LVI. TRIAL AND TRIUMPH…

LVI. TRIAL AND TRIUMPH

Let circumstance oppose him, He bends it to his will; And if the flood o'erflows him, He dives and steins it still; No hindering dull material Shall conquer or control His energies ethereal, His gladiator soul! Let lower spirits linger, For hint and beck and nod, He always sees the finger Of an onward urging God!

--M.F. Tupper.

Like most zealous, young professional men, Ishmael did a great deal more work for his first client than either custom or duty exacted of him.

Authorized by her, he wrote to Reuben Gray to bring the children to the city.

And accordingly, in three days after, Reuben arrived at the Farmer's Rest, with his wagon full of family. For he not only brought the three little girls he was required to bring, but also Hannah, her children, and her nurse-maid Sally.

As soon as he had seen his party in comfortable quarters he walked up to the Washington House to report himself to Ishmael; for, somehow or other, Reuben had grown to look upon Ishmael as his superior officer in the battle of life, and did him honor, very much as the veteran sergeant does to the young captain of his company.

Arrived in Ishmael's room, he took off his hat and said:

"Here I am, sir; and I've brung 'em all along."

"All Mrs. Walsh's little girls, of course, for they are required," said Ishmael, shaking hands with Gray.

"Yes, and all the rest on 'em, Hannah and the little uns, and Sally and Sam," said Reuben, rubbing his hands gleefully.

"But that was a great task!" said Ishmael, in surprise.

"Well, no, it wasn't, sir; not half so hard a task as it would have been to a left them all behind, poor things. You see, sir, the reason why I brung 'em all along was because I sort o' think they love me a deal; 'pon my soul I do, sir, old and gray and rugged as I am; and I don't like to be parted from 'em, 'specially from Hannah, no, not for a day; 'cause the dear knows, sir, as we was parted long enough, poor Hannah and me; and now as we is married, and the Lord has donated us a son and daughter at the eleventh hour, unexpected, praise be unto him for all his mercies, I never mean to part with any on 'em no more, not even for a day, till death do us part, amen; but take 'em all 'long with me, wherever I'm called to go, 'specially as me and poor Hannah was married so late in life that we aint got many more years before us to be together."

"Nonsense, Uncle Reuben! You and Aunt Hannah will live forty or fifty years longer yet, and see your grandchildren, and maybe your great-grandchildren. You two are the stuff that centenarians are made of," exclaimed the young man cheeringly.

"Centenarians? what's them, sir?"

"People who live a hundred years."

"Law! Well, I have hearn of such things happening to other folks, and why not to me and poor Hannah? Why, sir, I would be the happiest man in the world, if I thought as how I had all them there years to live long o' Hannah and the little uns in this pleasant world. But his will be done!" said Gray, reverently raising his hat.

"The little girls are all right, I hope?" inquired Ishmael.

"Yes, sir; all on 'em, and a deal fatter and rosier and healthier nor they was when I fust took 'em down. Perty little darlings! Didn't they enjoy being in the country, neither, though it was the depth of winter time? Law, Ish--sir, I mean--it's a mortal sin ag'in natur' to keep chil'en in town if it can be helped! But their ma, poor thing, couldn't help it, I know. Law, Ish--sir, I mean--if you had seen her that same Christmas Day, as she ran in with her chil'en to her aunt as is hostess at the Farmer's. If ever you see a poor little white bantam trying to cover her chicks when the hawk was hovering nigh by, you may have some idea of the way she looked when she was trying to hide her chil'un and didn't know where; 'cause she daren't keep 'em at home and daren't hide 'em at her aunt's, for her home would be the first place inwaded and her aunt's the second. They was all so flustered, they took no more notice o' me standin' in the parlor 'n if I had been a pillar-post,'till feeling of pityful towards the poor things, I made so bold to go forward and offer to take 'em home 'long o' me, and which was accepted with thanks and tears as soon as the landlady recommended me as an old acquaintance and well-beknown to herself. So it was settled. That night when you come to spend the evening with us, Ish--sir, I mean--I really did feel guilty in having of a secret as I wouldn't tell you; but you see, sir, I was bound up to secrecy, and besides I thought as you was stopping in Washington City, if you knowed anythink about it you might be speened afore the court and be obliged to tell all, you know."

"You did quite right, Uncle Reuben," said Ishmael affectionately.

"You call me Uncle Reuben, sir?"

"Why not, Uncle Reuben? and why do you call me sir?"

"Well--sir, because you are a gentleman now--not but what you allers was a gentleman by natur'; but now you are one by profession. They say you have come to be a lawyer in the court, sir, and can stand up and plead before the judges theirselves."

"I have been admitted to the bar, Uncle Reuben."

