid of your attendance. The
husband will be given to understand that you were hurriedly called
in, and that, my assistance being unneeded, they did not think it
worth-while troubling me."

After consulting with Dr. P. for a considerable time and putting the
case in different lights, we came to the conclusion that it would be as
well now to let matters take their course. Any interference on our part
would only have raised a great public scandal, and rendered both Mr.
and Mrs. Quintin miserable, without benefiting anyone, so we allowed
the poor man to believe that his prayers were answered, and that the
beautiful girl he fondled was really his own.

Time rolled on, the baby being baptized in due course and known by the
name of Edith Quintin. As she grew older, both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin
became passionately fond of her, the latter being as much attached to
the little girl as if she were her own daughter. When the child was
about twelve years old, Mrs. Quintin, who had gradually grown more and
more delicate, began to feel that she must, ere many months had passed,
finally succumb to the disease which was gradually gnawing at her
vitals, and the deception she had practised on her husband was a source
of great discomfort and annoyance to her. She called on me in great
grief, and, having informed me concerning that of which (as the reader
knows) I was well aware, implored me to give her counsel and advice. She
was surprised to hear that I had already learnt all from Dr. P----;
for, although she, of course, knew that _I_ was not blinded by her
subterfuge, she was not aware that I knew all concerning the method
adopted by her, and when she learned that both the doctor and myself had
forborne to inform on her, she was visibly affected, and thanked me on
her knees.

I advised her to break the matter to her husband, and not to die with
such a load on her conscience, but she avowed that she had neither the
strength nor the courage to do so, and importunately besought me to
undertake the painful task. When Mr. Quintin learnt the truth he was of
course greatly shocked, and at first was bitter in his denunciations at
his deceitful wife. His better judgment, however, was soon brought to
bear in the matter, and he was moved rather to pity her misfortune than
to punish her for her fault. He knew that her judgment erred solely in
order to retain his affection, and when he looked at her pale face and
emaciated form, and thought of the agony and suffering, both mental and
bodily, which the poor creature had endured, he willingly forgave her,
and, though sadly disappointed and sorely smitten, did what he could to
reassure her.

Edith meanwhile had developed into a beautiful girl, and had she really
been, as she believed herself, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, she
could not have been more beloved by them. The former enjoined me never
to reveal the secret of her birth to his daughter as he called her, and
so her life, at least, was not darkened in the least by the knowledge of
the truth.

When Edith was about seventeen years old Mrs. Quintin finally yielded
to the ravages of that dread destroyer, consumption. The poor girl wept
sadly and bitterly at the loss of her mother, the only one indeed the
poor child had ever known, and poor Quintin wept sadly as he thought of
his wife's brief and unhappy career. He removed with his daughter into
furnished lodgings, not wishing the child to be burdened too soon with
the cares of house-keeping. What he would not allow her to do for him,
however, she soon became very anxious to do for another, and the days
of her mourning were not long passed when she became the happy wife of
a young man named Wentworth, bookkeeper in one of the leading hardware
firms in Montreal. She has now children of her own, and the youngsters'
greatest delight is to gather round their grandfather's knee while he
astonishes them with stories. To them nor to no one else, however, has
he told, even as I have done, the story of the frail shop-girl, who from
being young and handsome, and the belle of her circle of acquaintances,
became a wretched and deceitful woman, diseased both in body and mind,
and finally sank into a premature grave.

Out on this heartless, brutal system, and the thoughtlessness and
ignorance which permit it! I hope the narrative given above may cause
some of those at least who engage in this barbarous system to pause and
give the great problem of life, capital and labor, a few moments thought
that they may see the error of their way, and that poor Esther Quintin
may not have died in vain.



CHAPTER VIII.


The Two Orphans

One evening, about a dozen years before the introduction of the present
system of fire alarms into Montreal, crowds might be seen hurrying along
that part of the city known as Little St. James street, towards the
scene of an immense conflagration. Several fire engines were throwing
strong streams of water on the burning mass, but, the evening being
windy, the fire swept all before it, and soon reduced several buildings
to ashes.

In one of these resided Mr. Wilson, Notary Public, and his two
daughters, the eldest a beautiful girl about 9 years old, the other
aged nearly 8. When the fire commenced they were seated calmly at the
tea-table, partaking of their evening meal, but, so sudden was the
holocaust which burst with tremendous fury around them that they had not
the slightest warning till they were surrounded with dense volumes
of smoke The two girls rushed forward to the window, and screamed for
assistance, while the old man endeavored to gather some of his most
valuable papers together and throw them into the street.

Amongst the crowd who assembled were two young men, clerks, named
Wilgress and D'Alton respectively. Taking in the situation at a glance,
they sought hastily for ladders, and placing them against the burning
windows, mounted bravely through the flames, each seizing a girl round
the waist, and carrying her in safety to the ground. Their clothes were
almost completely destroyed, while their faces were grimed and scorched,
still, nothing daunted, they looked up to see if anything more could be
done; they espied the old man at one of the windows with a parcel in
his arms. Quick as thought Dalton mounted the ladder once more, going
through the flames like a salamander, and, taking the parcel from the
old gentleman, tried to induce him to descend the ladder. Poor old
Wilson, however, could not bear to leave so much that was valuable while
a chance of saving it remained, and so, rushing wildly back into the
burning building, he was soon lost to sight. A cry arose from the crowd
as they saw him disappear once more, and several hardy youths sprang up
the ladders, determined to bring him out by force, but, ere they could
enter the flaming pile, a loud shriek met their ears as the floor gave
way, hurling the poor old notary into the dreadful pit of fire. All
efforts to do anything further were now unavailing, and the firemen
directed their energies to protecting the neighboring buildings, and
preventing the fire from spreading.

The young men were at first puzzled what to do with the two girls whom
they had rescued, and who were now orphans, without parents, money, or
even clothes, but some Sisters of Charity, who had witnessed the heroic
action, came forward and offered to take them in charge. The good
sisters took the children to the convent, and provided them with both
food and clothes, intending to educate them and bring them up in the
Catholic faith, but some Protestant ladies, members of the congregation
to which Mr. Wilson had belonged, having heard of the affair, induced
the clergyman to call and obtain possession of the orphans, they
undertaking to provide the cost of their maintenance, or to find them
homes in Protestant families.

By the time the Rev. Mr. Flood called at the nunnery the children had
dried their tears, and were beginning to feel quite at home. The Sister
in charge, however, saw at once the correctness of the Clergyman's
action, and agreed to give the girls up as soon as he had made
arrangements for their reception elsewhere. In a few days they were sent
for, and each was adopted by a different family; Cissie, the elder, was
taken in charge by a childless minister, residing in St. Albans, in
the State of Vermont, while Lillie, the younger sister was adopted by a
farmer from the neighborhood of Varennes.

Many years passed away and the two girls were grown up, and were both
uncommonly good looking, Lillie being then just seventeen, and as
handsome a girl as one could wish to see. Then circumstances, however,
were not the same, for while Cissie had received a good education, and
had in every way the manners of a lady, Lillie could not even read with
facility, and writing was with her and utter impossibility. The people
who had adopted her were Irish settlers, who, though comfortably off,
knew little beyond the cultivation of potatoes and the care of pigs.

About this tame Cissie Wilson, tired of the monotony of life at St.
Albans, determined to make an effort to "see the world," as she called
it, and earn her own living; and, as her adopted father remonstrated
with her in rather a hasty manner, she collected her effects together,
and, one day while the old man was out, started for Montreal. She left
a note for him, informing him of her destination, and warning him not to
attempt to stop her, as she had determined, at all hazards, to carry out
her intention. Miss Wilson had been several times in Montreal, and had
several acquaintances there, among them a Miss Wood, whose father had
a position in the Telegraph Office. To Miss Wood's, therefore, she
repaired, and, being welcomed with the usual number of kisses, she
requested the young lady to persuade her father to procure a situation
as telegraph operator or something of the kind, as she was determined to
earn her own living. This the young lady promised to do and succeeded so
well that Miss Wilson was soon installed in a tolerably good position,
earning enough money to maintain and clothe herself respectably.

Things went on smoothly enough for a time, Miss Wilson spending most of
her leisure time with her friend, Miss Wood, or sitting quietly at home
arranging such dresses and finery as her scanty income permitted her to
indulge in. After some months, however, she began to make more friends,
and being invited frequently out, and made much of because of her
beauty and accomplishments, she soon became madly eager for the means
of dressing herself like the rest, and making the conquests she knew she
could make, were she only to have equal terms with her rivals.

This passion for dress and jewellery soon became deep-seated; were she
only well dressed, what could she not achieve. She had, in her anxious
endeavors to make a good impression in society, deprived herself even
of necessaries sin order to procure a fashionable ball-dress and outfit,
and these were now no longer fit for active service. While musing over
this circumstance one evening, as she walked home to supper, she chanced
to meet Anna Smith, who had been the belle at the last ball, her fine
dress and showy jewellery having completely eclipsed the more solid and
modest beauty of the poor telegraph girl. Miss Smith inquired casually
if Cissie were going to the Oddfellows' ball, an affair which was then
on the _tapis_, and when the latter answered in the negative, explaining
that her small salary would not allow her to purchase the necessary
finery, Miss Smith laughed and called her a silly little goose. Taking
her by the arm, Anna then let her into a secret, and explained how she
obtained all she required, and indeed could, out of the abundance of her
stores, fit out Miss Cissie, whom she chose to consider her protégée.
She urged Cissie not to miss the ball on any account, and reminded her
that she had already obtained a decided advantage over Miss Williams,
Miss Hunt and Miss Jones, and that with such an outfit as she would lend
her the victory would be complete.

Cissie was for a moment shocked. She had been several times offered
presents by gentlemen of her acquaintance, but had always resolutely
declined to take them, having an instinctive feeling which warned her
against their acceptance. She could not bear now to wear the dresses
proffered by Miss Smith, and momentarily made up her mind not to go to
the ball at all. Then again her heart failed her as her companion glibly
ran over the names of those who were to attend, and Cissie thought how
she would like to enter the room on Horace Gibson's arm in the presence
of Miss Williams and the rest. Horace Gibson was a clerk in the Bank of
Montreal who had invited Miss Wilson to the ball, and was to receive
her answer that evening. As luck would have it, that young gentleman
approached just as the girls were rounding the corner of the street,
and, raising his hat in salute, inquired if he was to have the pleasure
of taking Miss Wilson to the ball. Cissie hung her head, and was just
about to offer some excuse, when Miss Smith answered for her:

"Oh, yes, _of course_ she'll go, and be the best dressed and best
looking lady in the room too."

"If you have taken her up, I am sure she will be at least the _second_
best as regards get up," responded Mr. Gibson, conveying an indirect
compliment to Miss Smith herself, who was celebrated for the elegance of
her attire. Cissie could not utter a word. After all, she thought, there
can be no harm in borrowing a dress from a young lady! It was not for
her to inquire how that lady was able to purchase so many dresses; and
then, as she looked at the handsome young man before her, and thought
how her rivals would bite their lips with envy to see her in her elegant
out-fit, the blood rushed into her temples, and with an impetuous bound
she burst away from both her companions and entered the house, saying to
Mr. Gibson: "Yes, I'll go; call for me at nine to-morrow."

Till late night Cissie sat in her rocking-chair, her hands pressed over
her throbbing temples; at length wearied nature came to her relief,
and compelled her to retire to bed. Being fatigued, she soon fell
fast asleep, and on the morrow when she awoke, although she remembered
clearly all that had passed on the previous evening, she had not the
same sensitive feelings, or the same sharp prickings of conscience, and,
as she walked towards the office, she began to anticipate the ball with
the greatest pleasure.

As Miss Smith had said, Cissie, beautiful before, was ten times as
beautiful now that she was adorned with all that art could do in the
matters of dress and jewellery. Miss Williams fairly gnashed her teeth
with envy, and left the hall shortly after ten o'clock, disgusted with
_that thing_ from the telegraph office, while the gentlemen eagerly
sought for an introduction to the acknowledged belle of the ball-room.
Miss Smith was as proud of Cissie's success as if it had been her own.
With all her faults the girl possessed a good heart, and in doing as
she did fancied she was doing the innocent country girl a kindness in
opening to her the highway to fame and fortune, even though it were
reached by the gate of dishonor.

It is needless to give in detail the particulars of Cissie Wilson's
career; suffice it to say, that the brilliant triumph at the Oddfellows'
ball was too much for her weak nature. She plunged headlong into the
vortex of worldly pleasure and excitement, and, having little time or
inclination for reflection, became in time quite habituated to this
peculiar mode of life, always maintaining outwardly, however, a moral
and respected appearance.

All this time, the reader may well ask, what had become of Lillie, the
younger sister? She had been remarkably successful in her country home,
having at her feet the hands and hearts of all the most eligible young
men for miles round. This at one time would have gratified her utmost
ambition; but her sister's letters from Montreal made her dreadfully
anxious to join her in her whirl of exciting pleasures, and, with the
understanding that her sister would obtain her employment in Montreal,
Lillie, at the age of eighteen, came to the city.

She was not long in her new home till her sister unbosomed to her many
things of which she had previously been in ignorance, and promised to
introduce her to the _créme de la créme_ of her worldly companions,
urging her to endeavor to acquire these graces and accomplishments which
she had failed to learn in her country home. Lillie soon became
more popular even than her sister; for, although she was not so well
educated, she was naturally clever and witty, and there was a vivacity
and freshness about her conversation, which, added to her beautiful face
and perfect figure, made her a charming and desirable companion.

One day Mr. D'Alton, one of the gentlemen who had rescued the two girls
from the fire, was walking along Notre Dame street, when he observed
a beautiful girl, rather showily dressed, promenading just in front of
him. Something in the girl's manner attracted his attention, and, as he
passed her, he turned round, and carefully scanned her face. As he did
so the girl looked up and their eyes met; he, raising his hat, blurted
out an apology, saying he had mistaken her for another lady of his
acquaintance named Brown. "Oh," said she, laughing, "my name is Lillie
Wilson."

On hearing this name D'Alton started, and, having questioned her closely
concerning her antecedents, asked her if she remembered the fire, and
the two gentlemen who rescued herself and her sister; and, although she
had altogether forgotten his appearance, she remembered the circumstance
perfectly. They walked together for a little while, and then he asked
her permission to visit her at her address, and was astonished to
find that she objected, for some strange reason, to do so. At length,
bursting into tears, she confided to him her whole history, informing
him that she had been seduced and betrayed, and was at that moment
_enceinte_. This disclosure, as may well be supposed, staggered D'Alton
not a little, but at the same time he became more and more interested in
the girl, and offered, if she would promise to give up her corrupt
mode of life that he would do his best to see her through her present
difficulty. Calling on me, he consulted with me as to what was best
to be done under the circumstances, explaining that, although he
was willing to do all in his power for the girl for the sake of old
associations, yet that he did not wish to peril his own reputation.
I promised to do what I could for the girl, and calling on her was
informed that her paramour was an officer in the Rifle Brigade, who
had returned to England, leaving her to bear the burden of their crime.
Having procured suitable lodgings, I saw the girl comfortably housed,
and in due time she gave birth to a fine little boy, which, as usual
in these cases, was sent to the nunnery to be taken care of by the good
Sisters of Charity.

Mr. D'Alton did not come to visit Miss Wilson during her convalescence
but, after she was completely recovered he called frequently, taking her
to theatres and concerts, and sometimes in the winter to sleigh-rides.
What his intentions at first may have been I do not know; I certainly
think that but for his friends he would openly have married her; be
that as it may, in a short time it became apparent that they had both
overstepped the bounds of ordinary friendly intercourse, and that Mrs.
Rushton (as she now called herself) would soon require my services a
second time. This time she gave birth to a beautiful girl, and, before
many years were past, there followed another girl and boy. These
children were not, as in the former case, sent to the nunnery, but
were retained and brought up by their mother, she being smart enough to
perceive that by doing so she would maintain a hold on their father,
and secure for herself, if not a respectable, at least a comfortable
position, Mr. D'Alton having been successful in business, and being at
that time one of the leading brokers in Montreal.

For a time things went on this way, D'Alton visiting his mistress
frequently, and becoming passionately fond of the children, whom Mrs.
Rushton artfully used to influence him on all occasions. To do her
justice, it must be said that she never, either in thought or action,
was untrue to D'Alton, and that, whatever her past career might have
been, she lived at this time a quiet life, indeed, caring only for her
husband (as she called him) and her children. By the time the little
boy was two years old, both mother and children had so ingratiated
themselves in Mr. D'Alton's affections, that he determined, come what
might, to marry his mistress, and so make their future offspring at
least legitimate.

He was weary of his irregular mode of life, and, being comparatively
wealthy, longed for some place which he could call his home. His wife
could hardly mix in society, even could she obtain an _entrée_ to that
realm of prudery and hypocrisy, but he cared for no society better than
that of herself and his children, and his bachelor friends, of whom
he had not a few, would, even if they did know or surmise the truth,
exercise a more liberal spirit, particularly while the wine in his
cellar maintained its reputation. Accordingly, he one day astonished and
delighted Mrs. Rushton with the proposal that he should marry her; and
that they should live together openly. As may be supposed, the lady
unhesitatingly accepted the proposal, and accordingly they were married,
formally and legally in St. George's Church, which, at that time was
situated in St. Joseph street, on the site now occupied by Messrs.
Ligget & Hamilton's large dry goods store. Mr. D'Alton took a house in
a new portion of the city, and as they lived very quietly, receiving no
calls, except from business friends of Mr. D'Alton, the neighbors did
not trouble themselves much about them, or inquire concerning their
antecedents.

Although her husband did not trouble himself whether his wife was or
was not received into society, Mrs. D'Alton felt it very keenly. She had
not, like him, drank the cup of life's pleasures till it tasted insipid
or even nauseous; on the contrary, she looked on the pomps and vanities
of society as only a woman can look on them, and now that she was
legally respectable, and rich enough to keep pace with even the most
fashionable of her neighbors, it made her very heart ache to think
that these scenes of brightness were closed to her as much as ever. She
thought of what she might have been had she not in her ambitious haste
gone off the right track; and, pained with bitter reflections, and with
no one to speak to or converse with (for her husband spent most of his
time at the club) she solaced herself, as others in her predicament have
done, with the cup of forgetfulness, sinking deeper and deeper at every
step, till the habit became confirmed.

Although Mrs. D'Alton had taken her husband into her confidence, and
told him truthfully her history, she had not sufficient strength of mind
to tell him how ignorant she really was, and that she could not even
read and write with accuracy. Her letters to her husband had been
written by her nursery-governess, engaged ostensibly to instruct the
children; but in reality to act as amanuensis for the lady of the house.
The young lady thus engaged was at first rather averse to signing her
mistress' name to her letters without adding her own initials, but the
present of a handsome broach and earrings soon quieted her sensitive
conscience and she soon fell into the plan, not being unwilling to make
use of such a powerful lever for obtaining largesses from Mrs. D'Alton.
In time this young lady became so overbearing that her mistress fully
made up her mind to discharge her, but a summer trip to Portland being
then on the tapis, she allowed her to have her own way, as Mr. D'Alton
remained in Montreal, and would naturally expect letters from his wife
during her absence. She would have dismissed the governess and engaged
another, trusting to her own pleadings and the powerful appeals of her
purse to win her over, but the handwriting would not be the same, and
she would not for worlds have allowed her husband to think she had
deceived him.

The day came for their departure for Orchard Beach, where Mr. D'Alton
had taken a cottage for their use. The children were in great glee as
they anticipated surf bathing and digging in the sand, but Mrs. D'Alton
was moody and down-hearted, the exhilarating effects of a large potion
of brandy having worn off and a reaction set in; her husband, however,
attributed it to sorrow at her separation from him, and was rather
gratified to think she was so deeply affected.

They arrived at her destination in due course, and were comfortably
ensconced in the cosy little cottage. Miss Watson, the governess,
dressed herself up, and with the children departed for the promenade,
and Mrs. D'Alton was left to her own reflections. The thought of her
past career, of the opportunities gone for ever, and lastly of the
predicament she was now in, shunned by all respectable people, and
despised by her own paid servant, who felt her power, and was disposed
to wield it unmercifully. The brandy-bottle, her never-failing
companion, was by her side, and as she mused mopingly over her sins,
she took from time to time copious draughts of the potent spirits,
regardless of its power to do otherwise than to rob her of these racking
memories of the past. In about two hours the promenaders returned and
found her lying back speechless in her chair, the bottle and glass by
her side; her eyes rolled wildly as she gazed vacantly on her children,
but she was unable to utter a word.

Miss Watson became alarmed and summoned a doctor immediately, who, on
entering the room, perceived at once the cause of Mrs. D'Alton's malady,
and ordered her to be conveyed to bed. In the morning she was a little
better, being able to speak; but she was still very much shaken,
and raved incoherently. Mr. D'Alton was telegraphed for, and came
immediately; but, being merely informed that his wife had had a fit, he
imagined her to be afflicted with hysteria; indeed, although he knew she
was fond of a glass of wine, and often joined him in partaking of brandy
and water, he had no idea that she imbibed to such an extent.

In a few days Mrs. D'Alton was able to go out again, and, as during her
husband's stay at Orchard Beach she was particularly abstemious, she
was able to associate with the ladies in the hotel, and made several
acquaintances, who, seeing that she had the dress and manners of a lady,
interchanged calls with her and invited her to visit them in Montreal.
On her return to her home, however, these ladies received her but
coldly, and when she gave a large party, inviting all those whom she had
met at the seaside, "they all, with one accord, began to make excuse,"
and at entertainment there was present, besides herself and the family,
only a sister of the governess, and one or two bachelor friends of Mr.
D'Alton. Dancing was of course out of the question, so they organized
two whist parties, and, with a little music, managed to drag along till
supper, which was served in Joyce's best style, and looked unnecessarily
elaborate for the small number who were to partake of it.

Mrs. D'Alton was mortified; she had imagined that those people whom she
met at the seaside would have judged her on her merits, and would not
have taken the trouble to inquire concerning her antecedents. She did
not calculate that, what may be allowable at a summer resort, would not
be tolerated in Montreal society; moreover, that the tongue of slander
had been busily engaged in painting her even blacker than she really
was, so that these people, even if personally disposed to associate with
her, _dared_ not do so lest they might lose their own insecure foothold
on the ladder of social position. In moody silence she presided
throughout the entire evening; she was enraged at herself and at the
poor enslaved creatures who, though anxious to go and enjoy themselves
yet dared not infringe the rules laid down by society; and, as she drank
glass after glass of her husband's famous Moselle, she became more and
more despondent.

About midnight Amy Watson, the sister of the nursery-governess, took
her departure, and Mr. D'Alton with his friends, went up to the billiard
room to enjoy themselves at their favorite game. It was near daylight
ere they grew tired of pocketing the ivory spheres, and left their host
to close the doors, and retire to his room. When he did so what a sight
met his gaze! There lay his wife in all the finery she had arrayed
herself to dazzle her fashionable acquaintances, _a speechless corpse_!
a brandy-bottle, nearly emptied, lay at her side, telling too plainly
what had been the cause of her untimely death. Her husband's first
impulse was to ring the bell and send for a doctor, but, knowing the
scandal that would surely ensue, he quietly let himself out, and went
for Dr. Hickson, being determined not to give up hope till he had done
all that could possibly be done. The doctor on examining the body shook
his head ominously, confirming Mr. D'Alton in the belief that his wife
was no more; he considerately agreed to remain in the house, and not
to inform the servants for some time of the occurrence. The doctor's
presence, of course, excited some alarm, and in a short time it was
known that Mrs. D'Alton was dangerously ill, the announcement of her
death being reserved for a time till all the traces of the recent
festivities were removed, and the house had resumed its normal
condition.

When the children heard of their mother's death they rent the air
with their cries of anguish; even Miss Watson shed real tears, her
occupation, like that of Othello, being gone. Poor Mr. D'Alton was
almost beside himself. He had never loved another woman; and, though he
was not blind to his wife's failings and shortcomings, he nevertheless
lamented the loss of one, who, whatever her faults, was true to him and
a good mother to his children.

In the meantime what had become of Cissie Wilson, Mrs. D'Alton's elder
sister? She had endeavored to persuade Mrs. D'Alton to engage her as
governess to her children, but the latter, once married, refused to
hold any communication with her whatever. Miss Wilson then despairing
of finding a road to reform in Montreal, took her departure for Toronto,
taking a position as governess in one of the leading families there. On
hearing of her sister's death she wrote to Mr. D'Alton, offering to take
charge of the children till he had time to make permanent arrangements
for their education. To this letter she received no reply, which nettled
her so much that she determined on a plot for wounding the pride of her
haughty brother-in-law. "Who is he," she would exclaim, "that he should
dare to snub me?" "If I _have_ sinned, was _she_ not equally bad, and
is he not guilty _himself_?" "Never mind, Mr. D'Alton, I will have
my revenge some day." She racked her brain to think of some means of
repaying him for his severity to her, but could think of nothing at the
time, and so resolved to wait and watch her opportunity.

It was some years before Miss Wilson had that opportunity for which her
heart so yearned, but come it did, surely enough, and she dealt to Mr.
D'Alton a blow so bitter that he never got over its effects.

Lillian, Mr. D'Alton's eldest daughter had, after her mother's death,
been sent to a fashionable school in Mansfield street, presided over by
the wife of one of our leading brokers. Here she made many friends, and
being known only as the beautiful and accomplished daughter of a rich
widower doing business in Montreal, and well known on the Exchange, she
was in time introduced into society, and became at one bound the belle
of the season.

At that time several British regiments occupied the Quebec Gate
barracks, and the officers were eagerly sought after by the party-giving
community, no ball being complete without at least two or three officers
in _full uniform_. Among the latter was a certain Captain Trevelyan, the
heir-apparent of an English nobleman, who was, of course _the_ eligible
young gentleman of the season. Most of the ladies openly courted Captain
Trevelyan and, figuratively speaking, laid themselves at his feet;
but Lillian D'Alton was too little versed in such matters to know the
triumph she had achieved in being sought after as a partner by the
much-admired Captain, and, when he asked her to dance although she
complied readily with his request, yet she carried herself with an air
so natural, and altogether so different from the time-worn belles he was
so accustomed to meet, that he engaged her for dance after dance, then
for supper, and, before the ball was concluded, he was deeply in love
with her, none the less because she was the only young lady in the room
who did not covet that distinction.

Although Lillian was but eighteen years of age, she could not but
perceive the marked attention paid to her by Captain Trevelyan, nor
was she blind to the glances of envious hatred darted at her from all
quarters. Her heart responded to the unspoken avowal of her partner, and
ere they parted that night they were one in heart and in thought, each
living only for and in the presence of the other.

Youthful love makes rapid progress. Ere many months had passed Lillian
D'Alton was the affianced bride of Captain Trevelyan, and their
approaching wedding was the one theme of conversation at balls, routes
or parties.

Here then was the opportunity longed for by Miss Wilson. She would
inform Captain Trevelyan and his friends concerning the D'Alton family,
and warn him to break off his engagement. With a refinement of cruelty
peculiar to women blinded with rage, she allowed the wedding day to be
fixed before she communicated with the bridegroom, and then sent him a
complete history of the family he was about to enter, informing him
that the lady he was about to marry was the illegitimate child of Mr.
D'Alton, and that in marrying her he would not only injure his own
prospects, but alienate himself completely from his family, bringing on
them both shame and discredit.

Captain Trevelyan read the letter with astonishment, but did not
believe one word it contained. His Lillian a bastard! why the thing was
preposterous. Her father was as well known on 'Change as Rothschild
was in London. Her mother's funeral had been attended by the wealth
and fashion of Montreal, and since that time Lillian had been the
acknowledged belle of the set commonly known as "the upper ten." The
letter being written in rather extravagant terms, he imagined it to
contain the incoherent ravings of a maniac, and his first impulse was to
toss it aside. On the arrival of the English mail, however, he received
letters from his friends, couched in terms of the deepest anxiety,
urging him to sever all connection with the D'Alton family if he did
not wish to alienate himself completely from all his family and
friends. These letters led him to think more seriously concerning the
communication from Toronto, and being determined, come what might,
to know the worst at once, he started immediately for Mr. D'Alton's
residence, only to find that the gentleman in question had just that
moment departed for his office.

Lillian was at home, however, and she rushed downstairs impetuously to
meet her affianced husband. He received her as usual, but there was
a cloud on his brow as he followed her into her boudoir, where they
frequently spent hours together. He questioned her concerning her aunt
and her relations generally, but Lillian knew little more than that
her aunt resided in Toronto, and was generally considered to be what is
called "flighty."

This somewhat reassured Trevelyan, and he dismissed the subject for a
time from his mind. He determined, however, to clear the matter up, and
so in the evening he called to see Mr. D'Alton, requesting a few words
with him in private. The two men entered the study, and Trevelyan led
off by saying:--"I have received a strange communication from your
sister-in-law, Miss Wilson; from what Lillian has told me, I am aware
that she is a person of weak intellect, and her stories are not worthy
of credence, but I thought it due to you, nevertheless, to bring the
matter to your notice."

At the mention of Miss Wilson's name D'Alton turned deadly pale. He was
a bold man, and capable of carrying out a deep scheme, had he felt
so disposed; but this intimacy of Trevelyan with his daughter was the
result of no scheme, and he had for some years lived, with the rest of
his family, a blameless life, rejoicing in the fact that his neighbors
either did not know, or had forgotten, or overlooked his past career,
and were prepared to receive his children with open arms into society.
With bated breath he ran his eyes hastily over the letter held out to
him by Trevelyan, and in an instant he saw the whole situation. If he
could only have had time to consider the matter, he would probably have
taken the right course, come what might; but he had little time for
decision, as Trevelyan stood before him, eagerly expecting a reply. Mr.
D'Alton pictured to himself the state of affairs did he acknowledge the
truth of the accusation, and though loath to deceive the young man (whom
he already loved almost as dearly as his own son), he dared not ruin his
daughter's prospects by an avowal. Pretending to read the letter once
more he gained a little time, and then, with consummate diplomacy,
endeavored to find out what Trevelyan thought. Looking up coolly, he
said--

"And do you believe all this, Trevelyan?"

Of course, Trevelyan _did not_ believe it, and was profuse in his
apologies, for having permitted himself to doubt for a moment that the
writer was bereft of reason. This confirmed Mr. D'Alton in his course
and he at once denounced his sister-in-law in no measured terms, vowing
to punish her for her irresponsible utterances. The news that Miss
Wilson had written to Captain Trevelyan's friends in England made
D'Alton furious, and he swore a fearful oath that he would place her
where her ravings would harm no one but herself. All night long he
thought over schemes for getting rid of her, and at length he concocted
a plan which he speedily put into execution.

As was said before, Mrs. D'Alton and her sister were orphans and they
both left their adopted parents early in life, having lived under
assumed names for years, and severed all connection with their former
associates. During Mrs. D'Alton's lifetime her sister was forbidden to
approach the house, and on the death of the former Miss Wilson was not
recognized by her brother-in-law. The children had never seen or known
their aunt, and the people with whom she had last resided in Montreal
(in the capacity of nursery-governess) had known her as Miss Rogers, and
had lately lost all trace of her whereabouts.

Taking the early train for Toronto, Mr. D'Alton took counsel of an
astute lawyer, and learned that, as events had been shapen, Miss Wilson
would have now great difficulty in proving her connection with the
D'Alton family, did he choose to deny it, and that the fact of her
having written such letters as those received by Trevelyan and his
family would be fair presumptive evidence that the woman was insane.

Carefully considering his position, D'Alton determined on his course of
proceeding. He was averse to a public prosecution, as many things, now
unknown or forgotten, might be brought to light, and yet he felt that
the woman must be effectually silenced by some means or other. Going to
her residence he boldly demanded an interview with her, and, producing
the letter to Trevelyan, asked if she had written it. Miss
Wilson laughed as she saw the effect of her shot, and exultantly
exclaimed:--"Of course I wrote it; who else _could_ have done it?"

"And are you aware that you are liable to be prosecuted for libel?"
pursued D'Alton.

"It is no libel," retorted she, fiercely; "you know it is true, or you
would not be here now."

"Indeed! _can you prove it, then_?"

"I have no need to prove it to you. Your very facial expression
acknowledges it to be true."

"Will that satisfy the jury?"

"What jury?"

"The jury who are to try you for a malicious libel!"

At this Cissie started, but recovering herself exclaimed: "_You_ dare
not sue me for libel. Your history would not stand repetition in court."

"Who knows my history?"

"I do!"

"Indeed! WHO ARE YOU?"

The fierceness with which he said this made his sister-in-law quail. She
perceived that he was terribly in earnest as he repeated his question in
a tone very unusual with him, and she meekly replied:

"You know well enough who I am, your late wife's sister."

"My wife _had no sister_!"

The look he gave as he said this fairly frightened her. She had seen
a good deal of life, and had in her time met with all kinds of men and
women, but never till now did she fear either. She began to see that she
had roused a desperate man, and that, legally, she had no hold on him,
neither status in society; moreover that she had got entangled in the
meshes of her own net, and that only the dread of exposure would prevent
D'Alton from prosecuting her for libel. Not knowing what to do, she
remained mute, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. At length Mr.
D'Alton broke the silence: "You have evidently had an object," he said,
"in circulating these reports. If your object be to extort money out of
me, you will find it more to your interest to remain silent." With these
words he drew from his pocket a roll of bank bills, and laid them on the
table near his companion; but she, growing livid with rage, refused to
touch them, promising to expose him and his family before all the world.

D'Alton had not calculated on this, and was for a time taken a little
aback. His last card, however, was not yet played; and, summoning all
his energies together, he braced himself for the enactment of that,
which under other circumstances, he would have suffered much rather than
become in any sense a party thereto. Addressing the lady once more he
said:--"What, then, was your object in writing these letters?"

"My object was _to disclose the truth_," she cried, vehemently, "to
denounce you as a blackhearted villain, and to save an unsuspecting
youth from becoming the victim of your deep-laid schemes."

D'Alton bit his lip with passion, but restrained himself. "And you do
all this solely from conscientious motives," he said with a sneer.

"My conscience, like your own, Mr. D'Alton, is pretty well hardened. No;
I have no conscientious motives to impel me to show your true character
to the world; but revenge is sweet, and I have not forgotten the scorn
and contempt with which both you and your fashionable wife treated me
while I was in Montreal. _I_ was not good enough to touch the hem of
your garments, but _she_ was dressed up and paraded in the drawing-rooms
of those who did not know better than to admit her, and now her b----
daughter is to wed a scion of a noble house, while _I_ am not even
recognized. No, Robert D'Alton, you will not become respectable and
leave _me_ out in the cold, insulting and spurning me at every turn with
your petty offers of money. I have sworn to have my revenge, and by ----
now that the opportunity offers, I _will have it_, too!"

She had worked herself up to state of uncontrollable fury. Her eyes
rolled wildly, and she looked like one demented. This gave the devil
his opportunity, for D'Alton, who had been halting between two opinions,
came to a hasty conclusion, and bringing the interview to a close,
hurriedly left the house, his teeth firmly set, and a horrid glare in
his eyes. He walked rapidly down Yonge street and along the east end
of King street, then, hailing a cab, he directed the driver to travel
towards the west end, coming to a halt opposite the Lunatic Asylum.
Entering he enquired for Dr. Tuffnell, and was informed that he would
likely find that gentleman at his residence on Jarvis street. On
repairing thither he found the doctor at home, and, requesting a few
minutes' private conversation, was soon closeted in the consultation
room. "I have long intended to see you," Mr. D'Alton began, "about a
young lady who lived in our family some years ago in the capacity of
nursery-governess. She was always of a somewhat flighty disposition,
which we used to humour as best we could, and when she left us (at my
wife's death) for Toronto, we fancied she had quite recovered, but it
seems she has been gradually growing worse, and she now continually
torments our friends and us with letters full of ridiculous flights of
fancy, which, though meaningless to those who understand how she has
been afflicted, might possibly cause serious trouble."

"Has the young lady, then, no friends or relatives?"

"None, whatever. She was taken out of an orphan asylum by an aged
clergyman, now deceased, who adopted her, and since his death she has
supported herself by teaching. We consulted our physician about her
some time ago, when she imagined herself to be my wife, and ordered her
mistress down to the kitchen. He thought it would be advisable for her
to take another situation away from us till her health improved, as she
was continually fancying herself trampled upon by some member of the
family; we accordingly procured for her a situation in a friend's house
in Montreal, but they in turn became frightened of her, and dismissed
her, which dismissal, strange to say, she attributed _to me_. She now
imagines herself to be my wife's sister, and demands an entrance into my
house, denouncing me in the vilest terms, and writing scandalous letters
to all my acquaintances."

"Are you sure she is insane?"

"Well, I have long tried to persuade myself that she is not, but
latterly she has grown so violent that I am afraid that what I said
years ago to my late wife in fun about her being demented was only
painfully true. If you would kindly visit her and give me your opinion
concerning her case, you would oblige me very much."

"What does her present mistress say about her?"

"Oh she has only been there a short time and has not yet given an
exhibition of her oratorical powers. Still the lady who is a clergyman's
widow, told me that she walks about her room in the middle of the night,
talking wildly to herself."

Dr. Tuffnell had not time to visit Miss Wilson that morning, but he made
an appointment with Mr. D'Alton for the following day, and together they
went to the unfortunate girl's residence. Arrived at the house they rang
the bell, and inquired for Mrs. Brookes, the mistress.

Mrs. Brookes was a middle-aged lady of a retiring disposition. Her
husband had died at an early age, leaving her to take care of three
young children. Her temporal wants however, were provided for, her
husband having been possessed of a handsome income independently of
his small salary. Dr. Tuffnell made inquiries concerning Miss Wilson's
habits, and was informed that her actions were at times very peculiar,
that she had not gone to bed all the past night, but had stamped up and
down her room, talking as if to a second party. Mrs. Brookes was shocked
to hear that she had unwittingly engaged a mad woman to take charge of
her children, and suddenly recollected several extraordinary episodes
which, until that time, had never struck her forcibly.

It was arranged that the Doctor should see Miss Wilson and satisfy
himself concerning her affliction before any further steps were taken.
Accordingly Mrs. Brookes rang the bell and told the servant to summon
the governess.

Miss Wilson had not slept all night, and her eyes had a wild expression,
which heightened when she beheld Mr. D'Alton. The doctor, having
previously taken all that was told him for granted, made up his mind
at once that she was insane, and never reflected for a moment on the
possibility of some scheme being on foot to injure her. On entering the
room she laughed wildly and said--"So you have come back with your bag
of gold. I tell you it's _trash_, sordid trash, not half so sweet as
REVENGE!"

Now as the doctor had heard nothing from either D'Alton or Mrs. Brookes
which he could in any way connect with this wild utterance; moreover,
as the young lady looked like a tigress, and walked fiercely up and down
the room, he became more than ever convinced that he had got a bad case
in hand and acted accordingly. Looking at D'Alton he shook his head,
which Mrs. Brookes perceiving, she shook her head in turn, and, taking
out her handkerchief, wept copiously. Dr. Tuffnell tried to soothe the
patient with gentle words, but she (mistaking him for a pettifogging
lawyer, whom D'Alton had engaged to bind her over to keep the peace)
cried out:

"Ah, yes! you want to quiet me, but _you can't_ quiet me. I am like the
surging cataract, which, suppressed in one place bursts out again with
more fury in another. I have suffered too much to be tamed down by soft
and gilded promises. No, Robert D'Alton, you have started the mighty
avalanche and it is too late now to stop its progress."

The doctor began to feel he had a desperate case in hand and tried to
quiet her, but the more he did so the worse she got till at last all
persons began to talk to her, receiving from the poor girl replies
altogether removed from the point at issue coupled with threats and
oaths and furious gesticulations. At length the doctor suggested, in a
whisper, the propriety of their departure, when they might consider what
was best to be done, but, on Mrs. Brookes protesting that she was afraid
to stay alone in the house with the maniac, Dr. Tuffnell dispatched
a note to the asylum, and in a short time two keepers arrived, and
proceeded to take Miss Wilson into their care till she should become
possessed of a sound mind.

There is no time at which a sane person looks so much like a maniac
as when trying to convince people of his sanity. The real lunatic will
cunningly hide his affliction from the most watchful, and is frequently
able to deceive those unaccustomed to deal with persons of unsound mind,
but the victim of persecution becomes wild with honest indignation,
and generally manages to convince even those who might be inclined to
believe him to be sane.

When the truth of her position began to dawn on Miss Wilson, she became
more frantic than ever. She raved at D'Alton and the doctor, tore with
her hands at the keepers, and abused Mrs. Brookes for standing tamely by
to see one of her own sex so ill-used. She roared so that two policemen
came rushing up to the steps to inquire what was the matter, but, seeing
Dr. Tuffnell, with whom they were well acquainted, they saluted him
respectfully and withdrew.

Miss Wilson was accordingly driven to the asylum and incarcerated till
she should come to her senses, and Mr. D'Alton, having made arrangements
for her safe-keeping returned to Montreal.

Shortly after her father's return Lillian D'Alton was married to Captain
Trevelyan in Christ Church Cathedral. The wealth, beauty and fashion of
Montreal attended the wedding, and the costliest presents were displayed
on her father's sideboard. The young couple departed for England
immediately, Trevelyan's regiment having been ordered home, and the
bride was received into the first London circles.

Mr. D'Alton remained in Montreal where he still lives and moves in the
best society. What his private feelings are I cannot tell, but outwardly
all is serene, the only one besides myself who knows his family history
having long since passed away in solitary confinement.



CHAPTER IX.


A Tale of Two Cities

Among the many friends we made during our stay in Montreal, none were so
thoroughly beloved by myself and family as the Sinclairs. Mr. Sinclair
was an English artist who had settled in Canada some time previous to
our arrival, and, being generally well informed, as well as a shining
light in his own profession, he was made much of by the English
residents here, and had as pupils many of the wives and daughters of the
officers of the garrison, besides some of the more cultivated Canadians.
Mrs. Sinclair was a refined English lady of good family, and had several
children, mostly girls, who were greatly admired not only for their
beauty, but also for their many and various accomplishments. The
Sinclair girls were frequently at our house, being, in fact, looked upon
as members of our family, and no social gathering of ours was considered
complete without them.

In time Mr. Sinclair became tired of Montreal. Many of his patrons
left with their regiments for England, and he became weary of the
dull routine and scanty income which he saw was all he could ever look
forward to in Canada, so, breaking up his household, he departed for the
United States, and, having lived for a time in various cities, finally
settled in Boston, where he became quite successful, and soon obtained
an enviable reputation as a portrait painter.

Lulu Sinclair, the eldest of the girls, was a sprightly blonde of about
sixteen when her father left Montreal, and the family had not been
long in Boston before she became engaged as a teacher at one of the
conservatories, and a mutual attachment sprang up between the pair.
Miss Sinclair had already made her _début_ in Boston Music Hall as a
vocalist, and the pair were frequently engaged at the same concerts
and entertainments, so that the natural sequence was that they in time
became engaged, and afterwards--_married_!

"Nothing very mysterious in that," I think I hear my fair reader say, a
little disappointed that I have not prepared a spicy bit of scandal for
her delectation; but as Balaam the Prophet could only speak as he
was impelled by the spirit, so likewise must I confine myself to
_the realities_ of the case, and I therefore make no apology for this
commonplace bit of history, but proceed with my story.