"Yes, that's what they call it; see there now, you know, I'm only a poor ignorant man, and you have no call to own the like o' me for uncle, 'cause, come to the rights of it, I aint your uncle at all, sir, though your friend and well-wisher allers; and to claim the likes o' me as an uncle might do you a mischief with them as thinks riches and family and outside show and book-larning is everythink. So Ish--sir, I mean, I won't take no offense, nor likewise feel hurted, if you leaves oft calling of me uncle and calls me plain 'Gray,' like Judge Merlin does."

"Uncle Reuben," said Ishmael, with feeling, "I am very anxious to advance myself in the world, very ambitious of distinction; but if I thought worldly success would or could estrange me from the friends of my boyhood, I would cease to wish for it. If I must cease to be true, in order to be great, I prefer to remain in obscurity. Give me your hand, Uncle Reuben, and call me Ishmael, and know me for your boy."

"There, then, Ishmael! I'm glad to find you again! God bless my boy! But law! what's the use o' my axing of him to do that? He'll do it anyways, without my axing!" said Reuben, pressing the hand of Ishmael. "And now," he added, "will you be round to the Farmer's this evening to see Hannah and the young uns?"

"Yes, Uncle Reuben; but first I must go and let Mrs. Walsh know that you have brought her little girls back. I suppose she will think it best to leave them with her aunt until the day of trial."

"It will be the safest place for 'em! for besides the old lady being spunky, I shall be there to protect 'em; for I mean to stay till that same said trial and hear you make your fust speech afore the judge, and see that woman righted afore ever I goes back home again, ef it costs me fifty dollars."

"I'm afraid you will find it very expensive, Uncle Reuben."

"No, I won't, sir--Ishmael, I mean; because, you see, I fotch up a lot o' spring chickens and eggs and early vegetables, and the profits I shall get offen them will pay my expenses here at the very least," said Reuben, as he arose and stood waiting with hat in hand for Ishmael's motions.

Ishmael got up and took his own hat and gloves.

"Be you going round to see the schoolmist'ess now, sir--Ishmael, I mean?"

"Yes, Uncle Reuben."

"Well, I think I'd like to walk round with you, if you don't mind. I kind o' want to see the little woman, and I kind o' don't want to part with you just yet, sir--Ishmael, I mean."

"Come along, then, Uncle Reuben; she will be delighted to see her children's kind protector, and I shall enjoy your company on the way."

"And then, sir--Ishmael, I mean--when we have seen her, you will go back with me to the Farmer's and see Hannah and the little uns and spend the evening long of us?"

"Yes, Uncle Reuben; and I fancy Mrs. Walsh will go with us."

"Sartain, sure, so she will, sir--Ishmael, I mean."

It was too late to find her at the schoolhouse, as it would be sure to be closed at this hour. So they walked directly to the little suburban cottage where she lived with one faithful old negro servant, who had been her nurse, and with her cow and pig and poultry and her pet dog and cat. They made her heart glad with the news of the children's arrival, and they waited until, with fingers that trembled almost too much to do the work, she put on her bonnet and mantle to accompany them to the Farmer's.

The meeting between the mother and children was very affecting. She informed them that, this being Holy Thursday evening, she had dismissed the school for the Easter holidays, and so could be with them all the time until she should take them into court on Wednesday of the ensuing week.

Then in family council it was arranged that both herself and the children should remain at the Farmer's until the day of the trial.

As soon as all this matter was satisfactorily settled Ishmael arose and bid them all good-night, promising to repeat his visit often while his relatives remained at the hotel.

It was late when Ishmael reached home, but the drawing-room was ablaze with light, and as he passed its open door he saw that its only occupants were the Viscount Vincent and Claudia Merlin. They were together on the sofa, talking in low, confidential tones. How beautiful she looked! smiling up to the handsome face that was bent in deferential admiration over hers. A pang of love and jealousy wrung Ishmael's heart as he hurried past and ran up the stairs to his den. There he sat down at his desk, and, bidding vain dreams begone, concentrated his thoughts upon the work before him--the first speech he was to make at the bar.

Ishmael worked very hard the day preceding the trial; he took great pains getting up his case, not only for his own sake, but for the sake of that poor mother and her children in whom he felt so deeply interested.

No farther allusion was made to the affair by any member of Judge Merlin's family until Wednesday morning, when, as they all sat around the breakfast table, the judge said:

"Well, Ishmael, the case of Walsh versus Walsh comes on to-day, I hear. How do you feel? a little nervous over your first case, eh?"

"Not yet; I feel only great confidence in the justice of my cause, as an earnest of success."

"The justice of his cause! Poor fellow, how much he has to learn yet! Why, Ishmael, how many times have you seen justice overthrown by law?"