One evening Lulu made her appearance at our house, in Montreal,
accompanied by Mr. Hill, her husband. It seems that they were on a
concert tour, and were to give two concerts in Saint Patrick's Hall,
which at that time stood on the corner of Craig street and Victoria
square, and, as we had often invited them to do so, they promised
to avail themselves of our hospitality during their stay, as their
engagement terminated with these concerts and they were anxious to take
a little rest before returning to Boston.

The children were delighted to have Mr. and Mrs. Hill in the house
with them; they had never met a _real live prima donna_ in private
life before, and they flaunted "Professor Hill" and "Mademoiselle Lulu
Sinclair" in the faces of their juvenile acquaintances, as if they
had been entertaining the Emperor of all the Russias and Her Imperial
Majesty the Empress.

Since the Sinclairs had left Montreal, the principal playmates of our
children had been the Bennetts, who lived in the adjoining street. Mr.
Bennett was a French-Canadian, with (as usual) a large family, and was
in comfortable circumstances, having a large retail grocery on Notre
Dame street. One evening, shortly after the arrival of Mr. Hill and
his wife, the former drew me aside and asked me if I knew a family in
Montreal named Bennett. I told him that I knew them intimately, that
they lived close at hand, and taking him to the window (it was late in
the spring) I showed him the children walking opposite hand in hand with
our own. He then intimated that he had something to tell me, and, taking
me aside into the adjoining room, he told me something which astonished
me as much as it will doubtless astonish the reader of these pages.

It seems that Mr. Bennett's father was an American, who, in early life,
being settled in Montreal, became enamoured of a Canadian girl named
Beauchamp. Miss Beauchamp was young, pretty, and a Catholic. The first
two of these qualifications rather suited Mr. Bennett, and the third
did not in any way annoy him, he being (although a Protestant) a
liberal-minded man, and having the idea that thoughts and opinions could
not be forced, like sheep, to go in a particular track, but that
every one should be free to hold what convictions his reason dictated,
untrammelled by conventionality or creed of any kind. Miss Beauchamp
professed to be of a like mind, and agreed to allow him to educate the
boys (if any), while she would look after the female issue of their
marriage. With this ridiculous understanding they got married, and for
a time things went pleasantly along, Mrs. Bennett attending L'Eglise
St. Jacques regularly, not only without opposition from her husband but
sometimes even accompanied by him. He did not believe in the efficacy of
the service to save his soul, but he had sufficient common sense to know
that it could not harm him, or turn him one whit aside from what his
reason dictated; and neither did it, for at the end of two years he was
as greatly opposed to what he considered the errors of the Church of
Rome as ever he was, and though he attended L'Eglise St. Jacques almost
as regularly as St. George's Church, of which he was a member, he went
there simply because he liked the society of his wife, and she believed
it to be necessary for her salvation.

In the course of time Mrs. Bennett gave birth to a boy, then two
girls, and afterwards another boy, all of whom, as children will, made
enquiries concerning whence they were and whither they were going, etc.
Mr. Bennett now began to see the folly he had been guilty of in making
the agreement mentioned above. If the Catholic religion were the true
and only faith, all his sons were on the high road to perdition; if, as
he was inclined to think, the Protestant religion were nearer the mark,
then what was to become of the girls? What a pleasant prospect was
there before him! His family torn and divided by the most bitter of all
dissentions, religious disputes (or rather _irreligious_ disputes about
matters of doctrine), and his life and those of all his family rendered
miserable. This was certainly bad enough in its way, but something more
annoying was in store for him. He one day discovered that not only were
the girls baptized in the Romish faith, but that the _boys also_ were
surreptitiously baptized by the parish priest, so that he alone of all
the family remained a Protestant, and a poor one at that. Every day
things got more and more complicated, and his wife at last openly avowed
that _all_ the children were to be Roman Catholics, and advised him also
to flee from the wrath to come and take refuge in the arms of the true
church.

Bennett was not exactly a bigot, but, if not a Protestant, he was
certainly not going to become a Roman Catholic. Cursing himself bitterly
for his folly, he sought to make matters better; but that, so far as
changing the religion or creed of his family went, was altogether beyond
his power. He had his choice between living an alien and a heretic,
despised by his own family; and joining a church whose teachings he
considered puerile and inefficacious, and the atmosphere of which was
now exceedingly disagreeable to him. His wife showed herself so much
more devoted to the church than to her husband, that his love for her
soon faded away, and he made a fearful resolve to leave Montreal, and
never see his wife or children more. Accordingly one evening, instead
of returning as usual from his store, he left for parts unknown, leaving
his wife and children almost penniless behind.

Mrs. Bennett, though acting as she did, loved her husband dearly. It was
this very love for him which made her so anxious for him to leave what
she considered the false religion of the Church of England for the pure
and unadulterated system of the Church of Rome. She cried after him as
if her heart would break, and sent after him in all directions. All her
efforts, however, were in vain, no trace of her husband being found.
The children were left at school till they were in time old enough to be
apprenticed to a trade or business, Mrs. Bennett struggling bravely, as
only a woman can do, to keep their heads above water. When William, the
eldest boy, was about fourteen, he was placed in the well-known house
of Messrs. Mockridge & Co., dry goods merchants, and in course of time
became thoroughly conversant with the business. He had not only
been able to help his mother to maintain the family, but had put by
sufficient to start a small business for himself. Before deciding on
the latter, however, he determined to visit Boston, to get a few ideas
connected with the business, and, while there, came across his father,
who had married again under the name of Hill, his wife being a young
American of good family, and the mother of the gentleman from whom I
learnt this story.

William Bennett reproached his father with his misconduct, and insisted
on his leaving his American wife. Bennett the elder was very much averse
to doing so, but his son would leave him no alternative, threatening him
with exposure and criminal action should he decline. The old man tried
to temporize, and persuaded William to visit and dine with his family,
introducing him as a business friend from Montreal.

Whatever Anti-Spiritualists may say to the contrary, there are
undoubtedly influences other than material which affect us at times, and
give us mysterious intimations of events happening or about to happen.
Both Mrs. Hill and her children had a presentiment of some impending
calamity, and, although they had not the faintest suspicion of the real
state of affairs, they did not look on William Bennett as they would
have done on any other person casually introduced into their household.
A damper seemed to have been placed on all their spirits, and the flow
of conversation was sluggish and dull.

After dinner they endeavored to organize an impromptu card-party, but
that, also, was a failure; and, although, as a rule, they had a
little music after dinner, on this particular evening each one seemed
indisposed to break the monotony.

About ten o'clock William left for his hotel, having first made an
appointment with his father for the following morning. When they
met William returned to the subject of their previous discourse, and
insisted on his father returning with him to Montreal. The old man vowed
that, come what might, he would never go back to his "priest-ridden
family" as he chose to designate his wife and children. The battle waxed
fast and furious, till at last William exclaimed with an oath: "By ----
you shall leave your Yankee mistress, then; _she_ shall suffer what _my
mother_ suffered;" and with oaths and threatenings he hounded his father
out of Boston, determined that Mrs. Hill should not (innocent though she
was) enjoy the happy home which was denied to his mother.

When Mrs. Hill learned the truth (which she did from a letter sent her
from Montreal) she nearly lost her reason. Her case was even worse than
that of Bennett's first wife; because, whereas the latter could at least
seek her husband, and live in the hope of one day finding him again, the
former could not, even did she discover him, claim him as her own.

Mr. Hill's visit to Montreal, then, though ostensibly made for
professional pursuits was, in reality to find out something concerning
his father's whereabouts, and other matters connected with his
quasi-relations. It was strange that he should have come to me for
information without being at all aware of our intimacy with the Bennett
family, indeed, while he was relating his story Amelia Bennett, his
brother's eldest child, came running in for something or another, and
I at once saw a resemblance between the two, not only in personal
appearance, but also in manners and actions.

The next day Mr. Hill, leaving his wife to the care of our family (who
had undertaken to show her "the lions") went forth on his expedition
in search of his father. He had obtained from me his brother's business
address, and going to the office unannounced was immediately recognized
by him, although they had only met once before, and that a considerable
time previously. On explaining the object of his visit, Hall was very
coldly received and informed that Bennett the elder had left Montreal
for New York some years previously and had not since been heard of. Mr.
Hill pretended to believe the story, but secretly determined to keep a
watch on his half-brother as he felt certain that the latter was still
in communication with his father. He accordingly made arrangements to
stay at my house, and as the Bennetts were constantly coming and going
he was sure that in a short time he would learn more concerning him of
whom he was in search.

One afternoon we were seated round the parlor fire, discussing the usual
after-dinner topics, when Mrs. William Bennett dropped in to have a
friendly chat. She disclosed the fact that her husband was going to
visit a superannuated employee in the nunnery, which he usually did
on the first of each month, and that she did not see what reason her
husband had to support forever all his broken-down employees. At the
first word, Hill listened breathlessly, and when Mrs. Bennett said that
she had just left her husband dressing, he quickly, but quietly, left
the room. In an instant he was opposite Bennett's house, and as soon as
he noticed the bedroom light extinguished (for it was already dark),
he drew back into a shadowed corner till he saw Bennett emerge from
the doorway and walk rapidly down the street. Hill followed at a safe
distance, but soon he saw his brother hail a passing sleigh, and,
entering it, order the driver to take him somewhere; the name of the
street, however, he failed to hear, and he felt chagrined to see the
neighboring cab-stand completely deserted. "Now or never," he thought,
"am I to attain the object of my visit," and he dashed madly along the
street after the vehicle which was travelling at the rate of ten miles
an hour; several times he passed a cab-stand and would fain have taken
a fresh horse in pursuit, but he was afraid that while doing so he might
lose sight of the sleigh he had followed so far; or confound it with
another vehicle, for they were now passing through the centre of the
city towards the west end of St. Antoine street.

Past terrace after terrace they flew, till Mr. Hill was nearly faint and
breathless, when a sudden turn to the right brought them to the foot of
a hill, now Guy street, up which the carter walked his horse, and gave
the half dead pedestrian time to recover his breath. When they had
proceeded about a quarter of a mile up the hill, the carter drew up at
the Nunnery on the left side of the road, and Mr. Bennett, alighting,
rang the bell. A sliding panel was immediately pushed aside, and a
hooded sister held a few moments conversation with the visitor, on which
the door was opened, and he was admitted. Hill, who had been standing in
the shadow of the porch, entered unnoticed at his brother's heels, the
janitor being under the impression that they had come in the sleigh
together. Walking along a dark corridor they came to a stairway, down
which their guide preceded them into the basement; here Hill took a
favorable opportunity to turn aside, still keeping his eye on the others
till they arrived at the end of the passage and entered a large room
where several old men were congregated, some chatting in groups, others
smoking or reading lazily. In one of these, with emotions which cannot
be described, Hill recognized his father from whom he had so long been
separated. His first impulse was to rush boldly in and make himself
known, but, the first transport over, his American caution prevailed,
and he slipped down another passage which commanded a view of the
staircase, and watched from his point of vantage the many persons
returning from visiting their friends. He felt relieved when he saw
Bennett take his departure, and with one bound he rushed into the middle
of the room where the old man was, and, throwing himself round his
father's neck, wept like a child. The old man did not recognize him at
first, but when he did he went into hysterics, so great was the shock
to his nervous system. Never was there such a commotion in the quiet
Nunnery, and the inmates gathered round in excited groups to listen to
Hill's story. He told them that his father had left Boston some years
before, and, becoming unable to support himself, had been placed by a
heartless elder brother in the cold confines of the Nunnery, although
the younger members of the family were both willing and anxious to
support their aged parent. There being no reason why the old man should
not leave the institution if so inclined, the Superior allowed him,
after some hesitation, to take his departure, first receiving the
grateful thanks both of himself and of his son for her kind and
fostering care. Hill left a letter for his brother, informing him that,
his father being willing, he had taken him away from the Nunnery, and
that as they evidently did not want to keep him with their families, he
was about to take him to live with _his_.

Bennett was furious when he received the letter, but, as Mrs. Hill was
now no more, and no threats or exposures of any kind could induce young
Hill and his father to separate, he allowed them to go their way in
peace.

A few years after these occurrences Mr. Hill received an appointment in
Montreal.

Bennett and he sometimes meet in the street, but give no signs of
recognition. The old man is still living, seldom going beyond the
portals of his son's house and passing most of his time in moody
meditation on the past. Let us hope that a heartfelt repentance may in
some measure atone for his past weaknesses.



CHAPTER X.


A Blighted Life.

Amongst the many orthodox business men of Montreal, none were more
highly esteemed than Mr. Rogers, Manager of the ---- Bank. He was what
is generally considered a shrewd business man, methodical and precise in
all his relations, whether commercial, domestic or ecclesiastical. I say
ecclesiastical, because the worthy gentleman was one of the pillars
of the church, having held the office of Elder for several years. Mr.
Rogers had several children, most of whom he trained in the way in which
they should go, but Jack, his eldest son, was incorrigible, and resisted
all attempts to keep him under control. On Sunday mornings the family
were usually marshalled in the dining-room, and marched off to church,
but Master Jack frequently put in an excuse,--he had a bad cold, or a
sprained ankle, or some other ailment which precluded the possibility
of his attending. No sooner were the family outside the garden gate,
however, than the poor boy with the sprained ankle would perform a _pas
seul_ on the hearthrug, or, in spite of a cold which prevented his going
out of doors, would shout "The old log cabin" with an excellent tone and
remarkable vigor of lung; then, returning to his room, he would take
a French novel from its hiding place under his pillow, and, lighting
a fragrant Havana, would devote the morning to "the improvement of his
mind," as he called it.

Mrs. Rogers employed three servants besides a coachman: a cook,
a housemaid, and a tablemaid. The latter was a young and
attractive-looking girl from Glengarry, Ontario, named Ellen MacNee, who
was about seventeen years old, and had never before been in service. For
this damsel Jack Rogers conceived an attachment, and although at
first the girl withstood his attentions, ere long she gave way to
his importunities, and for months they lived on terms of the closest
intimacy. Jack of course promised (as all men do) to marry her, and
to do him justice I must say that he fully intended to do so, but his
income as a bank clerk was only twenty dollars a month, and he knew he
had no hope of receiving any assistance from his father. So things went
on till Ellen felt she could keep her secret no longer from those around
her, and she told her mistress she was going home to visit a sick aunt,
and did not know whether she would return or not. Mrs. Rogers was very
sorry indeed to part with her (for she had ingratiated herself with all
the family, although not to the same extent), and told her if she would
undertake to return she would only fill her place temporarily with
another girl. With this understanding Ellen left her place and entered
the Female Home, where shortly afterwards her baby (a girl) was born;
she had the child baptized almost immediately, calling it Beatrice,
after her young mistress, to whom she had been much attached, although
it is doubtful if the young lady in question would, had she known it
have appreciated the honor conferred upon her.

Ellen was scarcely recovered from her illness when her brother, a
country farmer, who had by some means got wind of the state of affairs,
came to Montreal, and had his misgivings confirmed. When he learnt
the truth he was furious, and would, he vowed, shoot both her and her
betrayer; but fraternal affection was so strong within him that he
gradually became more calm, and exerted himself to make the best he
could of a bad business. He requested me to take the child and place it
in a nunnery in spite of the earnest protestations of its mother, and
persuaded the latter to return to her home in Glengarry, promising to
hide her shame from her mother and friends if she would bid farewell
forever to the child and her betrayer. He persistently refused even to
look at the baby, but, rough and uncultivated as he was, I could see a
tear glisten in his eye as his manly heart quivered with emotion.

Home the poor broken-hearted girl went, and the baby was left in my
keeping till the morrow, when, according to agreement, I was to hand it
over to the good sisters. It was destined to be otherwise, however. That
evening a gentleman called at my house; he was a bachelor, well to do in
the world, and hearing the story, which it was necessary to tell him,
in order to explain the child's presence, he asked me with pardonable
curiosity to let him see the baby. When he took her in his arms she
smiled so sweetly upon him, and crowed so joyously, that his heart was
touched, and he could not bear to think that the poor helpless babe
should be made to suffer for the sins of its parents; he asked me to let
_him_ have the child, promising that he would adopt her, and do for her
as if she were his own.

I suggested to him the scandal such a measure would give rise to, and
urged him not to place himself in such an unenviable position, but he
insisted that he was willing to let society have its fling, and that
if I would consent to the child's adoption, he would take the
responsibility attached to it.

What was I to do? The man was well off, and had conceived a fancy for
the child. As for the world's sneers, if he could afford to laugh at
them why should I refuse him the gratification of performing a noble
action? I handed the child over to his care, having first procured from
him written papers of adoption, and little Beatrice was installed in her
new home. A nurse was procured for her, and everything that money could
procure was provided for her comfort. The gossips sneered and wagged
their heads as they spoke of the "adopted" child, insinuating that there
were stronger ties than those of mere philanthropy to bind Mr. Richards
and the child together, but he, quite unconcerned, paid no attention to
their hints and innuendoes, and tried so far as lay in his power to make
the child comfortable and happy. When she attained the age of five years
he procured a governess for her, and had her instructed thoroughly in
all that go to make up a modern education as she grew older.

But a cloud soon appeared on the horizon of the child's career. Mr.
Richards became ill, and was ordered by his medical adviser to a
Southerly climate. He was obliged to sell his estate and place little
Beatrice in Mrs. Thompson's boarding school, where she continued for a
few years till the return of her adopted father. He came, it is true,
but the seeds of a fatal disease had been implanted in his system, and
had taken a deadly hold; in a few months he was no more, and as nearly
all his money had been eaten up in paying travelling and medical
expenses, poor Beatrice was left once more not only without a friend
but without a penny in the world. Mr. Richards had paid her school fees
annually in advance, and as at the time of his demise several months
of the term paid for were unexpired, Beatrice had a comfortable home
secured for her at least during that period; for the future she would
either have to perform menial services at the school, or go out in the
cold world without a friend or protector. The former was considered
by the poor girl preferable to going she knew not where, and so she
accepted the offer of a situation as housemaid, kindly proffered to her
by Mrs. Thompson _out of pure charity_ at two dollars per month less
than the previous occupant of the situation.

Poor Beatrice had a hard time of it as housemaid. Her former companions
took a fiendish delight in ordering her about till her life became
perfectly unbearable. She had but one friend to whom she could
unreservedly pour forth her troubles, her Sunday-School teacher, Miss
Flint. To this lady she gave an account of her history, so far as she
was able, and asked her for advice and assistance. Miss Flint, being
both sensible and charitably disposed, advised her to leave her present
position, having first procured a suitable one elsewhere, and she
promised to exert herself to this end.

Among the numerous acquaintances of Miss Flint was Mrs. De Beaumont, a
Southern lady of means, whose husband held a high official position in
New Orleans. Mrs. De Beaumont had, in order to avoid the yellow fever
epidemic, taken up her residence temporarily in Montreal, and was
now with her two daughters about to return to her Southern home. The
education of the latter young ladies had been somewhat neglected, and
Mrs. De Beaumont was anxious to procure as governess and travelling
companion a young lady of moderate means and unlimited ability.

Here, then, was an opening for Beatrice. On the recommendation of Miss
Flint, coupled with certificates from the various professors at Mrs.
Thompson's school, the poor girl was duly installed in an easy and, to
her, lucrative position. She was not long settled in her new home when
Mr. Hartley, brother of Mrs. De Beaumont, fell violently in love with
her, and, contrary to the wishes of his relations, insisted on paying
her open attention. The poor girl had been so long accustomed to being
buffeted and slighted in every way that her heart fairly gave way before
his passionate wooing, and, although Mrs. De Beaumont frowned on her
angrily, and the rest of the family snubbed her grievously, yet Beatrice
felt so happy in having some one in whom she could confide that she
bore all their petty annoyances with the utmost forbearance, and refused
steadily to take the slightest notice of them.

Mr. Hartley was a planter of considerable wealth. He had long lived
a bachelor's life; so long, indeed, that his friends never thought he
would marry, and each one often unconsciously counted how much of the
property would eventually become his. Mrs. De Beaumont was particularly
displeased when she heard his open avowal of his attachment for her
governess, for, though Hartley was not an old man, he being at that
time only about forty-six years old, yet she had hoped that her daughter
would have inherited a portion of his vast wealth, which was now about
to be transferred to a stranger, without friends, fortune or name. In
spite of this secret antipathy to the match, Mrs. De Beaumont openly
pretended the greatest friendship for Beatrice, for, being a woman of
the world, she saw clearly how matters would stand in a few years, and
she could not afford to break either with her brother or his intended
wife.

The wedding came off with all the aristocratic splendor of an F. F.
V. ceremonial. The dusky coachmen and footmen were resplendent with
gorgeous liveries and wedding favors, their white teeth glistening in
the sun as they grinned from ear to ear, perfectly happy and contented.
After the ceremony the newly-married pair went for a brief tour through
the Eastern States and Canada, returning to Mr. Hartley's plantation,
where Mrs. Hartley was called upon by all the leading families in the
vicinity, and took her place with as much grace as though she had
been "to the manner born." Mrs. De Beaumont greeted her sister-in-law
affectionately (at least to all outward appearances), and invited her to
visit her old home frequently; in fact all those who were aware (and who
was not) that Mr. Hartley had settled every penny of his fortune on his
wife and her prospective offspring were lavish of their attentions to
their beautiful, and now immensely wealthy, neighbor.

When her first baby, a little girl, was born, Mrs. Hartley wept bitterly
and refused (like Rachel) to be comforted. Her husband could not
understand it at all, and was greatly grieved that she should be so
down-hearted when they had both every reason, to be happy. Beatrice
besought him to forgive her weakness, and explained that it was only now
that she was a mother that she fully realized the anguish her own mother
must have suffered at parting with her, and she implored him as he loved
her to exert himself to find her mother and make her happy. Had his wife
told him to lie down whilst she drove a carriage-wheel across his neck,
Mr. Hartley would have unhesitatingly obeyed her; how readily, then,
he set about finding what most men are so glad to be without, viz., a
mother-in-law, can easily be imagined. He promised his wife that so soon
as business permitted him he would take steps to discover her mother's
whereabouts, but that night he was awakened out of a deep sleep by cries
of terror from his wife; she had had a dream, she said, that her mother
hung over a precipice, looking up to her for help, which, while she
hastened to give, she saw her mother sink into the yawning abyss,
uttering shrieks of agony. Hartley was beside himself with fright;
he thought his wife would lose her reason, and so he quieted her by
assuring her that he would write the next day to get information, acting
on which he would set out immediately on his search. In the morning he
despatched a letter to Mr. F---- in Montreal, instructing him to obtain
what information he could respecting a girl called Ellen MacNee who had
lived in former years with Mrs. Rogers; in reply he was informed that
the girl left the city, no trace being procurable. He then inserted
advertisements in several Canadian newspapers, informing the public
that if Ellen MacNee would correspond with X. Y. Z. she would hear of
something to her advantage. But in vain did the fond husband seek the
mother of his blue-eyed darling, now grown pale with deferred hope and
anxious care, and when the latter proposed that they should personally
go to Montreal in search of their missing relative he readily
acquiesced, feeling assured that, even if they were unsuccessful, the
excitement of travel and occupation would restore the bloom to his
wife's cheeks and preserve that health which, was now apparently on the
wane.

In a few days they had made preparations for an extended tour, and ere
a week had passed they were snugly quartered in the St. Lawrence Hall,
Montreal. The day after their arrival they called on me to know if I
could assist them in their search, bidding me spare no expense in order
to effect the desired object. I promised them every assistance in my
power, and at once placed myself in communication with all those whom
I had known to have any dealings with Beatrice's unfortunate mother. It
was truly painful to see the anxious face of the young woman as she came
daily to me to enquire if I had heard any news, and when I showed her
a letter from Mr. MacNee, her mother's eldest brother, stating that
his sister had gone to New York as nurse, she immediately persuaded her
husband to give chase. Their efforts were in vain, however. The girl, it
was true, had taken service in New York, but had subsequently left there
for her home in Glengarry, and had never been seen since either there or
in New York. Detectives having again been employed to assist in tracing
her movements, it was discovered that she had returned by rail to
Montreal _en route_ to Glengarry, but here all traces vanished, and the
supposition was either that she had committed suicide, or met with some
accidental death. Beatrice would have it, however, that she was still
alive, and would leave no stone unturned to find her. It was suggested
that New York should again be visited, as the probability was that she
returned there after her trip to Montreal; various other plans were
thought of, and some of them, doubtless, would have been acted upon, had
not a new light shone in upon the scene.

At the outset of the proceedings I had communicated with the principals
of the various Houses of Refuge in this city, and, although the
authorities had done their utmost to facilitate our search, so far we
had failed to advance in any way. At this time, however, I received a
communication from the Bishop, informing me that he thought he could
help us, and when I called on him, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Hartley,
he told us that he had been visited by a hardened creature, whose name
did not concern us, and who, in anticipation of a reward which she had
heard was offered for the recovery of the recluse, disclosed the fact
that she had, under an assumed name, become a sister of charity, and
was at present an inmate in a convent in ---- street, where we would,
doubtless, be able to recognize her.

Beatrice became quite excited at the news, and insisted on rushing off
at once, but her strength failed her, and she fell fainting on a sofa.
By great persuasion she allowed us to drive her home on the promise
that she would be allowed to accompany us on the morrow. The next day
we entered a carriage and drove to the Convent; we agreed that Beatrice
should go alone to meet her mother while we remained downstairs. Running
into the room where her mother was, the poor girl fell on her neck and
covered her with kisses. But no responsive greeting met the impetuous
child, the woman stared at her with a wild hazy stare as if to inquire,
Who are you? What do you mean by these extravagant caresses?

But if she failed to recognize her child she did not fail to recognize
me, and by some strange association of ideas she seemed to wander in
thought back to her past life, and the hot blood mounted to her temples.
When she became calmer I explained to her how we had come there, and
the object of our visit. She was touched at the proofs of her daughter's
affection, and the hot tears rolled rapidly down her furrowed cheek,
but she steadily refused to leave the institution. In vain the poor girl
pleaded, and Mr. Hartley and myself joined in our entreaties that she
would accompany her daughter and her husband. Finding all our arguments
of no avail I advised Mr. Hartley to let the poor creature have her way
till the reality of the situation had come home to her, recommending him
to allow his wife to call frequently at the Convent to see her mother.
This advice the indulgent husband acted upon, and day after day Beatrice
would go and sit for hours conversing with her parent, sometimes
obtaining permission to take her for a walk or a drive, and secretly
longing, though never expressing it in words, that her mother would
accompany her back to her home in the South.

So far the excitement had kept Mrs. Hartley up, but after a time a
reaction set in which culminated in a wasting fever, and prostrated the
poor creature on a bed of sickness. This, though apparently disastrous,
ended happily for all. Beatrice's mother, so long as _she_ was the
object of pity, shrank from all communication with her rich relatives,
but now that her child was in need of assistance, she flew to her with a
mother's impetuosity, and anxiously watched by her couch day and night,
while the poor thing tossed and raved in delirious paroxysms. Mr.
Hartley summoned Dr. Hickson to his wife's bedside, but that astute
practitioner wisely foretold that the magnetic influence of her mother's
presence would do more for his patient than any drugs or medicines, and,
accordingly, he contented himself by prescribing a sleeping-draught,
leaving other agencies to do their work.

In a couple of weeks Mrs. Hartley rallied, and ere long she became
convalescent, and even cheerful. She used to chat with her mother for
hours together, and the fourth week after the latter's arrival she was
able to go out for a drive accompanied by her and the baby, who had
accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Hartley in all their travels. The little girl
and her grandmother soon became great friends, and when, Beatrice being
strong enough, her mother would have returned to her convent life,
the baby's smiling face did what all persuasion had failed to do, and
bursting into tears, the aged penitent folded the darling to her breast
and declared that she would never part from it again. Beatrice's joy
knew no bounds; and as for Mr. Hartley, he was perfectly satisfied to
know that his wife was happy. In a few days they made preparations for a
journey to the South, and ere long Mrs. Hartley had the satisfaction
of seeing her mother snugly ensconced at her own fireside, living as it
were over again, and enjoying in the care of her daughter's child,
the maternal pleasure which had hitherto been denied her. Ere leaving
Montreal Mr. Hartley, at his wife's request, erected a handsome monument
in Mount Royal Cemetery to the memory of the humane man, who, regardless
of the jeers and scoffing of gossiping scandal mongers, had braved
public opinion, and saved to the world a good wife, an affectionate
daughter and a loving and tenderhearted mother.

During all this time, it may be asked, what had become of Jack Rogers,
one of the principals in my narrative?

Jack was fairly wild at the thought of his sweetheart going into an
institution. He would have married her on the spot and braved all his
father's anger. But the girl showed equal self-denial, and was much more
sensible; she saw that, by consenting to marry a penniless gentleman,
she would certainly injure him, without in any way benefiting herself.
She knew his father sufficiently well to feel sure that, were he aware
of his son's relations with her, not one but _both of them_, would be
ignominiously turned out of doors. So, consoling her paramour with this
questionable bit of comfort, she tore herself away, saying coolly that
he would soon forget and marry some one in his own station in life. But,
though she nerved herself to speak in this strain before him, when alone
she broke down entirely, and sobbed till her heart nearly broke, for the
poor girl loved him dearly, and, poor though he was, would have married
him and worked for him, if necessary. She saw, however, that his
prospects would be utterly blasted were he to disclose his position
to his father; and she unselfishly took on herself _the whole_ of the
punishment for a sin of which she was scarcely guilty, or, at any rate,
less highly culpable than he.

Jack would fain have put a pistol ball through his head, and doubtless
would have done so had the pistol been handy; but his pistols, like
everything else he possessed, were out of order, and were at the moment
in Mr. Costen's hands, where they lay in a disintegrated condition till
the young gentleman's blood had got some degrees cooler. Still, he could
not help thinking how his folly and thoughtlessness had ruined the hopes
of a poor innocent girl, and he longed for some opportunity for going
abroad, or participating in some excitement to enable him to muse less
moodily on the past.

The American civil war was at this time in full blast, and large
bounties were offered for volunteers. An American agent, meeting Jack
Rogers in a saloon, which the latter frequented, offered him two
hundred dollars and an outfit if he would go as a substitute for a young
gentleman in New York. This offer Jack readily accepted, and within
a short time found himself _en route_ to Richmond to join the Federal
Army. He was not long in the service when his superior intelligence
and daring exploits made him conspicuous among his fellows, and he was
promoted from one grade to another till he was placed in command of
his company. This was a position Jack was eminently fitted for, and his
reckless bravery was talked of far and wide throughout the army.

For a long time, in spite of his foolhardiness, Jack remained without a
scratch, save a slight wound from a rifle ball at Gettysburg, where
he made himself particularly conspicuous. Just before the close of the
great struggle, however, he was sent in command of a foraging party
consisting of about forty-five rank and file and the usual complement
of officers. Their path lay through a deed ravine in which high wooded
cliffs looked down on each side. These cliffs were in possession of a
Louisiana regiment, who were stationed there in the hope of cutting
off supplies from the Northerners, and, just as Captain Rogers with his
handful of men, entered the ravine a murderous fire was opened on them
from both sides. Rogers ordered his men to reply, but, as the ravine
afforded little or no cover, they were finally obliged to make their
way as quickly as possible to the end of the pass and fight their way
through. They found their way completely blocked by a force of two
or three hundred rebels, but, as to return would have proved equally
disastrous, there was nothing for it but to surrender, or cut a path
for themselves through, the enemy. Bracing themselves for a terrible
struggle, Rogers and his little band advanced to within a few yards of
the open, where their foes, with rifles loaded and bayonets fixed, stood
demanding their surrender. Captain Jack ordered his men to fire at a
given signal, and then to advance; and, firing his own pistols by way
of signal, he dashed through the smoke, followed by his daring band,
cutting and slashing right and left.

But courage will not enable men to do impossibilities. Out of the
handful who entered the ravine but three managed to cut their way
through the opposing forces, and these were all more or less injured by
rifle balls or sabre cuts. Poor Rogers fought like a lion; but, being
the centre of attraction on account of his uniform, he had his hands
more than full, and though he pistoled two men and knocked an officer
who would have seized him senseless with the butt-end of his empty
revolver, he was finally brought off his horse with a pistol shot, and
captured, more dead than alive, by the enemy.

The officer in charge was so struck with the bravery of the poor fellow
that he had endeavored to take him prisoner, and had stayed some of
his men who had essayed to run the fiery captain through with their
bayonets; his impetuous charge, however, led them in self defence to
disable him, and the young lieutenant who shot him had no alternative
except to be brained by a blow from Jack's pistol. The excitement over,
however, the colonel of the victorious corps sent a detachment in search
of the wounded of both sides, and ordered a litter to be prepared for
Captain Rogers' removal to his own quarters. Poor Jack was severely
injured. The ball had entered his left arm close to the shoulder, and
was not necessarily fatal; but his horse had fallen on him and bruised
him so that he could scarcely breathe. The march to the camp was about
two miles, and, although the men moved as gently as possible, yet
Captain Rogers suffered agony as he felt every motion. Arrived at
Colonel De Beaumont's quarters (for the brave commander was the husband
of Mrs. De Beaumont) a surgeon was sent for and the invalid's wounds
were attended to. Although a prisoner of war Captain Rogers' received
every attention from Colonel De Beaumont and the officers under his
command, and when, the regiment being ordered to head-quarters, the
Colonel was obliged to send Rogers to prison with the rest of his
captured force, the parting was more like that of two brothers than that
of a victor and his fallen foe.

After the close of the war, which, event took place shortly after these
occurrences, Colonel De Beaumont, disgusted and sick at heart,
returned to New Orleans. He was obliged to bow to fortune, and to swear
allegiance once more to what he considered the oppressor. Almost his
first thought after his return was to enquire concerning the Federal
troops who had been captured by his men, especially the gallant Rogers,
for whom he had formed a more than passing attachment. He learned that
of those who had been placed in confinement, some had died of their
wounds, others, as soon as the proclamation of Northern supremacy gave
them their liberty, had returned to their homes, but that the Captain,
having contracted a dangerous fever, had been unable to accompany them.
De Beaumont lost no time in seeking out the poor soldier's quarters, and
was grieved to find him barely alive, he having scarcely recovered from
the fever, besides suffering from partially healed and badly-dressed
wounds. The Colonel persuaded him, so soon as he could move, to
accompany him to his own house, where he would receive proper attention,
and, in a short time, the sufferer was installed in De Beaumont's
comfortable house, the kind hostess doing all in her power to alleviate
his sufferings.

It was about this time that Mrs. Hartley, accompanied by her mother,
had returned to her husband's residence, and one day as she was visiting
Mrs. De Beaumont she learnt the story concerning the wounded officer,
who, though in the service of the North, was compassionately treated
by the whole household, having made friends of them all by his cheerful
uncomplaining disposition, and his grateful acknowledgment of even the
slightest service. While recounting the story to her husband and mother
at dinner, the latter grasped the table convulsively with both her
hands, and breathlessly demanded of her daughter all the particulars;
with a wild exclamation of terror, she rushed up to her room, hastily
followed by her bewildered daughter. The latter found her mother in the
act of dressing hurriedly, and on enquiring for an explanation the poor
woman fell on her child's neck, and with bitter tears explained that
it was _her own father_ who lay so near them at death's door, and that,
whatever it might cost, she would rush to his side.

Poor Mrs. Hartley was sadly shaken at these tidings. She explained all
the circumstances to her devoted husband, and took his advice. Hartley
recommended his wife to let her mother have her own way, and promised
that presently he would accompany his wife to De Beaumont's house to
visit the invalid.

The rest of the story is soon told. The sad meeting of poor Rogers
with the mother of his child, who stayed by his side night and day, the
bitter tears of Mrs. Hartley as she beheld her father for the first and
last time; the mutual expression of love and forgiveness ere the poor
invalid breathed his last, beloved and forgiven by those on whom he had
thoughtlessly entailed much sorrow and suffering.



CHAPTER XI.


The Mother-in-Law.

John Wilkie was the son of Scotch parents residing in Toronto, Ontario.
He was possessed of considerable literary ability, and when a lad had
entered Toronto University with the intention of pursuing a professional
career; but his father shrewdly reasoned that, although fame might be
acquired more readily by clergymen and lawyers, money was an important
consideration, and might be acquired with, comparative ease in a well
managed business. He accordingly placed his son in the wholesale house
of Messrs. Campbell & Castle, and in due course of time the lad secured
an interest in the business.

The young man was not long a member of the firm when he became enamoured
of a young lady named Collins, whom he had met at the house of a mutual
friend. For a longtime he paid attention to this young lady, taking her
to balls, concerts and operas, and finally he proposed for her hand and
was accepted.

Miss Collins was scarcely what one would call a beautiful girl, yet
there was an attractiveness of manner peculiar to her which caused her
to be much, sought after and admired in social circles, and many were
the sad and heavy when it became known that she was about to marry John
Wilkie.

At this juncture Wilkie the elder was carried off with an attack of
pneumonia, leaving John, his only son, heir to his house and property.
This occurrence of course caused the wedding to be deferred for a time,
and the bridegroom elect went into deep mourning; in a few months,
however, he doffed his sable garments, and, having caused the family
mansion to be refurnished and renovated, began to make preparations for
his wedding.

The affair came off with great _éclat_, the bride being driven home from
church behind four dapple-grey horses, several carriages following with
bridesmaids, groomsmen, and invited guests, among the latter being many
rejected suitors, who took a kind of melancholy pleasure in seeing the
matter through. Mrs. Wilkie was in excellent spirits, as was also the
dowager, her mother-in-law, and after the _déjeuner_ they wept together
and kissed each other at parting as if they were blood relations. Mrs.
Collins was not so much affected; she was so much entranced at the rich
prize she had secured for her daughter that grief was altogether out of
the question.

What a sweet time is that when two loving hearts, throwing commercial
and domestic cares to the winds, devote themselves to the agreeable
pursuit of entertaining each other. Shutting their eyes and ears to
the outer world they fancy that the sun, moon and stars shine for them,
alone; that nature's smiles are specially prepared for them; that the
birds carol bridal chansonettes only for their benefit; and that the
whole world is contained in the small area which immediately surrounds
them.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilkie had a long, pleasant honeymoon. They spent a couple
of weeks at Niagara Falls; then, having visited Boston and New York,
they spent a few weeks at Saratoga, returning to Toronto about six
weeks from their wedding-day. Everything had been prepared for their
reception, and Mrs. Wilkie, senior, sat in state to welcome them to
a cosy meal which had been prepared in the dining-room. Having eaten
sparingly, Mrs. Wilkie retired to her room, for she was fatigued by
travel, and John with his mother went on a tour of inspection over the
house.

It must be hard for a mother to give up the care of her son to a
stranger; to think that he whom she has nursed so tenderly, and whose
every want was so long supplied by her gentle hand should be left to the
care of another must be fraught with pain and bitter recollections. Mrs.
Wilkie sighed deeply as she showed her son the many improvements which
had been made in the old house, and thought that her reign was at an end
and that a new Caesar had taken the reins of government. The Lord of the
Manor failed to observe the trepidation with which his mother handed
him the keys, and showed him the various details connected with the
management of the house, and with a cool "good night, mother," he
retired to rest, at peace with his mother, himself, and the world.

For several months things went smoothly enough with the parties to
my narrative. The dowager accepted her position, though, it must be
confessed, with a bad grace, and the new mistress gave a life to the
place to which it was unaccustomed. At length Mrs. Wilkie gave birth
to a son, and great were the rejoicing and festivities. The dowager was
promoted to the title of grandmamma, John boasted the proud title of
father, and the mother's joy knew no bounds. The child was in due time
christened with appropriate solemnity, and in a few months after his
birth he became a very important member of the Wilkie family.

Mr. Wilkie wanted the boy called William after his late father, but
Mrs. Wilkie would not have what she was pleased to term a plebeian
designation, and insisted on calling him Alexander. The dowager opposed
this with all her might, but "her usefulness was gone," and her feeble
remonstrances were of little or no avail. This slight sank deep into
her heart, and she waited, calmly and patiently, for an opportunity of
retaliating on her daughter-in-law.

In due time the opportunity presented itself. Mrs. Wilkie was in
the habit of going to the skating-rink accompanied by some of her
fashionable acquaintances; her husband did not care for skating, but was
proud to hear his wife's graceful performances eulogized. The dowager,
however, had no heart for "the grape-vine" and other foolish devices;
she thought it high time for her daughter-in-law to take on herself the
serious duties of matrimonial life, and deprecated the fondness of the
lady in question for rinks, balls, and festivities.

One night Mrs. Wilkie was invited to a skating-party. Her husband,
having some letters to write, declined to go, and she went in company
with a Mr. Smithers, an old acquaintance of hers, and one of the finest
fancy skaters in Toronto. During her daughter-in-law's absence at the
rink, Mrs. Wilkie the elder took upon herself to lecture her son on
his wife's giddy behaviour, and so worked upon his feelings that he
regularly gave way, and allowed his mother to remain mistress of the
position.

When the fashionable Mrs. Wilkie returned to her abode late in the
evening she found the door closed on her, repeated pulls at the
door-bell eliciting no response. With her skates the lady then hammered
violently on the door, waking the echoes of the quiet street, and
finally, in her frenzy, she smashed every window within reach, and
departed to her mother's residence.

Mrs. Collins was very much surprised to receive a visit from her
daughter at such an unseasonable hour, and when she was made aware
of the cause she became proportionately indignant. She suggested
the propriety of taking legal proceedings for the restitution of
her daughter's rights, but the latter would not listen to any such
suggestion, and vowed she would never live with Wilkie or his wretch of
a mother again.

Mrs. Collins expected daily to receive a message from Mr. Wilkie,
requesting his wife to return to him, but he, being completely under the
influence of his mother, failed to do anything of the kind, imagining
that his wife would come as a suppliant to him. In this he reckoned
without his host, for Mrs. Wilkie was as proud as Lucifer, and would not
bend her haughty head to be made Empress of Canada. One thing, however,
caused her great uneasiness: her child, Alexander, was all the world to
her, and she set her wits to work to devise some means of obtaining him.

Without recourse to unpleasant legal proceedings or equally unpleasant
negotiations with her mother-in-law, Mrs. Wilkie could not hit on any
plan by which she could obtain the control of her child's nurture and
education. At length she resolved on the simple and practical plan of
taking forcible possession of the boy. Once resolved, she speedily put
her plans in execution.

The child's nurse was in the habit of driving him in a baby carriage to
the Queen's Park for an airing, and one afternoon the mother lay in wait
for the appearance of the infantile equipage. She was afraid to approach
the servant with a bribe, as, in the event of her refusal, the Wilkies
would be placed on their guard, and would set a strict watch over all
the child's movements. She accordingly sat down at a distance, closely
veiled, and waited till an opportunity presented itself.

She did not have long to wait. The nurse on entering the park fell
in with a tribe of professional acquaintances, one of whom, drawing a
love-letter which she had received from her pocket, commenced to read it
for the edification of her companions. Not content with listening to the
gushing effusion, the auditors crowded around the proud recipient of the
epistle, reading with eager eyes such portions as they could see over
the shoulder of their friend. While the representative of the dowager
was busily engaged in scanning the amorous lines penned by the lovesick
swain (the child left to her care being at some distance in his
carriage, sleeping under the shade of some trees), Mrs. Wilkie
cautiously approached, and, lifting the unconscious child with the
tenderness peculiar to mothers, walked quietly and swiftly away towards
the gate, when, coolly hailing a passing cab, she drove to her mother's
house, proudly depositing her baby in a richly adorned cradle which had
been purposely prepared for his reception.

It was a long time before the nurse missed the boy; in fact, not till
she prepared to start for home did she give him a thought, except
to congratulate herself that he slept so long and gave her so little
trouble. When she at length turned towards the place where she had
left the carriage and learned the true state of affairs her face grew
deadly-pale, and, beckoning her companions towards her, she pointed
to the carriage and uttered several piercing shrieks. Many were the
suggestions as to what had become of the boy. Some thought he might have
got out of the carriage alone and fallen into the pond, but, as he could
not yet walk, this was highly improbable, another suggested that he had
been stolen by gypsies, but could not say that she had ever heard of
gypsies in connection with the Queen's Park. Many other theories,
some wild, a few reasonable, were advanced, but yet no clue to the
whereabouts of the child could be discovered, nor could any light be
thrown upon the mystery.

The poor nurse was in a terrible state of mind. She had in her fancy
a picture of the baby's grandmother threatening to tear her limb from
limb, while the frantic father went for the police; but return she must,
and so, with a different step from that with which she entered the park,
she set out for home, arriving there just as the bell rang for dinner.

The old lady was just commencing to lecture her for keeping the child
out in the evening air, when she saw, from the expression of the girl's
face, that something unusual had occurred, and rushing out, she threw up
her hands in astonishment at the empty perambulator, giving a mute
look of inquiry which spoke volumes. In a moment Mr. Wilkie joined
the throng, just as the frightened domestic sobbed out, as well as she
could, an account of the child's disappearance. He was about to rush at
once to the police office, but the old lady, shoving him aside, hastily
put on her bonnet and shawl, and, ordering the girl to summon a cab,
peremptorily forbade Mr. Wilkie to leave the house till she had made a
reconnaissance of the quarters of her daughter-in-law.

Mrs. Collins lived at the extreme west end of King street, and, as Mr.
Wilkie's residence was in the North-East, in the neighborhood of the
Horticultural Garden, it was some time before the wily mother-in-law
approached her base of operations; she accordingly leaned back in
the carriage, and, closing her eyes, meditated on her plan of action.
Bidding the coachman pull up at the corner of Brock street,
she alighted, and proceeded on foot towards the house: it was a
semi-detached cottage, with a small garden in front, the dwelling being
only a few feet from the street. Inside all was, apparently, quiet as
usual, but Mrs. Wilkie thought she heard a soft, measured song, as
if some one were singing a child to sleep. Approaching the window she
caught a glimpse of her daughter-in-law pacing the room to and fro with
the child pillowed in her arms; so, quickly receding into the darkness,
she made her way back to the carriage, satisfied that her calculations,
in one particular at least, had been correct.

Entering the cab, she bade the driver return with all speed to Mr.
Wilkie's house, setting her mind, during her transit on the frustration
of the hopes of her daughter-in-law, against whom she in her heart
registered a vow of vengeance. She found her son pacing the dining-room
like a madman, and she at once gave him all the particulars concerning
her reconnaissance, adding, at the same time, that he must take legal
measures to obtain possession of his child, no matter what the cost. In
spite, however, of his mother's importunity, Wilkie steadily refused to
give the matter publicity by taking legal proceedings, so the old lady
was obliged to content herself with concocting plans for retaking the
child from the hands of the enemy.

Mrs. Wilkie watched long for an opportunity, and at last she was
successful. She found out where her daughter-in-law went to church, and
one Sunday having learnt from one of her emissaries that both of the
ladies had gone to church together, leaving the child in charge of
the maid-of-all-work, she hurriedly set out for the house, and boldly
ringing the door-bell inquired for Mrs. Wilkie. On being told that the
lady was at church and would not return for some time she requested
permission to sit down and wait, as she was fatigued with her long
journey. Entering the drawing-room, she sank on one of the lounges and
appeared to faint. The poor domestic did not know what to do, but ran
wildly to and fro exclaiming, "Och, wirrasthru, what'll I do at all at
all'" The invalid gradually came round, and gasped out, "Dr. Metcalfe,
go for Dr. Metcalfe!" This gentleman lived a few blocks distant, and the
girl at once rushed off, without waiting even to put her bonnet on.

Quick as thought Mrs. Wilkie ascended the staircase to where her infant
grand-child lay wrapped in slumber: hastily wrapping him in a shawl she
descended to the door, and coolly hailing a passing cab was soon far
from the scene which had so wrought upon the feelings of poor Bridget
Moriarty.

When Bridget arrived with the doctor she found that the old lady had
disappeared leaving, however, a card for Mrs. Wilkie. On the latter's
return Bridget told her the whole story, adding that she supposed the
old lady had come to herself and got tired waiting; in time, however,
the baby was missed, and that threw a new light on affairs. Mrs. Wilkie
was frantic; she denounced Bridget as a good-for-nothing, refused to
sit down to dinner, and set off with her mother in the direction of Mrs.
Wilkie's house.

This time, however, the dowager was on her guard. The child was
carefully looked after, being under the care of a faithful ally of the
old lady, whose instructions were never to leave him for a moment out of
her sight. Mrs. Wilkie and her mother might walk up and down and look
at the lighted windows; they might also watch at a distance the youthful
hope of the house of Wilkie as he took his daily airing in the park,
but the trick once tried could not be repeated, and the fond mother (for
whatever her faults were she loved her child) was obliged to pine in
weary loneliness.

During all these sieges and reprisals the little fellow waxed strong and
healthy, in sublime unconsciousness of the importance attached to the
possession of his person: he was by no means neglected, the only risk he
ran was that of being hugged to death, as each party, more through joy
at the success of its schemes than from love of the youth in question,
caressed him lavishly if not fondly.

Some months after these occurrences Mr. Wilkie removed to Montreal,
where he soon became permanently established, and, as he was always fond
of politics, he was in a short time recognised as one of the leaders of
the liberal party. When the reaction consequent on the famous "Pacific
Scandal" set in, Mr. Wilkie, M. P., took his seat for K----, a small
town below Montreal, rising in Parliament, as he did everywhere else
by his ability, far above the common level. His son was placed at the
Montreal High school, and gave promise of becoming in time even more
distinguished than his father.

They had not been long resident in Montreal before the poor old dowager
was seized with acute rheumatism, to which she finally succumbed,
and Mr. Wilkie was obliged to engage a housekeeper to look after his
household affairs and his son's education. It was a sad time for poor
little Aleck; his grandmother fairly doted on him, and indulged his
every whim, but Mrs. Riddell, the new housekeeper, cared not whether he
was happy or miserable so long as she drew her monthly pay.

All this time Mrs. Wilkie had been living with her mother in Toronto,
and, as soon as she heard of her mother-in-law's death, she persuaded
her mother to remove to Montreal, so that she might secretly keep watch
over her boy, whom she now loved, if possible, more than ever. Assuming
the name of Mrs. Johnson, she took lodgings in a house nearly opposite
the residence of Mr. Wilkie, and thus was enabled to observe closely
all the proceedings of his household; she longed to throw herself at
her husband's feet and implore his forgiveness, but her proud spirit
rebelled against such an act, and she sat at her window day after day in
moody silence watching her darling boy going and returning from school.

Shortly after his wife's arrival in Montreal, Mr. Wilkie was summoned to
England on business of importance, a fact with which Mrs. Wilkie
became easily acquainted through the _Gazette_, which heralded all his
movements, the fond mother now became more anxious than ever about
her boy, and indeed not without reason, for, being monarch of all she
surveyed, the easy-going housekeeper laid herself out for "a good time,"
and, although in her way she was kind enough to the child, she left
him to take care of himself as well as he could, being content if she
prepared a bed for him to sleep in, and ordered his three meals a day
with unfailing regularity. The house Mr. Wilkie lived in was situated
in one of the newest and most fashionable localities, having what are
generally designated "modern improvements," and one of these latter so
improved the internal arrangements of Master Aleck, that he was soon
confined to bed with enteric fever. Mrs. Johnson, missing the boy from
the street, called to enquire after him, and had her fears confirmed by
the housekeeper, who said she did not know what to do for his father was
away, and she had never in her life nursed a fevered patient. The
wily mother seized the opportunity with avidity, and with unblushing
effrontery perpetrated the atrocious falsehood that she was a
professional nurse of large experience, and that such an interest did
she feel in the little fellow that she would if permitted undertake
to nurse him free of charge. Mrs. Riddell was delighted, and at her
neighbor's suggestion sent for Dr. Brownie, who had, she said great
experience in such cases. A cablegram was despatched to Mr. Wilkie,
and everything that science could devise was done for the poor little
sufferer. For many days he seemed to get worse and worse and his devoted
mother was nearly worn out as she sat up night after night wiping his
fevered brow, or moistening his parched lips, at length the crisis came,
and the doctor pronounced him on the way to recovery, adding that the
slightest neglect on the part of those who tended him would permit
a relapse, which would in all probability prove fatal. In this case,
however, the latter caution was altogether unnecessary, what Mrs.
Johnson lacked in experience she more than made up for in care and
solicitude, and, as every direction of the physician was carried out
to the letter, the little fellow began perceptibly to mend before the
telegram came announcing Mr. Wilkie's arrival in Quebec. On the receipt
of the missive Mrs. Johnson made preparations for her departure, saying
that her services were now scarcely needed, and that she needed rest;
Mrs. Riddell at first tried hard to induce her to remain, but when she
looked at the pale thin face, and thought how many weary nights the lady
had voluntarily sat up with the raving child, she ceased to urge the
request, and at once set out for a mercenary to replace her.

What a difference there is between him who enters on a labor of love
and the hireling who works for pay! In this case, then, it may easily be
supposed with a mother's ardent affection on the one hand, how different
was the cold professional service rendered by the nurse who replaced
Mrs. Johnson: although kind and attentive, she had not the same soothing
power, nor could she sing the sweet lullaby which so often in his
fevered moments had calmed poor little Aleck's soul, and the little
fellow became at once very low indeed. At this juncture his father
arrived, and when he saw his boy he was completely overcome; he
learned from the housekeeper all the particulars of the kind neighbor's
attention, and resolved to go personally to her residence and implore
her not to desert his boy till he was out of all danger. Waiting only to
partake of a morsel of food, he set out for the house indicated by his
housekeeper, and inquired for Mrs. Johnson. The girl who opened the door
told him that Mrs. Johnson had been out nursing a sick child for several
nights, and had just fallen into a deep sleep, the first she had had
for days, and urged him to call round again in the afternoon, when her
mistress would probably be able to see him. In the afternoon he returned
in great haste, saying that he must see Mrs. Johnson at all hazards,
that his boy was worse, and raved incessantly for her. While he was
speaking the lady he inquired for suddenly came down stairs, and as
their eyes met both uttered an exclamation of surprise. Forgetting
everything in her anxiety for her boy's safety the poor mother's face
became suffused with tears as she anxiously cried with bated breath, "Is
he dead?" "No; thanks be to God and his mother's care he still lives,
but you must not let him die now."

The rest of the story is soon told; the pride of both husband and wife
was humbled by adversity, and in their heavy affliction each was made
to feel what a strength and comfort it was to have a companion who could
sympathize not only with the joys but with the sorrows of the other. The
boy was several weeks before he was able to leave his room, during which
time his mother told him the history of her troubles, and recounted
how miserable she felt without him and his father, all of which was
of course retailed to the latter gentleman, and effectually healed the
breach between the man and his wife. The dowager's name was for obvious
reasons never mentioned by either Mr. or Mrs. Wilkie, and as for the
youthful hope of the house, his memory was so elastic that he never even
thought about the old lady.

Mrs. Riddell was astonished when she became acquainted with the true
relations of the nurse and her patient, but, having become quite
enamoured of the former (who by-the-by was now become both a discreet
and amiable matron), she readily fell into a subordinate position in the
household, taking her orders quite gladly, and having a special care for
little Aleck. Mrs. Wilkie has now an assortment of boys and girls, Aleck
being entered as a law student at McGill University and the others
being still at school; she seldom thinks of the past, preferring to
look forward to a bright and happy future. Still at times her mind will
revert to scenes of yore, and she shudders as she thinks of the bitter
experiences she has had, attributing most if not all of them, rightly or
wrongly, to her mother-in-law.



CHAPTER XII.


A Deserted Wife, or Model Woman

One hot summer's day I received a visit from a young and beautiful
woman attired in fashionable costume. She told me she was desirous of
obtaining accommodation for a couple of months as her husband was in
England and the time of her accouchement was at hand. She was the bearer
of a letter which ran as follows--

   LONDON, England, August 6 18--

  _To whoever is with my
  precious wife in her hour of trial_:

  MY DEAR MADAM--I cannot refrain, as the husband of
  the most lovable wife on earth from expressing my ardent
  wish and prayer that all may be well and that you will
  remind her that I am most tenderly loving and thinking
  of her and shall pray hourly for her, but whatever be the
  issue, let all be done for her happiness and comfort.

  I will part with all I have rather than that she or her
  infant shall want anything. Oh how I wish I were near
  to love and comfort her. If her dear infant is spared all
  well and boy or girl I shall be quite as pleased if my idol
  be well. _Let all give way_ if need be for my precious
  wife's sake, and on no account let her life be endangered,
  even for the sake of the child, if such crisis should occur,
  which Heaven forbid.

  I can say no more, but I wish I could enclose my hand
  and heart if I could comfort your patient. Of course I
  shall be terribly anxious to know that all is well; will you
  kindly have a postal card ready just to say "all is well" if
  so it be; never mind more till my poor wife can put her
  own name to a letter.

  God reward you for an act that I know the angels envy
  you, for your charge is a "friend of Jesus," and my only
  friend on earth.

   Yours in intensity of anxious interest,
   P. MERRICK.


   My address is
   Sunny Hill Avenue,
   London, E.

Mrs. Merrick explained to me that her husband was a member of a wealthy
English firm doing business in Montreal, and that he was at that time
obliged to be in London on business, but would soon return, when she
purposed setting up an establishment of her own. Her father and mother
(both Scottish Canadians) had been dead many years, and she had been
educated in a boarding school in Ottawa where she had first met Mr.
Merrick.

Within a few days the lady became an inmate of my house, and in course
of time became the mother of a beautiful little boy, news of which
was at once despatched to London. For three weeks Mrs. Merrick waited
patiently for a reply, and after that time, receiving none, she became
uneasy, and wrote a long letter to her husband, beseeching him to send
her an answer immediately, but neither to this letter did she obtain any
response and days became weeks and the weeks began to spread themselves
into months and yet not a line or even a word could be obtained to
indicate the whereabouts of Mr. Merrick or whether he was alive or dead.
At last the terrible truth began to dawn on the poor creature that
she had been basely deserted by him who was sworn to be her friend and
protector and she became almost demented, she tried to account for his
silence in many ways but her intellectual acumen as too great and her
reasoning always brought her to the one sad conclusion. However, as
nothing better could be done the spirited creature made up her mind to
earn her own living and that of her child, and setting her wits to work
she soon obtained a situation as governess at the house of Mr. Mullaly,
a retired merchant of considerable means whose wife and daughters were
desirous of obtaining an entree into polite society. Placing her boy
out to nurse, she set out for her new home, and soon began to feel the
blessedness of working for her own living.

But her happiness was not unmixed with pain. The Mullaly girls somehow
or another heard that Miss Caldwell (she had given her maiden name) was
the mother of a little child, and, although she admitted the fact
and recounted to them her whole history, they gave no credence to her
assertions, but began to treat her with the greatest contempt making her
life miserable. The poor woman would fain have left her situation, but
she recollected that it would be difficult to obtain another without
referring to Mrs. Mullaly who would be sure to tell the whole story with
several embellishments. On the whole she thought she had better remain
where she was for a time, hoping that, as years went by, and the girls
acquired more judgment and common sense, they would treat her with
greater fairness. Accordingly she bore all the taunts of the young
ladies with great meekness and patience, and made herself so agreeable
and useful that, although they never could make up their minds to
believe her story or to treat her as one of the family--the Mullalys
came to regard Miss Caldwell as indispensable to their existence, and
when Miss Mullaly the elder got married she took Miss Caldwell with her
in the capacity of housekeeper the young sisters no longer requiring her
in her capacity as governess, which situation she, however, did not long
keep as the remuneration would not enable her to educate her boy as she
desired. He was a fair-haired, bright little fellow, and the most loving
little creature on earth. She consulted with me what best could be done
to earn a larger salary. I advised her to become a professional nurse
though hard she would think it at first, when once accustomed to its
little drudgeries she would find it a noble calling, with God's blessing
attached to it. She consented, and I trained her in my hospital, she
became in a very short time one of my most proficient nurses. From that
time she had gained the battle, for, as soon as some of our medical men
got acquainted with her, they gave her employment at the most serious of
their cases, till at last it became very hard for me to procure her
for some of my own patients, and through her abilities, patience, and
refined feelings she gained a great many sincere friends. One of her
patients, an old lady, left at her death $200 to her kind nurse, and
this enabled poor Mrs. Merrick to give her boy that education which she
had so long craved for him.

In the meanwhile Willie Merrick was placed at school at Lennoxville,
where he evinced great talent. At twelve years of age he was noted as
the finest classical scholar in the school, and his mother was induced
to place him in training, with a view to his matriculating at the
University of Bishop's College. The fond mother lived only for her son,
so she placed him under the care of a private tutor, at whose hands
he made such progress that at the early age of fifteen he entered the
University. Here he showed himself at once to be made of no ordinary
metal, and he became quite a favorite with the Principal and professors,
all of whom were ever ready to lend him a helping hand. His mother had
intended him for the church but Willie did not (so he said) feel "good
enough" for that high and holy calling, so he entered the Faculty of
Law, determined, if possible, to distinguish himself in that profession
so soon as he obtained the necessary qualifications for commencing
practice. In process of time he obtained his degree, graduating with
high honors, and he was not long in establishing a practice equal to
that of many older advocates.

Although without any hope of ever taking her place again as Merrick's
wife, the poor woman whom he had so basely deserted instituted a
thorough search for him in England, and was enabled to discover all his
history, and also so gain an insight into his proceedings whilst away
from her. It seems that he had married her under an assumed name, his
real patronymic being Stephens, and that his people were purse-proud and
overbearing. On his arrival in England his father, who had heard of the
young man's escapades in Canada peremptorily ordered him to have no more
correspondence with his Canadian wife, but to marry a noble lady whom he
had purchased (through money lent; to her father) for the ennobling of
the Stephens family.

When the deserted woman became assured of the truth of these disclosures
she made up her mind to give no more thought to the wretch who had left
her in such a predicament, and determined to centre her hopes and her
affections in her son, who had by this time become a distinguished
lawyer, and was quite as proud of his mother as his mother was of him.
He took a house for himself and only parent in the Western suburbs, and
they lived in quiet comfort together, the young man going little into
society, except on public occasions, on all of which he was invariably
asked to take a prominent part in the proceedings.

When William Merrick had been in practice about two or three years he
was entrusted with an important case connected with the endowment
of some church in Lower Canada, which was appealed from one court to
another, until, finally, it was decided to carry it to the House of
Lords. Accordingly the young advocate made preparations for a trip
to England, and, being unwilling to leave his mother alone for such a
lengthened period, he decided to take her along with him. They sailed
from Quebec one fine Saturday in June, arriving at Liverpool late on the
following Saturday night, a strong westerly wind blowing them rapidly
across the Atlantic! They stayed but a few days in Liverpool, and then
went on to London, putting up temporarily at the Langham, at that time
the most fashionable hotel in London. The morning after their arrival
the young lawyer, having occasion to go to the Courts on business, Mrs.
Merrick was left for a time to her own devices, she occupied a half-hour
or so in reading the newspapers, and then made up her mind to go for
a stroll before luncheon. Attiring herself rather gaily (she was still
remarkably good-looking, only a little over 40 years then) she set out
with a sprightly step down the main staircase, humming to herself a
lively air which she used to sing in happier days. Just as she
was descending the last flight of stairs, a gentleman having a
delicate-looking lady on his arm began to ascend, and on hearing
the melody, faint though it was, which the approaching lady, was
unconsciously humming, glanced suddenly and swiftly upwards; then, as if
a thunderbolt had struck him, he came to a sudden halt, having a dazed
expression on his features and littering a half suppressed oath or
imprecation. Mrs. Merrick had not noticed the approaching couple, her
thoughts being far away, but the suddenness of the gentleman's movement
arrested her attention, and she looked him fully in the face for a
moment; then, uttering a wild shriek, she fell backward and would have
been probably severely injured, had not a gentleman, who happened to
be close behind her, caught her as she fell, and carried her to the
landing-place, where restoratives were applied, and the unfortunate
woman speedily came to her senses.

It is scarcely necessary to say that the lady and gentleman whose advent
so upset Mrs. Merrick were none other than Mr. and Mrs. Stephens who
had come up to London for the operatic season and were staying at the
Langham Hotel. Taking advantage of the confusion, Stephens hurried
his wife along to her room, giving no further answer to her many and
wondering enquiries than: "Oh, it's only the heat; don't mix yourself up
with all these people," and, without allowing time for remonstrance
or further enquiry, he put a stop to all questioning by hurrying the
delicate creature along till he deposited her, breath less, in an easy
chair. Going out into the corridor he tried to discover how matters
stood, but the woman he dreaded to meet had been borne to her room and
medical attendance had been summoned. This Mr. Stephens learned from a
waiter; so, determined to deport himself as if he knew nothing of the
cause of the lady's illness, and was as much puzzled at the occurrence
as the rest of those who had either witnessed it or come on the scene
soon afterwards, he returned to his wife, and, throwing himself into a
chair, pretended to read. But his wife, obtuse though she possibly was
with regard to the fainting lady, something had struck her about the
manner her husband assumed. She could not get over it, and when at the
table d'hote with her husband listened attentively to the conservation
of two gentlemen who were sitting vis-à-vis. One enquired after the
health of the lady who had taken so suddenly ill on the landing in the
morning. The younger of the two gentlemen expressed his gratitude to the
other for assisting his mother so kindly, who would have, but for his
assistance, fallen down stairs, but was somewhat better now. He said the
Doctor had not been able to ascertain the cause of her sudden illness,
and, as his mother had always been blessed with such good health, he
himself could not account for it. In the meantime Mr. and Mrs. Stephens
had been listeners to the conversation when all of a sudden a curious,
gurgling noise was heard, a chair was overturned, and Mr. Stephens was
stretched on the floor in a dying condition, blood streaming from
his mouth. There was a great commotion in the dining-room, and it
was thought at first he had swallowed a bone and was choking; but the
physicians who arrived, three in number, pronounced it a rupture of a
blood-vessel and applied at once the necessary remedies, but gave little
hope of his recovery. As soon as his condition permitted a removal, he
was carried, by the advice of the doctor, to a private hospital near by,
where his delicate wife also preferred to go, and nothing more was heard
of the dying stranger, for a while anyhow.

Our young lawyer, Willie Merrick, had been successful in his law
affairs, and had arranged a trip to the continent with his mother, when
a cablegram was sent to them from Canada, saying: "Don't leave England;
wait for letters; good news." This was rather annoying to Mr. Merrick,
as he had only a few weeks more at his disposal; and he anticipated this
trip as so necessary to restore his mother's cheerfulness. Mrs. Merrick
was also puzzled as to what could possibly detain them any longer in
London. At last the Canadian post arrived, and with it large documents
and letters which had been sent from England to Canada and were now
returned, informing Mrs. Merrick that a certain W. Merrick Stephens
had died, leaving a large fortune, and that half of this estate was
bequeathed to Mrs. Merrick in Canada, whose maiden name had been Emma
Caldwell, or, in case of her death, to her heirs. Young Mr. Merrick
being at this time a well-known young lawyer in Montreal it was not hard
to find him. Both he and his mother could not imagine who had left them
such a fortune. Well did Mrs. Merrick think of the man whom she had
loved so dearly and truly and who had pretended to be so fond of her.
But, she knew too well that she had been deceived, that he had married
her under a false name, and had she not recognised him at the hotel with
a lady who was his wife!--She had never told her son the cause of her
sudden illness when first at the hotel; and her son had never mentioned
the affair of the dying stranger at the dinner-table, thinking his
mother still too weak to be disturbed by such shocking calamities. His
partner from Montreal wrote; "You had better stay and see about this
large fortune at once. Every one is not such a lucky fellow as you." A
Mr. Tidal was mentioned as executor of the estate of W. M. Stephens, and
our hero prepared at once to call on that gentleman, who received him
very friendly, but requested him to call the next day with his mother at
the family residence of the deceased, which visit had been particularly
desired by the deceased gentleman's widow. Our young gentleman of coarse
promised to comply with the wish, and was very much surprised when,
on returning to his mother, he found her hesitating,--but for a moment
only, a second thought, as she promised to accompany him, feeling in her
heart that, whatever Mrs. Stephens might wish to see her for, she would
certainly not blame her for anything, as all the wrong that had been
committed had been committed towards her, but still her heart was heavy
when at two o'clock they started in one of those stage coaches of which
London has so many. After about two hours' drive they alighted in
front of an old-fashioned family mansion, surrounded by well cultivated
grounds. The gentleman, Mr. Vidal, on whom young Mr. Merrick had called
the day previous, came to the portal to greet them, and begged Mrs.
Merrick to have the kindness to see Mrs. Stephens in her own apartments,
as she was in delicate health and very much crushed down through the
sudden loss of her husband. A maid who had appeared at the time was
ordered to direct Mrs. Merrick to the boudoir of her mistress and,
announcing the visitor, withdrew. Mrs. Stephens, attired in deep
mourning, looked very pale. On seeing Mrs. Merrick enter, she rose from
her chair and holding both hands out to greet the astonished lady, said:
"Oh, you wronged, wronged woman," but then tears smothered her words,
and it was quite a while before she could speak again. "How can I atone
for the wrongs committed on you, but I promised him. His last request
was that I would see you and beg your forgiveness for him. He had
recognised you at once at the hotel, and he felt his Conscience
troubling him very much. But the sight of your son--his son--was too
much for him. He felt he could not live to meet the son he had so
wronged and the woman he had so loved and so betrayed. He told me all
when the blood was streaming and smothered his words. He had married me
by the command of his father for my money, but had afterwards learned to
love me when he saw I was so devoted to him, but he had not the courage
to tell me of you and his child. I often noticed him looking sad, and
when I asked him to tell me what was troubling him he would say: 'Don't
be so kind to me, I don't deserve it, I am very, very wicked.'"

"We have no children, our first-born, a boy, only lived one hour; the
second, a girl, only three days. Since then my health has never been
good, but he was so kind, so indulgent with all my weaknesses, that I
can hardly realize he was ever unkind to any one. But his father was a
stern old man of iron will who made him leave you and marry me for my
father's money. All this I could not tell to your son nor to anybody
else than to you. Will you tell me you forgive him? I know your heart is
pure and good or you would have troubled him while alive. Don't sit so
mute, you frighten me; shall I call your son--the servants?"

"No, no, don't call anybody," was her response, "but speak of him, of
him you loved, the only one I have ever loved save my child." At the
thought of her son she broke out into sobs, and the blessed tears
brought balm to her heart. Silence prevailed for a long time, save the
sobs of both. At length a knock was heard, and a servant inquired if the
ladies wished to take refreshments with the gentlemen. Both would
have declined but for appearance sake, and, after bathing their faces,
descended to the room where the gentlemen had transacted their business.

On entering Mrs. Stephens approached Willie saying: "I hope you have
consented to take, in addition to the name which you bear already, the
name of Stephens, which was the last desire of my dear husband and also
my sincere wish."

"If my mother consents to assume that name also I shall, but otherwise I
must decline, as I shall never bear any other name than my mother whom I
love and honor, and who can, if she prefer, refuse this bequest and need
never tell me why. I know she will do all for the best if it combine
with honor."

"She will not refuse," was Mr. Vidal's reply; "and now, ladies, I have
to beg you to sign those deeds that we are able to congratulate the new
lord of the estate."--(All signed).

The end of this story is very short now. Mr. W. Merrick Stephens and
mother never returned to Montreal, but are living with Mrs. Stephens
(the widow) on the same estate and never has there existed a more
perfect harmony and friendship--both trying to make each other happy and
those around them. The last I heard from them was the following letter:

    LONDON, December 18.

  MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,

  Don't be angry that I call you old. I know you are not
  much older than myself, but it seems you are nearer to me
  when I address you so. How my life has changed! You
  used to tell me the evening will be better than the morning
  How true! She is so good (his wife), both Willie
  and I cannot help loving and admiring her. She thinks
  Willie looks like him and has many of his ways. If her
  health is good next spring we shall all three visit Canada,
  I think the sea-voyage will do her good. I shall be so
  proud to introduce her to you, and so glad to see you
  again who helped and advised me always for the best.
  You can write the history of my life it you like. Why
  did you ask my permission? You well knew I would
  do more for you if you let me I know you will not say
  anything to harm us, and I shall forever consider myself
  in your debt, but you must send us one of your books
  when out. Willie joins with me in sending his best regards
  to your husband and children and believe me for ever
  your grateful friend.

     EMMA MERRICK STEPHENS



CHAPTER XIII.


A Tale of Bigamy.

Lillie Malcolm was the daughter of Scotch parents who had emigrated to
Montreal about the year 1835. Her father was a schoolmaster, having a
private school in the neighborhood of St. Antoine street, and at the
time of their arrival in this city Lillie was about the age of ten. The
little girl was precocious and talented, and very pretty, and was also,
as regards both these characteristics, admired and made much of. As the
girl grew older she became a little vain and conceited, her principal
aim being to gain the plaudits of the visitors at her father's house
for her singing or other performances, which were many and various, the
versatility of the girl being remarkable. By the time she was seventeen,
Lillie Malcolm became known as the prettiest and most accomplished young
lady in the neighborhood, and no church or Sunday-school gathering was
complete without a song or recitation by her.

But Lillie aspired somewhat higher than Sunday-school concerts and such
circumspect circles. She longed for an entree into the inner and higher
circles of Montreal society where she felt that she could rise above
the common level, and take a position in keeping with her education and
accomplishments. Unfortunately for the ambitious girl her father, though
highly respectable, was very poor, and so altogether debarred from
participating with his family in the round of social pleasures in
which the _bon ton_ of Montreal indulge; added to this, he was a strict
Presbyterian, and was averse to consenting even when his daughter _did_
receive an invitation to some of the houses of her limited number of
acquaintances.

The poor girl fretted and repined at her lot. She could manage the
household affairs if required, but her mother or sister invariably
attended to that, and so her talents were not brought into requisition;
she could speak fluently and, as a clergyman or lawyer, would certainly
have distinguished herself, but women were not required or even
tolerated as clergymen or lawyers; she would (so she imagined) have made
an excellent wife for a fairly rich young man, but the young men did
not seem to want wives without money or social rank, and so poor Lillie
fretted and fumed, occasionally attending the many brilliant weddings
which were celebrated in the fashionable churches, and wondering how it
was that so many plain and unattractive girls got husbands, while she
was without even a proposal. It is true she had no lack of admirers;
these flocked round her like bees in a flower-garden, but few of them
were eligible as suitors; and the few who were, although they admired
her openly, and paid her great attention, never approached the subject
of marriage.

Things went on in this way till Miss Malcolm was twenty-three, when
she made the acquaintance of Captain FitzMarshall, an officer of Her
Majesty's army, who was stationed in Montreal. FitzMarshall was very
highly connected, being the grandson of an English Duke, and was greatly
sought after by the belles of Montreal; but he, having met Lillie
Malcolm by chance at the house of a mutual acquaintance, vowed that she
was the only beauty in Montreal, and was even, marked in his addresses
to her. Lillie's heart fluttered with delight at the thought of actually
out-doing the acknowledged society belles, and she would have been in
ecstasy if she could only have appeared on the arm of her admirer at one
of the public assemblies to which he had offered to bring her, but her
father would not permit her to enter a circle unfitted for his means and
her station, particularly as neither he nor her mother would be present
to look after her.

Before the close of FitzMarshall's second year in Canada he had made
Lillie Malcolm's heart glad by offering his heart and hand; he also
communicated the matter to Mr. Malcolm, but the latter gentleman shook
his head dubiously, and asked him if he had consulted his friends in
England. When he replied that he had not, the old gentleman gently but
firmly informed him that, although he esteemed him highly, yet he would
not have his friends say that he had been entrapped into a marriage with
one who was socially his inferior, and that, till he had written to his
relatives and obtained their consent to his marriage, it would be better
for him to discontinue his visits to the house. FitzMarshall pleaded
strongly, but the old man was firm, and so the poor love-sick Captain
had to content himself with the assurance that, if his friends consented
to his marriage (for although a Captain he was only twenty-four),
he would be only too happy to confide his daughter to his keeping.
Accordingly the young officer took his departure from the house, with
the understanding that when the return mail arrived from England he was
to call at once, and, if agreeable to his family at home, to be formally
betrothed to the fair Elizabeth.

The weeks rolled by as if they were years, and at the expiration of that
time FitzMarshall received letters from home, ordering him to obtain
leave of absence and to take the next steamer for England. With a heavy
heart he disclosed the contents to Mr. Malcolm, who of course expected
something of the kind, and told him that he must now discontinue all
communication with his daughter. The order came, unfortunately, too
late, as the young couple had already met frequently clandestinely and
forestalled their expected honey-moon.

However, to England FitzMarshall must go or be disinherited, so, bidding
his inamorata to cheer up, that he would soon be back to claim her as
his lawful wife, he set sail, and left the poor girl, soon to become
a mother alone with her austere father and unsympathetic mother. Weeks
went by without a word from him for whom the girl would have laid down
her life, and her letters, written we may say with her tears, were
returned to her unopened. The truth flashed quickly on the young
girl--she was deserted! The aristocratic friends of the young man would
never allow him to see her more, and he was weak enough to be put
in pupilage. Quickly making up her mind how to act, with indomitable
courage she gathered up what little trinkets and jewellery she
possessed, she converted them into money which yielded her nearly two
hundred dollars (for she had received valuable presents from her lover
and some money), and, one evening slipping out quietly, she took
the train for Toronto, proceeding from thence to Detroit, where she
established herself as the widow of an English officer, prepared to
receive pupils in languages and music.

But she was prepared for more than this. Her heart had become thoroughly
steeled by the harsh treatment which she considered she had received
from her father and others, so she laid herself out to make what capital
she could, not only out of her accomplishments but also of her beauty,
and with such success that she obtained an elegant establishment at the
hands of a wealthy Michigan shipping merchant, the public being led
to believe that she had become possessed of an estate in trust for her
child (a boy) who was just then born. For several years she lived in
this way, always moving along quietly and respectably, when the old
gentleman died, leaving her but a few hundred dollars capital, for
he had neglected to provide for this contingency, and she, with
less forethought than one would imagine, had never considered such a
possibility. Mrs. McClintock, as she now called herself, began to think
of returning to her old business as a teacher, but there was little
necessity, for an old gentleman who had made a fortune as a distiller,
an acquaintance of the deceased merchant, soon made excuse for calling
upon her, and made undoubted advances to her. It may be that he knew
something of his friend's arrangements, or that he only suspected them;
however, the widow managed matters so adroitly that he imagined he must
have been mistaken, and that the reports he had heard were not true. The
house was elegantly and tastefully furnished, the lady was modestly,
yet richly attired, the little boy and his nurse lending an air of
respectability to the whole establishment only to be out-done by the
conversation and demeanor of the lady herself, who was not only the
peer, but the superior of any lady among the large circle of the old
gentleman's acquaintances. He called about some lessons for his eldest
daughter, but was informed that Mrs. McClintock no longer gave lessons;
he then suggested that she might recommend a teacher of French, and
endeavored to prolong the interview, but the lady sedately answered all
his queries with a sad and pensive expression far removed from what he
had expected, and rising politely, rang the bell for her servant to show
him out.

After a little time, however, the old man returned to the charge. He had
bought the terrace in which Mrs. McClintock lived, and called to know
what he could do, in the way of repairs, etc. He pressed his suit in
various ways, but the widow pretended not to see it at all till she had
the old man down on his knees; then she played with him most adroitly,
explaining that her lonely position left her open to the tongue of
rumor, and that she could not allow him to call so frequently. She
played her cards so well that the old man firmly believed she was a
modest and retiring widow, and did not the law forbid him, he would have
married her. As it was, she led him to hand her the deed of the house
she lived in, and to settle a large amount on both herself and his child
(a beautiful girl), who was born about a year after his first visit to
her house in his capacity of landlord.

Notwithstanding all her precautions Mrs. McClintock was the subject of
much gossip in the neighborhood in which she resided, and many were the
guesses (many of them wide of the mark) which were made about her past
history. But they could only talk vaguely and shrug their shoulders at
the mention of the lady's name; for she lived very circumspectly, had a
pew in St. Paul's Church, and stood well with the minister and leading
church people; her children too were models of neatness and propriety,
and though as unlike as children having _one_ common parent could well
be (Jessie being dark and petite with piercing brown eyes, while
Charlie was tall and exceedingly fair), yet they had both the enviable
reputation of being the best bred and best behaved children on Jefferson
Avenue.

As the children grew up they were sent to school, and both, though of
different temperament, were distinguished for their superior ability.
Jessie was quick at anything requiring an amount of ready talent and
acute comprehension, such as Arithmetic, Geometry, and Modern Languages,
but Charlie excelled in Classics and what are generally considered the
heavier sciences, and was particularly talented as regards music.
He would sit for hours playing the exquisite _Lieder Ohne worte_ of
Mendelssohn, while Jessie would shrug her shoulders if asked to
play, and call on her brother, saying she could not bear "that nasty
practising." In spite, however, of her neglect of this accomplishment
(for which she had great natural talent), Jessie McClintock was in great
demand in society, and notwithstanding the equivocal position held
by her mother (for although not openly expressed there was a general
feeling that all was not right with that lady), the young people were
asked everywhere, and their mother kept them carefully in the _very
best_ circles, for which their natural talents and excellent education
eminently fitted them.

The children, who had seen a gentleman supposed to be their father come
at intervals and then disappear, naturally were inquisitive, and from
an early age were taught that their father was a captain on an Atlantic
Steamer, and of course was frequently away from home. As the children
grew up the story told by them concerning that gentleman did not
coincide with that of the mother, who had always pretended that her
husband was dead, so it was thought advisable for her to remove to
Montreal (her parents having long since died), and assume the rôle of
a grass widow whose husband seldom got off his ship, and then but for a
short time, coming generally at night and remaining indoors during his
brief stay. Mrs. McClintock bought a house in University street, and
rarely went out; her children, however, went to the best schools, and,
having made acquaintances, soon began to go out in the best society as
they had done in Detroit. Charlie soon became entered as a Law Student
in the McGill University, and Jessie had a visiting governess engaged to
finish her, a resident young lady, for obvious reasons, being considered
out of place. Jessie grew up a beautiful young lady, and was the
acknowledged belle in many a drawing room; Charlie went little into
society, being engaged in prosecuting his studies in the University,
applying himself so assiduously that in a few years he graduated with
honors, carrying off a gold medal.

The people who lived opposite Mrs. McClintock on University street were
curious to know all about that lady's proceedings, and set a watch on
all her movements. They discovered that at times a carriage was driven
hastily up to the door, generally late at night, from which an elderly
gentleman alighted and entered the house; but, although on the alert,
they were never able to make out his features or even his general
appearance, so quickly was the door of the house opened and closed
behind him. Yet even this discovery was hailed with delight by the
gossips; and as after each visit Jessie appeared with a new watch,
locket, brooch, or other trinket (sent, she said, from England by her
father), the tongue of evil report wagged freely, and was not at all
times strictly confined to the truth.

Mrs. McClintock was much annoyed when she learnt (from a sympathizing
friend) of the reports which her neighbors were circulating concerning
her; and, as she knew their eyes were constantly upon her house, she
managed to invite the clergyman and his wife, with a few others whom she
had met in church circles, to dinner, and manifested such an interest in
the sewing society that the principal ladies of the congregation called
on her in succession; and although they never got beyond an interchange
of formal visits, yet it served to puzzle the gossips in the streets,
and one or two who had "forgotten" to call on Mrs. McClintock when she
first came to the locality paid her a formal visit; their shaky position
in society being secured by the fact that all the best people called
there, including the Bishop and clergy, and so _of course_ there
could be nothing wrong. For all this plausible reasoning they inwardly
believed that there was "something wrong," and many of those who called
did so mainly under the apprehension that they would discover something,
or read in the countenance of their notorious neighbor something that
would give a clue to her past or present career.

But those who called from curiosity were sadly disappointed. The house
was neat and well-ordered, yet not extravagantly furnished; those who
met the children were astonished at their appearance and apparent good
breeding, while the hostess received them with the cool courtesy of an
English gentlewoman. The callers went away puzzled more completely than
ever, and to add to their mortification the lady _did not return one
of their calls_, shewing thereby that she did not care for their
acquaintance. Thus their imaginary condescension was the means of their
being snubbed by one whom they considered scarcely fit to be allowed to
inhabit the same street.

When Jessie was nineteen her Mother gave a large party, inviting most
of the young lady's school friends, also a number of Charlie's
fellow-students, besides the Rector of the church and his wife and a
few of the neighbors who had always been friendly to Mrs. McClintock,
although having their own ideas regarding her pretensions. All went
merry as a marriage bell, and they beguiled the time with music,
whist, bezique, and like recreative amusements, after which supper was
announced, and the party sat down to a spread such as few of them had
ever been partakers before, and all served in the most elegant style.

The viands having been thoroughly discussed, the Rector rose and
proposed the health of the young lady in whose honor they were then
assembled, and in a highly moral speech wished her many happy returns,
and all the joys this world (and also the next) can afford. The toast
was honored with acclamation, and then one of the guests stood up and
proposed "the health of Captain and Mrs. McClintock."

A damper was thrown suddenly on the whole company. Every one seemed to
feel embarrassed, and though no one dared to look at his neighbor,
and the toast was immediately drank by all, yet there came a peculiar
feeling over each person present, as if some spiritualistic influence
were at work restraining their speech and laughter, aye and even
forbidding them to breathe freely.

For a time the silence remained unbroken. At length Mrs. McClintock
motioned to Jessie to rise, thus giving the signal for a general
departure to the drawing-room. Here the music was again brought into
requisition, and a few of the young people enjoyed themselves with a
game of casino, but the hilarity of the early part of the evening
was conspicuously absent, those assembled taking an early leave and
departing homeward. The gentleman who had unwittingly worked on the
feelings of the remainder of the guests felt that there was something
oppressive in the atmosphere, and tried to elicit an explanation from a
neighbor; but he could get no reply excepting a tongue thrust into that
gentleman's cheek as much as to say--"You've put your foot in it, old
fellow," and a significant squeeze of the left arm near the elbow. He
had essayed a solo of the harp, and, unfortunately had struck the one
cord [not chord] which was out of tune.

Mrs. McClintock preserved an even demeanor throughout the entire
evening; indeed, it is questionable if one of the whole party (the young
people excepted) there, was one so fully self-possessed; and she had
such command over her facial muscles that she bid her guests adieu with
a smile as gracious as that with which she had received them. She gave
no more parties, however, but, confined herself to inviting a few of her
most intimate acquaintances to tea or an informal dinner, to which
they were ever ready to accept an invitation; as, whatever might be the
antecedents of the McClintocks, they were certainly refined and elegant
people, and _kept the best table in the city_. In time the old gentleman
went the way of all flesh, leaving Mrs. M. independent in every respect.
She continued to pass for some time as a grass widow, but after a
few months she coolly inserted in the Montreal fit papers the
following:--"At Calcutta, on the 18th ult., Captain Charles McClintock,
in the 56th year of his age." Then she went into deep mourning, the
children also dressing in mourning and refusing to go into society for a
time. In about eighteen months after they donned their ordinary attire,
and, as many of those now forming the circle known as the "upper ten"
did not know, and others did not care to remember, anything concerning
their past history, they were received with open arms, being young,
accomplished, and, best of all, tolerably wealthy.

Jessie is now married to a wealthy dry goods merchant, and one of the
leaders of fashionable society. Charlie is making headway as a lawyer,
but, having an independent allowance, does not exert himself very
much. The old lady lives pretty much to herself, and, it is said, not
unfrequently takes a glass of Curacoa or Moraschino to drown unpleasant
reflections. Let us, however, before sitting in judgment upon her, put
ourselves in her place, and consider if we would have done half as well
(morally) under the circumstances. Although a disobedient daughter,
she has proved herself a true wife till shamefully deserted, and a
self-denying and tender-hearted mother, who, though giving herself up
to shame for their sake, kept her children from every breath of even
scandalous report, and placed them as well-educated and respectable
members of society. At such a one let only he who is without guilt among
us cast a stone.



CHAPTER XIV.


The Unfortunate Sailor.

Among the many thousand pretty girls that might be seen any fine
afternoon walking down the shady side of Buchanan Street, Glasgow,
few would be found possessing more attractive features and pleasing
expression than Agnes Malcolm. Not that she was the most beautiful girl
in Glasgow, for Agnes was hardly what one would call a beauty; but there
was a something in her face that made it particularly attractive,
and caused every passer-by involuntarily to turn and look after her,
although, were the pedestrian cross-questioned as to what he found to
admire in the young lady, he would have been puzzled what to reply.
Agnes had regular features, good hazel eyes, but not unusually bright
ones, a high intellectual forehead, and tresses of a light auburn hue;
her cheeks were soft as peaches and as delicately tinted, and when she
smiled, which was often, she displayed a complete set of teeth for
which no dentist had ever received a fee. Her sister Alice was the
acknowledged belle of the circle in which the Malcolm family revolved,
and was already of a much more decided type, but Agnes had a frank,
lovable expression of countenance that brightened everywhere she went
like a sunbeam, and although she was not particularly witty (being
indeed rather reserved and shy in her manner), yet she had such a sweet
voice, and talked so naturally and with such a lack of affectation, that
it was a pleasure to hold converse with her.

Mr. Malcolm, the girl's father, had been Captain of an ocean steamer
running between Glasgow and Baltimore and adjacent ports, he had gone
down in the good ship Cyclops, or rather the _bad ship_ Cyclops, for
she proved herself to be utterly unseaworthy, and foundered on her first
trip out, Mrs. Malcolm, being near her confinement at the time, was
taken prematurely ill, and, although she rallied for a time, she never
got fairly well again, and finally followed her husband to the grave,
leaving the two girls to the care of a married sister of their late
father, who, having educated them as became their station, was at the
time of which my narrative treats debating whether she would send them
out to earn their living, or, keeping them a little longer, bring them
out in the hope of getting them married.

Alice saved her all further deliberation by announcing in her careless,
happy style that she had engaged to marry a young ship chandler who had
frequently came to the house, but had paid so much attention to _both_
the young ladies that it was difficult to tell which, if any, of them he
was going to marry. Having made up his mind, however, he did not wish to
delay matters, so, as Alice was only too happy to start an establishment
of her own immediately, he gave notice at the kirk for the following
week, and the wedding was celebrated amidst much rejoicing. Alice was
glad to get a husband, and to be independent of her aunt. Mr. Taylor,
her husband, was delighted to get such a beautiful and accomplished
bride, and the old lady, Alice's aunt, was heartily glad to get rid of
them both, so that never was rejoicing more universal.

But poor Agnes was not so elated. She did not mind her sister being
preferred by Mr. Taylor, for she did not want Mr. Taylor, and besides
Alice was two years her senior, and it was to be expected that she
would be married first. It was her position at home that made her feel
miserable. Whereas the work had been divided between the two girls, it
now was supposed to be done by one; moreover, Mrs. Whitcher, Agnes's
aunt, began to bully her more than ever, wondering _aloud_ why she could
not get a husband as her sister had done, after so much money had been
spent on her education, and so forth.

Agnes could have had her choice not of one, but of _ten husbands_, had
she wished to do as her sister had done and taken the first eligible man
who offered. But the idea of marrying for an establishment never entered
her unsophisticated brain, and, as she had not yet met her _beau ideal_
of a husband, she waited patiently, bearing the scoffs and jeers of her
unsympathetic aunt without a murmur, and giving in return for her daily
bread labor that in any other establishment would have yielded her no
small remuneration, had any time in the past two years paid attention
to Agnes Malcolm, was a young man named George Fairfield, second mate
of the ship "Glenalpine," a good looking young fellow about twenty-three
years old, who was the son of respectable English parents residing at
Liverpool. Agnes, though rather partial to the young man, had paid a
deaf ear to his addresses, not caring to marry a man unless she could
give him her whole heart, but after her sister had gone, and she was
left in utter loneliness, the rude but honest sympathy and love of the
handsome sailor went to her heart, and she consented to marry him on his
return from his next trip.

George Fairfield went off as happy as if he had been suddenly appointed
Port Admiral. He felt not the ground he walked on, so light was his
heart and also his tread as he stepped home with his eyes fixed on the
stars, but his mind picturing that happy scene which had been all too
short. He whistled a bar or two of "Love's Young Dream" as he stepped
gaily along, hoping to receive orders to sail on the morrow; not, as he
tried to explain to his lady-love, that he was anxious to get away from
her, but because he wished to be soon back again, when, receiving a
berth as first mate, he would be in a position to claim her as his
bride. The ship did not sail for a week, and when it did George would
have pleaded for one day more in spite of his previous hurry to be off,
however, there was no help for it, "For men must work and women must
weep, though storms be sudden and waters deep," and so Mr. George took
his position at the taffrail, and contented himself with flying a blue
handkerchief over the stern of the vessel till the forms on shore
were no longer visible. Agnes returned to her every day occupation as
household drudge, sad at losing her lover, yet not so sad as she would
have been had she really given, him her whole heart unconstrainedly; she
shed a few tears as the vessel left the quay, then turning homewards she
mentally counted the weeks which were to elapse ere she should again see
the tapering masts of the "Glenalpine." She made her preparations for
her wedding methodically and without excitement, and, following her
suitor's instructions, bought furniture according to her taste for the
little cottage he had rented in anticipation of his exalted rank as
first officer of a clipper.

At length the _Shipping Gazette_ announced the Glenalpine as "homeward
bound," and in due time she was entered at the Custom House. George
rushed with all speed to Mrs. Whitcher's, and was met with open arms by
his intended bride. She was not very demonstrative, it is true, but she
was glad to see him, and as her face lit up at his approach, the poor
weather-beaten tar forgot all about a fearful gale he had just came
through and its attendant perils, and wondered whether Heaven could
possibly be an improvement on Mrs. Whitcher's front garden.

The wedding took place (as previously arranged) the next day, and the
young couple took up their quarters at their new abode, George voting
the cottage a decided improvement on the ship and Agnes smiling with
delight at the thought of leaving Mrs. Whitcher's for ever. The ship
remained in port about three weeks, and during that time the young
couple lived not only figuratively but literally "in clover," as the
cottage they had taken was on the margin of a clover meadow, the sweet
perfume of which pervaded the atmosphere with its health-giving gases,
gladdening the hearts and adding to the vitality of all who came under
its influence.

But no earthly joys can last forever. George received a telegram
ordering him to be in readiness to sail at any moment and finally an
order for embarkation.

With a heavy heart he parted from his young and beautiful wife, the
hope, however, of returning a richer man, better able to make her
comfortable, cheered his manly spirit, and, clasping her once more in
his fond embrace, he jumped into the boat and gave the men the order to
pull to his vessel. His wife stood on the shore wistfully gazing at the
ship till she was no longer visible, then, with a heavy step, she turned
slowly homewards. She thought of the long weary hours she would have to
count ere she would see him again, and, although she had never loved him
passionately, she felt his departure so keenly that she wept long
and bitterly. For days she sat moodily looking out at the sea in the
direction his vessel had taken, and a sad foreboding filled her heart
that she would never see him more. Her comforter in her fitful hours was
her maid, a French-Canadian girl, who had some years previously come to
England in the capacity of stewardess on an ocean steamer, but, having
taken fever during the vessel's stay in port, and been conveyed to the
hospital, she was obliged to take service till she could again procure a
situation on board ship. This girl--she was named Arline Bertrand--was a
native of Montreal, and at this time about twenty-four years of age
and rather good-looking. Bending over her mistress she would say: "Ah,
Madame, Monsieur Fairfield he come back _riche, riche_, with plentee
nice thing for you!"

A few weeks after the vessel's departure Mrs. Fairfield received news
from the agents of the safe arrival of the vessel at Montreal, and
shortly afterwards she received a letter from her husband, full of joy
at the prospect of seeing her again, and of clasping her in his arms.
But, though "man proposes, God disposes," and the programme which
poor George Fairfield had so fondly laid out and hoped to execute was
destined to be sadly altered. Weighing anchor late on Saturday night
they proceeded slowly down the river, and on the following Tuesday were
out at sea. The wind was blowing a little fresh, but that suited Captain
Fairfield admirably, for as it was a strong westerly wind, and blowing
right astern it only sent his ship on all the faster, so, crowding on
nearly all the canvas his experience had taught him was safe, he bent
over the taffrail and whistled for more wind to bear him joyously along.

All day long they scudded gaily onward, and although towards evening the
wind moderated a little still they went along at a pretty fair pace,
and Captain Fairfield and his ship's company drank their grog heartily,
anticipating a pleasant and speedy voyage. At bedtime the Captain went
on deck, and, ordering the mate to keep a good lookout, went below and
"turned in." He was not long in his berth when he heard a great running
and shouting over his head, and then the cry of "Ice ahead!" from the
look-out met his ears. With one bound he rushed on deck, and gave the
order, to "'Bout ship," which the mate had already given; but there was
no time to do more than port helm, and so avoid the direct shock from
the massive iceberg, into which at that moment they rushed with terrible
force, the water pouring in torrents, and many of the men being killed
by falling pieces of ice which towered several feet above the mast-head.
The boats were lowered with all speed, and were hardly clear of the
"Glenalpine" when she went down with a plunge head first, and not a
vestige of hull, spars or masts was to be seen. A few of the men had
jumped or fallen into the water; these were all picked up, and on
counting heads it was found that none were missing except the mate and
two sailors, who had been killed by the falling ice.

So great had been the hurry of shoving off that they found themselves
without chart, compass, or provisions, save a little keg of water and
a small flask of brandy. However, judging by the direction of the wind,
which the Captain had noted carefully before retiring, the boats' heads
were put in the direction of the island of Anticosti, and, keeping as
nearly as possible together (there were three boats' crews), they pulled
hard all night for shore. When the morning broke they fancied they
observed the loom of the land in the distance, and a shout of joy
involuntarily burst from the whole company; they were doomed, however,
to disappointment, for, on the mist clearing away, they could observe
nothing but sky and sea for miles on every hand. The Captain was
completely puzzled how to act, so, summoning a council of war in the
gig, they came to the conclusion that, as they might, instead of pulling
toward the land, pull farther away from it, there was no use wasting
their strength pulling at all, and that they had better keep a careful
look out for vessels either going to or coming from America, and trust
in Providence. The water was served carefully out, and the Captain took
the brandy into his own charge, the men encouraging each other with
tales of their past experience in situations equally trying and still
more dangerous.

All day they bobbed about on the dancing waves, the oarsmen pulling just
sufficiently to keep headway on their respective boats, but not a sign
of either land or passing vessel was visible. The last round of water
was served out, and the men tried hard to induce the Captain to
hand them over the brandy, some of them sullenly, and intimating an
inclination to take the bottle by force; but the Captain cocking his
revolver, which he had fortunately retained, they subsided into silence,
and lay moodily at the bottom of the boat. They passed the night with
heavy hearts, and when morning dawned despair seized every man of them,
for not a vestige of land was to be seen, neither was there a boat
of any kind in sight. Fortunately the weather was remarkably calm and
clear, so they had no difficulty in keeping together, and in sharing
equally their little supply of water, but now that that was gone what
were they to do?

Just as they were about to give up all hope a cry of joy from the boat
further to windward caused the occupants of the other two boats to rest
on their oars, and turn in that direction; they strained their eyes in
the endeavor to descry something beyond, but could see nothing. However,
those nearest the point in question evidently could, and so they turned
back and pulled against the wind with all their might, and in a few
minutes the boatswain sung out, "A sail ahead"! causing their hearts to
jump for joy. It was indeed a vessel which was rapidly coming towards
them. It proved to be an American brig called "Frances Smith," which
was bound for the Mediterranean, and the Captain no sooner sighted the
signals of distress which were waved from the boats than he immediately
hove to and picked the exhausted party up. The brig was rather crowded,
as she was of small tonnage; however, the crew never murmured at the
new-comers, but consented to accept a reduction in their rations, so
that the half-famished men might receive a daily allowance.

The brig proceeded on her way, the rescued men insisting on doing their
share of the work, and greatly lightened the labors of the crew. Within
a few days, however, their powers were tried to the uttermost; the wind
freshened to a gale, and threatened to annihilate the poor old brig,
which was not in extra seaworthy condition. They were by this time more
than half-way across the Atlantic, where the seas run sometimes as high
as the yard-arm, and take several days to calm down when they have once
been lashed into fury. The ship's timbers creaked and groaned, and the
carpenter and his men had much ado to stop the numerous leaks which
sprung in her sides. The next day it blew a hurricane, taking the fore
mast and mainmast away, together with most of the rigging, and leaving
the vessel almost a total wreck. As they were not far from the southern
coast of Ireland, the Captain ordered the boats to be got ready with
sails, arms and provisions; he also took with him a chart and compass,
by which he was enabled to steer for the Fastnat Rock. There was
scarcely room for the large party in the boats, but they all got safely
in, a few minutes before the waterlogged brig went down like a lump of
lead. They had not much to eat, but they had a good supply of water,
and, as all the boats were well fitted with sails, the Captain hoped
to make the Irish coast within a few days, the wind being much more
moderate and in their favor.

Poor George Fairfield was sick at heart. He was so anxious to get home
to his darling wife, and there he was for the second time at sea in an
open boat, without the means of communicating with his loved Agnes, or
of telling her why he was not at her side. Nevertheless he accepted the
state of affairs with calm resignation, and he and the American Captain
laid their heads together to find out exactly where they were and what
course they had best pursue.

As they had had time to take with them a sextant chromometer and
Palinurus, they had no difficulty next day in taking observations, and
found themselves about five hundred miles W.N.W. of Mizen Head. As
it was no use depending on being picked up they made all sail in that
direction, and so rapidly did the strong west wind propel them that
on taking observations the next day they found themselves nearly one
hundred and fifty miles nearer land. It was fortunate that they made
such headway, for they had only one day's provisions left, and the water
was getting pretty scarce; however, the wind continued favorable, and
in less than three days more, half famished and thoroughly chilled
from exposure, they found themselves at midnight a few miles from the
entrance of Queenstown Harbor.

Furling their sales, they took to the oars with a will and pulled wildly
towards the landing-place, where they were pleased to hear voices in
conversation. Just then a long whistle was heard from shore, and a husky
voice half whispered, "Boat ahoy!" "Aye, aye," was the glad response
as the shipwrecked men threw the painter to the owner of the voice,
and taking their arms and instruments, bounded on shore. Imagine their
surprise to find themselves surrounded, their muskets knocked from their
hands, and the latter speedily encircled with a pair of manacles. The
Captain of the Brig tried to remonstrate with the commander of the
party, but a navy revolver was pointed at his head, and he was forbidden
to utter a word. Finding resistance and remonstrance altogether out
of the question, the unfortunate men marched on silently as directed,
mentally endeavoring to explain this sample of Irish hospitality, and
confident that there must be a mistake somewhere, but of the precise
nature of that error they had not the faintest idea.

Arrived at the gaol, they were severally incarcerated and their
handcuffs taken off. Then, as they signified that they were hungry, they
were liberally supplied with buttermilk and oatmeal porridge, which many
of them thought the best and most sensible part of the whole proceeding.
As it was past midnight, and they were all nearly exhausted they allowed
their curiosity to wait till the morrow, and, without any questioning
or speculation, fell fast asleep, most of them remaining quiescent unfed
late the following afternoon. When they awoke they found a warm meal
awaiting them, but no reply as to the reason for their detention could
be got out of the turnkey, who seemed to think their question one of the
greatest jokes ever perpetrated within the precincts of that edifice. At
last Fairfield summoned the turnkey. There was something commanding
in his tone which bade the gaoler treat him with respect, and to his
enquiry as to whether he could see a lawyer the man replied that he
could send for one immediately, but would vouchsafe no information.

In a short time Councillor Quinn called in answer to Captain Fairfield's
summons, when the latter asked him to explain what reason the
authorities had for treating him in this fashion. The eminent legal
practitioner evidently thought this as great a joke as did Mr.
Fitzgerald, the turnkey, for he thrust his tongue in his cheek, and
remained silent. On Fairfield reiterating the question in a stern tone
he became more serious and said affably "My dear sir, do you not know
what you are arrested for?"

Fairfield then became angry and said "If I did, why would I send for you
to tell me? Is this your boasted Irish hospitality, in the exercise of
which you lock up every man who happens to be cast away on your shores,
and then laugh at him when he asks you a civil question?"

On seeing that Fairfield had really lost his temper, the astonished
barrister said "Did you not command the party of armed men who were
captured last night in the harbor?"

"I commanded a crew of shipwrecked sailors, as also did my companion in
ill-treatment, Captain Westover."

"Ah! Well of course you can put in that plea if you wish at your trial,
but I am afraid it will avail you little. Your arms, too, are of an
American pattern, similar to that known to be used by the Fenians."

"Good Heavens! do they take me for a Fenian?" said Fairfield,--"why,
I am an English officer, captain of a merchant vessel of the port of
Glasgow."

"Have you any papers to prove this?" said the lawyer.

"No, they all went down with the vessel, but they can easily find out
whether my statements be correct by communicating with the agents."

"That will be for you to do, when you are brought to trial, which
may not be for some time, as there is a surplus of work on hand this
session."

"But can I not demand a trial?"

"No, the _Habeas Corpus_ Act is suspended, and you must just make
yourself as comfortable as you can under the circumstances."

Poor Fairfield wrung his hands and stamped the floor with rage. He
cursed Ireland and her people and laws, or rather the want of them;
then, as reason took the place of passion, he sat down and wrote a
letter to his wife, informing her of his deplorable condition, and
urging her to communicate with the agents of his vessel immediately.
This letter never reached her, for, having heard of the wreck of the
Glenalpine (some portions of the bows being found by a homeward-bound
steamer imbedded in a large block of ice), she never doubted for an
instant but that her husband had gone down with the vessel. The poor
girl now felt almost broken down. But for the sake of the child which
she expected she would have likely died with grief. The Canadian girl,
Arline Bertrand, had told her so much of Canada, especially of Montreal,
that she decided to follow the girl to her native land, and try to earn
a living for herself and child, should God spare it, there, particularly
as her aunt, Mrs. Whitcher, seemed to be afraid poor Agnes should return
to her. Mrs. Fairfield accordingly sold her little household goods,
and soon after bid her aunt and sister farewell, and took passage on
a Montreal steamer, Bertrand having secured for herself a place as
stewardess. Arrived in Montreal, she visited the girl's parents, hoping
to find reasonable lodgings during her approaching sickness, but the
girl's mother did not believe her daughter's story about her young
mistress, but thought her a young unfortunate girl who had come to
Canada to hide her shame. She offered kindly to bring and introduce
her to the nuns of St. Pélagie as the most proper place for her in her
condition. Mrs. Fairfield, thanking her, was glad to find so suitable
a shelter. Paying her board a week in advance, she retired to her room,
but found to her surprise that room had several more occupants all
in the same condition. The manner and language of those unfortunate
creatures did not suit Mrs. Fairfield at all, and as she mentioned her
disappointment at not having a room to herself to one of the nuns, she
was informed that a private room was three times the amount. The sister
also told her that the babe when born could not be cared for there, but
would have to be sent to the Grey Nunnery, and that she had better part
with it as soon as born. This frightened poor Agnes so much that she
resolved not to stay there, come what might. Asking the next morning
permission to take a walk, she had great trouble to get it granted, the
nun informing her that the people in Montreal were so very bad, and that
she would run great danger to go out alone. But Agnes thought she would
risk this danger. She accordingly went up Campeau street, at which
corner St. Pélagie is situated. She walked and walked till she came to
St. Mary street. There inquiring for the residence of a physician, some
kind person directed her to Dr. P----'s drug store on Notre Dame street.
To him she told her story and her desire to find a more suitable place.
He gave her the address of my house, and advised her to come under
my care. On hearing her story I could not for a moment doubt her
truthfulness, and received her gladly at, my place, sending the servant
with a note for Mrs. F----'s things to St. Pélagie in the afternoon,
which were, after some little delay and trouble, handed out to her, no
doubt the sisters feeling sorry that the fair young English lady did
not return. Her former servant, Arline Bertrand, having returned as
stewardess to England again, Mrs. Fairfield did not care to let the
girl's mother know that she had left the convent, hoping to find means
to let Arline know her whereabouts later, as the old lady had certainly
meant well enough when bringing her to St. Pélagie. Mrs. Fairfield was
only three weeks at my house when a baby boy was born to her. Then her
sorrows seemed to be greater than ever. She thought of having lost her
husband, the father of the innocent baby, so early seemed almost to kill
her, and I frequently heard her implore God to take them both. But
it was not in his wise ordination to grant her wish. She regained her
strength gradually, and with it grew the love for her child which in all
unconsciousness grew quite a stout little fellow who wanted to be fed,
clothed and cared for, which obligations fell alone on its mother, and
as her means became always smaller, she decided to take a situation
with a wealthy family from Savannah who were staying at this time at
my house, the Southern lady having taken a great interest from the
beginning of their meeting in Mrs. Fairfield, offered her a comfortable
home and fair compensation if she would accompany them, attend to
the wants of the lady and her baby during their travels, and act as
companion and housekeeper when at their Southern home. Mrs. Fairfield
took it very hard to part from her little boy, but leaving it with a
reliable nurse, and under my special observation, she was reconciled at
last. Hoping to return in one year, she left. Every thing went on well.
Her letters were full of gratitude. Her Southern friends never allowed
her to feel her subordinate position for a moment. She also remitted
regularly the wages for the nurse, and little George was, when fifteen
months old, a lovely fair boy, and as large as a child two years old.

Some months passed during which I did not hear from Mrs. Fairfield, nor
did the nurse receive her payment. I wrote to Savannah, but received
no answer. The nurse, poor woman, naturally could not keep the child
without payment, and brought him one fine afternoon to my house to leave
him, and also demanding the back pay. My own children, being delighted
with the dear little fellow, we decided to keep and bring him up as our
own child should his mother never return. And many of my fair patients
will remember the lovely, little curly-headed fellow who would run into
the parlor uninvited, but whose large blue eyes would appeal so sweetly
to be allowed to stay. Indeed we all became so attached to him that we
hoped nobody would ever claim him. And, as twelve months had passed, I
gave up all hope of ever hearing from Mrs. Fairfield again.

Fairfield had been confined in Pentenville, having been convicted on a
charge of felony-treason, and sentenced to five years' imprisonment. His
wife and, friends not having heard of his trial, no one was present
to bear testimony in his favor, and both he and his men (many of whom
happened to be Irishmen) were imprisoned. The Americans claimed
the protection of their flag, a covering which proved sufficiently
substantial to protect them, but the only flag which could have been
claimed by poor unfortunate George was the very one he was accused of
attacking.

As the British Government did not wish to deal harshly with Fenian
prisoners, or, as its enemies said, was afraid to trample any longer on
the Irish people, George Fairfield and his companions, in common with
many real Fenians, were liberated some years before the expiration of
their term of servitude. Fairfield at once sought his late home, hoping
to find his wife and child still alive, and cursing his fate, which had
cast him twice on the pitiless ocean, only to be arrested and imprisoned
as soon as he got to land. But the worst had yet to come. When he
arrived at his old home and found it occupied by strangers his heart
sank within him; on enquiring for Mrs. Fairfield he was informed that
she had gone to America with her servant Bertrand. Grasping the railings
to keep himself from falling, the poor stricken man gazed wildly at
his informant, as though stunned by a severe blow; then gasping out an
apology of some kind he rushed along the street like a madman, stopping
not till he had got far out into the open country. There, throwing
himself headlong on the grass, he shed tears of anguish, moaning as
if in bodily pain. "Why did I not go down with the ship?" he cried
bitterly; "Was it for this I toiled twice over on the open sea? Ah, why
was I ever born to be tossed about, imprisoned, and deserted?"

For hours he lay insensible on the grass, till the cool evening air,
bringing his mind once more into activity, he arose with a groan, and
slowly retraced his steps, not caring whither he went. Passing along the
quay he looked at the dark, sullen water, and for a moment was impelled
to cast himself in and so put an end to his misery, but something in his
better nature restrained him, and he walked moodily along to where an
ocean steamer lay preparing for sea. Anything was better than inaction,
so, as his money was all gone and he would have some difficulty in
obtaining a position as Captain or even as mate, he shipped as a
foremast hand, and took his place with the crew. Right glad would he
have been to have changed places with any one of the jolly tars around
him; their songs and jests, however, diverted the current of his
thoughts and kept him from his bitter reflections for a time at least.

In a short time they were out at sea and, having plenty of work to do
handing sails, reefing and steering, he almost forgot his great and deep
heart-wound, and, although he could not be prevailed upon to sing a song
or even to join in a chorus, yet he listened attentively to the yarns of
the sailors, and always applauded their songs.

The vessel was trading between Glasgow and Montreal, and within a short
time they were anchored at the latter port; the sailors all went ashore
as soon as the vessel was safely moored, and Fairfield having nothing
else to occupy his mind, went up the wharf in search of Bertrand's
parents house. He was directed to a house on St. Bonaventure street,
where he found the mother of Arline Bertrand all right, but her daughter
was not at home. She had gone as stewardess abroad again and married
there. She had promised to visit her parents at some future time. When
Captain Fairfield enquired about the lady she had come out with three
years previous, the old lady broke out into sobs, and told him that the
lady had died during her confinement in St. Pélagie, but that the nuns
would give him more information about it if he would go there. If the
babe had lived she did not know, but the sisters had offered to give to
her daughter the lady's clothes and trunk if she came herself to demand
it. This last blow seemed to be the hardest in all his sorrow. Thinking
himself so near to find his beloved wife, and now all gone and forever,
it seemed to hard. But he would go and see the nuns and hear how she had
died, and if his child had lived or was alive now. This thought gave
him new hopes, and, Madame Bertrand offering to accompany him,
they proceeded to St. Pélagie to obtain an interview with the Lady
Superioress. He had never thought of the child before, but now it was
his whole thought and hope to find it alive.

Arriving at the convent he had not to wait very long to see the desired
lady, and on informing her of his wishes she most kindly consented to
search all records, but, as the number of patients received every year
is very large he had to content himself till the following day when she
would give him all the information he desired. The next day seemed
never coming. But at last poor George felt as if his worst doom would be
sealed now. The lady in waiting informed him that she felt happy to be
able to tell him that his child (a little girl) was alive and at that
present moment at a convent in Cemetery street, where he could see it
and take it out on payment of its maintenance. The lady's clothes had
been disposed of. As already stated, a long time had elapsed since
her death. Capt. Fairfield, with a few lines from the sisters of St.
Pélagie, proceeded to the St. Joseph's Home, on Cemetery street, and, on
handing the note, a little girl about three years old was shown to him
to be his child. The poor little girl seemed afraid to look at him, and
as the child could only speak French he felt as if a board was between
him and the child; but her looks, he thought, were somewhat like his
beloved Agnes. The child's little curls had been cut a few days before,
so a nun told him. What was he to do with the child? He was not a
Captain now, and would have to make first a position for himself again,
and then he could claim his child. The child seemed happy, and the nuns
offering to keep it for a moderate price he decided to give what money
he had earned during his passage and come again and again till the
little girl could speak English to him, which the nuns promised to teach
her, and then, to take her home to his native land. He had no parents
alive, but he thought when going back to England he would call and see
Mrs. Taylor, Agnes' sister Alice. He had never visited her, and he felt
so bad to think that she had not helped her sister in distress. He well
remembered his wife's spirit and independence, and that made him think
that his wife had never made her wants known to them. However, the ship
sailed again. He brought toys and sweetmeats to his darling little girl,
to whom he felt with every visit more and more attached, and the parting
was harder than he could have imagined.

Returned to Glasgow. On a later voyage, he proceeded at once to
Mrs. Taylor's house, and was struck at the happy appearance of his
sister-in-law, who, when she recognized him, became quite alarmed and
was near fainting. When Mr. Taylor, who was struck for a moment also,
regained his self-possession, he allowed poor George to tell his sad
story, both listening with interest. But when he related how his wife
had died and he had at last found his child--Alice broke out, "She is
not dead! She is not dead, George! We had a letter only a week ago. She
is in Paris." George Fairfield was thunderstruck at this revelation.
Alice brought the letter, which he saw was from his Agnes. But how
could be this mistake with the deceased lady in the convent and the
child,--whose child was it!

Agnes wrote to her sister that she had intended travelling with the
Southern family to the Continent. When on the oceans the Franco-Prussian
war was declared. They had to stop at Southampton and, instead of going
to Germany, they went to the South of France, and, as she had no letters
from me for some time, she was almost beside herself. The Southern lady
being in such delicate state of health she could not think of leaving
her, but had to accompany her. All letters sent from or sent to France
were carefully inspected by the Government, and thus it happened that
I had not received any communication for a long time. She had at last
expected that her letters had gone astray, then she had written to her
sister, Mrs. Taylor, asking her to write to me and try to obtain in this
way information about her boy.

Captain Fairfield would have liked to start at once in search of his
darling wife, but Mr. Taylor, who saw the danger for him in going to
France at this time, prevented him from acting rashly, also fearing that
the sudden shock to Agnes in seeing her husband whom she had bemoaned
so long would be of great injury to her health, so it was decided that
Alice should write first, saying in her letter that there were some
hopes of Captain Fairfield being alive. The next mail should bring a
letter from the Captain himself to his wife. Both letters were duly
posted, but when the steamer on which George Fairfield was mate was
ready to sail again no answer had been received from, France, and George
had to cross the ocean again.

Having received my address from Mrs. Taylor he intended to come and see
me on his arrival in this port, and this time he was more fortunate:
the ship made a quick voyage, and as Mrs. Taylor had written to me by a
previous steamer, informing me of all these strange incidents, I looked
out for him.

One afternoon in the month of August, 1871, when I was driving along
the wharf, I saw a steamer coming in, and on enquiring the name of it I
found it was the one with which I expected Mr. Fairfield. I drove home
with all speed, and as it was late in the afternoon Master George had
his little white frock pretty well soiled; but, on telling him his papa
would soon, be here to see him, he consented readily to leave his play
and undergo an extra bathing--his little skin being so fair the least
speck would show--and scarcely had we finished the operation when the
door-bell rang and a weather-beaten gentlemen inquired for me. His
surprise was great when he found I had expected him, and on seeing his
beautiful child his happiness knew no bounds.

As soon as he had a little rested he related to us all his trials and
miseries, which seemed like a fairy tale. But when would Mrs. Fairfield
return and meet her husband, was the next question, and where? He came
every day and spent many an hour at our house playing with his child
and wishing for his wife to return. He often said it would be almost
too much happiness for him; that he was afraid something might cross his
plans again. I had written to Savannah again to hear if the family would
return from Europe soon. At last a letter came informing me that the
family, as also Mrs. Fairfield, had embarked on a New York steamer, and
would be expected home within a short time. When Captain Fairfield heard
the good news he made arrangements not to return with his vessel to
Glasgow but await the arrival of his long lost wife. He telegraphed to
the agents in New York, desiring them to deliver a telegram at once
to Mrs. Fairfield on her arrival. The message read thus: "Mrs. Capt.
Fairfield is wanted in Montreal immediately. Important business.
Answer." In two days we had an answer which read: "Will start at once,
hope all well, Agnes Fairfield." Late in the evening the same day the
New York train arrived rather late, but with it Captain Fairfield's
wife. When the Captain saw his wife approaching he dropped the boy and
ran towards her, calling her by her name, but she no sooner saw him than
she fell senseless just inside the hall door. I would have raised her;
but shoving me aside he took her tenderly in his arms and carried her
upstairs. Then calling her by all sorts of endearing terms he conjured
here to open her eyes and speak to him. After a time she revived.
When she came to herself, she gazed wildly around the room, enquiring
eagerly, Where is he? I had persuaded Captain Fairfield to retire to
an adjoining room for a while, and then brought little George to her
pretending her enquiries were meant for him; but her mind was perfectly
clear, and she demanded an explanation. I then told her in short what
had occurred, when she broke out in an hysterical cry. I called Captain
Fairfield to her, imploring him to try and dry her tears. But he let his
head sink into his hands and wept like a child himself. Little George
did not care for this proceeding at all, so he said he rather would keep
me for his mamma because I did not cry. I hope he never will have the
tenth part of the trial both his parents had.

For some time the now happy family stayed at Montreal, but at last
Captain Fairfield had to resume his duties, but as he would never part
from his wife and child again, he took both on the steamship with him.
The parting from the dear little child George nearly broke my children's
hearts, who had looked upon him as their baby brother, and I promised to
myself then never to take a strange child into my house if I could not
keep it for ever, for even my old heart fretted after him.

The little girl in the asylum whom Captain Fairfield thought his child
he did not forget, but took with him to England on a later trip, where
Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, who had no family, adopted her. The nuns at St.
Pélagie were surprised when they heard of the mistake which was made,
but could never find out who was the young English girl who died alone
there. God has certainly taken care of her child, for it is in a good
home, well provided for, and much beloved. Captain, Mrs., and little
George Fairfield visited, before their final departure, the parents
of Arline Bertrand, on Bonaventure street, and informed them of their
existence. The old lady was so surprised that it took a long time to
explain, but she promised to let her daughter know all about it.

Captain Fairfield is not crossing the ocean any more, having received
the appointment as harbor-master in an English port. He does not want
his son George, who is in College yet, to show any liking for the sea.
But I hope to see once more before I die the young man whom we all loved
so dearly when a baby-boy.

       *       *       *       *       *


CHAPTER XV.


The Night Bell.


My night-bell was pulled very hastily, it was about two o'clock, the
night was bright, it was autumn, and, as I hastened to see who wanted me
in such a hurry, I saw two young girls sitting on my house-door steps:
both had been running very fast, the case was urgent, and the little
rest they took before the door was opened would enable them to return
all the faster. I had hardly opened the door when both commenced to beg
me in the most imploring manner to go at once with them to see a young
woman who, as they thought, must be in great distress.

I put on my outer garments, took the street and number of the house, as
the party was entirely unknown to me, and then accompanied them on their
way, which led us through Craig street East, past a beautiful field--the
same where Viger Garden is now. A few more crossings were passed, and we
arrived at the scene where my help was wanted. In front of the house
was a policeman walking to and fro. The house was medium size, built of
wood, was gray, freshly painted, and so were the green blinds. On the
road going the two girls had told me that the house where I was wanted
was not a very good one, but, if I had a heart and was a mother, for
Gael's sake not to refuse but to go with them. The presence of the
guardian of the peace encouraged me; and if I felt a little chilly at
entering a den of vice as this was it must be excusable as, till then, I
only knew of them by name and what little I had heard of them.

I was at once ushered into a little bed-room, from where the shrieks of
a female voice had come as if in great agony and in great pain. I found
a young girl not past her seventeenth year, yet in the last state of
labor,--it was a sight I shall never forget as long as I live: years
have past since then but it is as fresh in my memory as if it were
yesterday, and in my ears are the sound of her voice to help and protect
her from the inhuman abuse which another inmate of the house showered
down upon the poor victim.

I discovered that the poor young creature--we will call her Martha--had
only come to Montreal, the day previous, and, on, inquiring for a
boarding house, was driven by a carter to this den. The house being full
of occupants the landlady had made her occupy the same room with another
bad character, a great bony female about forty years of age, with
painted face, and attired in disgusting finery. This great, big,
hardened creature then gave the greatest trouble, would have me remove
my patient out of her room, even at the risk of her life, and I was
obliged to call the assistance of the policeman to have her quieted.

After a while all was quiet except the feeble cry of a little girl who
had been born. Born in a house of vice, what will became of it and its
child-mother? I such were my thoughts then, and now, after many years,
I can tell the reader what has become of them, of some of the inmates
anyhow.

The woman who kept this house I must, in truth, confess was a
good-hearted person herself, being led astray when quite young, had
never thought of the wrong she was committing by keeping a place of
this sort. She had a widowed mother living in the States and a family of
smaller brothers and sisters who depended mostly on the ill-gotten money
this unfortunate eldest sister would send them for their support. This
_Madam Flora_, then, was very kind in her way to Martha, and offered to
take the baby and bring it up if I was willing to place it out to nurse
with a respectable woman until such a time that she could take the child
herself, as she intended to give up this life of shame.

Martha was a girl well brought up, had been in school till shortly
before this episode of her life, but it was not her mother who had been
her companion during the last two years.

Her mother who was too much occupied with her smaller children and
other household affairs had thought it better to send her daughter to a
boarding-school to finish her education, and this was the end of it. If
all mothers would only take the care of their girls when fourteen years
old into their own hands a great deal of trouble might be spared to
them. The three years from the 14th to the 17th is such a critical time
for most girls, and should be passed under the care of the mother and
under her care alone, and every mother ought to try to become the best
friend of her daughter, not the stern mother who has forgotten that she
herself was young once, and who finds it too much trouble to listen to
her daughter's little tales, by which she alone is able to guide her
child, and save her in many instances from eternal destruction. Thus
poor Martha had no mother who would listen to her girlish stories. She
found plenty companions in school and very bad advisers. When the truth
of her misfortune dawned upon her, she thought of nothing but to fly
from the place to where she did not know, till the destroyer of her
virtue advised her to go to Montreal, where he would in short join and
marry her. To confess to her mother she could never, and her father she
knew would never look at her again, so she followed his advice, left her
home under some pretence, and came to the place where I found her. She
was very glad to get somebody to take the child from her, for she was
fully resolved to lead a better life, and how could she ever do it with
a baby; she was hardly fit to earn her own living. She told me that an
aunt of hers was living in Halifax, the wife of a sea captain who had
no children, and who had often written to her mother to send one of her
children to her. So she resolved to visit this aunt if some kind person
would help her to get there. I consulted with some of my wealthy and at
the same time charitable Christian friends, who have been, always ready
to help me when I had some needy patients, and with their assistance she
was sent for some weeks after her recovery, to a nice widow lady in the
country, and after receiving satisfactory information about her aunt
in Halifax she was sent there, and has, so far as we have ascertained,
never overstepped the bounds of morality again but was married four
years later to a friend of her uncle, also a sea captain. She has a
large family now, and whenever she writes to me she always prays that
God may forgive her and guide the little girl she parted so easy from
some years before.

The wife of a private soldier in the Canadian rifles, named Rice had at
the same time lost her own baby only six weeks old, and as her quarters
at the barracks were good and healthy I proposed to send the child
there, Madame Flora offering to pay all necessary expenses. I made
arrangements accordingly, and little Emma (the baby) was soon an inmate
of the barracks. But now a new trouble arose. Mrs. Rice was a sobre,
clean, industrious woman, who with the pay she received for nursing the
baby could make herself and place very comfortable. This made the less
fortunate soldiers' wives jealous, and their thoughts were bent on
nothing else for awhile but how to get the poor little waif out of
barracks. The baby thrived well under Mrs. Rice's care, but cried
at times, as all healthy babies will; but as the babies of the other
soldiers' wives never cried--so their mothers said--they would not
suffer a crybaby in the room, and such a mysterious child where nobody
knew where it came from, and could not find it out either. The larger
rooms in the barracks were in general occupied by different families,
and the one where Mrs. Rice had her quarters was a very large one. It
was called the ship, and was occupied at this time by forty different
families. Each had a certain space, say about 12 by 14 feet, allotted to
them, and it was indeed a surprise to me how neat it was kept, and how
one woman would try to have her place in better order than the other.
Their packing boxes were converted into dressing tables, a little muslin
curtain pinned around it, a looking glass in the centre, and a few
ornaments, sea-shells or East Indian curiosities gave the whole a nice
appearance. The washing or cooking had to be done in out-houses, and
at night each family had a large curtain drawn around their respective
place, and it was really astonishing how little sickness existed
among so many men, women and children. Every morning at 10 o'clock the
officers on guard accompanied by a sergeant on duty had to visit each
respective home, and report any irregularities; and so it happened that
my baby was reported as being a great disturber of the peace. Poor Mrs.
Rice was in great trouble. She had learned to love the child, and was
afraid she would have to part with it. What was to be done? She was
ordered to appear the next morning at 12 o'clock before the commanding
officer to receive sentence for her offence. I had attended a great many
officers' ladies in this regiment, also the Colonel's lady, and was well
acquainted with that gentleman and his kind heart, so I bid Mrs. Rice
to keep quiet but dress the baby (it was then three months old) in
its little white fur jacket and cap, and bring it with her before the
officers, and promising that I would meet her there also.

On my way I met the Doctor of the Regiment, a very kind-hearted
gentleman who, on seeing me, enquired what mischief I had done. I told
him of our trouble, and begged of him to intercede for the poor baby, if
possible, and, as he was well aware that the health of Mrs. Rice was so
much improved by nursing the infant, he thought he would be able to help
us.

Mrs. Rice entered the room, the infant in her arms, the Doctor and
myself following. The colonel, on seeing such a procession enter, could
not help smiling, and as the Doctor with all his eloquence stated our
case and of the necessity for Mrs. Rice's health to nurse the baby, and
the danger to the little baby's life in changing its nurse, the Colonel,
as a father, and a true-hearted gentleman, gave not only consent for the
baby to stay in barracks, but ordered other quarters to be given to
Rice and his wife,--a whole room to themselves, where the baby could not
annoy anybody.

But my story is growing too long, I will hasten to end it. The new
quarters into which Mrs. Rice moved were near the rooms occupied by the
armor sergeant and his wife who had been long in service, and had saved
quite a little fortune, but children they had none. Both became soon so
attached to their little neighbor that they offered quite a sum of money
to Madame Flora if she would give the child over to them for adoption.
I used all influence in my power to persuade Madame Flora to give the
child up, to which she at last consented. I felt a heavy burden lifted
off my heart and conscience when the papers were lawfully made out which
gave the dear little baby into the hands of good Christian people. Now
the child had full rights to live in barracks, but its adopted father's
time was in, and he retired with a good pension which, along with his
savings, enabled him to buy a house and garden in New London, where the
baby has grown up into a fine young woman, not knowing to this day that
her dear father and mother are not her natural parents.

Madame Flora has retired from her life of shame, trying to bring up her
younger sisters in the path of virtue. One of the young girls who had
summoned me on that eventful night in such haste has also reformed, and
is living with a family as helpful servant a good many years, and she
has often told me that the events of that night were the first cause to
her for reflection. The other inmate of the house whom I mentioned, who
was so cruel and disgusting, fell lower and lower,--nothing could we do
for her--she would listen to nothing, and a sudden death ended her life
of shame.

May the Lord have mercy on her and guide me, the narrator of these
incidents, in His ways, so that when the last bell will be rung to
summon me before Him I need not hesitate but answer joyfully: I am
ready, I am ready to go.

THE END.





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