"Too many times, sir; but there is no earthly reason why that should happen in this case."

"Have you got your maiden speech all cut and dried and ready to deliver?"

"I have made some notes; but for the rest I shall trust to the inspiration of the instant."

"Bad plan that. 'Spose the inspiration don't come? or 'spose you lose your presence of mind? Better have your speech carefully written off, and then, inspiration or no inspiration, you will be able to read, at least."

"My notes are very carefully arranged; they contain the whole argument."

"And for the rest 'it shall be given ye in that hour, what ye shall speak,'" said Beatrice earnestly.

They all arose and left the table.

"Thank you, dearest Bee," said Ishmael, as he passed her.

"God aid you, Ishmael!" she replied fervently.

He hurried upstairs to collect his documents, and then hastened to the City Hall, where Mrs. Walsh and her children were to meet him.

He found them all in the ante-chamber of the courtroom, attended by a bodyguard composed of Reuben, Hannah, and the landlady.

He spoke a few encouraging words to his client, shook hands with the members of her party, and then took them all into the courtroom and showed them their places. The plaintiff was not present. The judges had not yet taken their seats. And the courtroom was occupied only by a few lawyers, clerks, bailiffs, constables, and other officials.

In a few minutes, however, the judges entered and took their seats; the crier opened the court, the crowd poured in, the plaintiff with his counsel made his appearance, and the business of the day commenced.

I shall not give all the details of this trial; I shall only glance at a few of them.

The courtroom was full, but not crowded; nothing short of a murder or a divorce case ever draws a crowd to such a place.

The counsel for the plaintiff was composed of three of the oldest, ablest, and most experienced members of the Washington bar. The first of these, Mr. Wiseman, was distinguished for his profound knowledge of the law, his skill in logic, and his closeness in reasoning; the second, Mr. Berners, was celebrated for his fire and eloquence; and the third, Mr. Vivian, was famous for his wit and sarcasm. Engaged on one side, they were considered invincible. To these three giants, with the law on their side, was opposed young Ishmael, with nothing but justice on his side. Bad look-out for justice! Well, so it was in that great encounter already alluded to between Brian and Ivanhoe.

Mr. Wiseman, for the plaintiff, opened the case. He was a great, big, bald-headed man, who laid down the law as a blacksmith hammers an anvil, in a clear, forcible, resounding manner, leaving the defense--as everybody declared--not a leg to stand upon.

"Oh, Mr. Worth! it is all over with me, and I shall die!" whispered Mrs. Walsh, in deadly terror.

"Have patience! his speech does not impress the court as it does you--they are used to him."

Witnesses were called, to prove as well as they could from a bad set of facts, what an excellent husband and father the plaintiff had been; how affectionate, how anxious, how zealous he was for the happiness of his wife and children--leaving it to be inferred that nothing on earth but her own evil tendencies instigated the wife to withdraw herself and children from his protection!

"Heaven and earth, Mr. Worth, did you ever hear anything like that? They manage to tell the literal truth, but so pervert it that it is worse than the worse falsehood!" exclaimed Mrs. Walsh, in a low but indignant tone.

"Aye," answered Ishmael, who sat, pencil and tablets in hand, taking notes; "aye! 'a lie that is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.' But the court is accustomed to such witnesses; they do not receive so much credit as you or they think."

Ishmael did not cross-examine these witnesses; the great mass of rebutting testimony that he could bring forward, he knew, must overwhelm them. So when the last witness for the plaintiff had been examined, he whispered a few cheering words to the trembling woman by his side, and rose for the defendant. Now, whenever a new barrister takes the floor for the first time, there is always more or less curiosity and commotion among the old fogies of the forum.

What will he turn out to be? that is the question. All eyes were turned towards him.

They saw a tall, broad-shouldered, full-chested young man, who stood, with a certain dignity, looking upon the notes that he held in his hand; and when he lifted his stately head to address the court they saw that his face was not only beautiful in the noble mold of the features, but almost divine from the inspiring soul within.

Among the eyes that gazed upon him were those of the three giants of the law whom he had now to oppose. They stared at him mercilessly--no doubt with the intention of staring him down. But they did not even confuse him; for the simple reason that he did not look towards them. They might stare themselves stone blind, but they would have no magnetic influence upon that strong, concentrated, earnest soul!

Ishmael was not in the least embarrassed in standing up to address the court for the first time, simply because he was not thinking of himself or his audience, but of his client, and her case as he wished to set it forth; and he was not looking at the spectators, but alternately at the court and at the notes in his hand.

He did not make a long opening like the Giant Wiseman had done; for he wished to reserve himself for the closing speech in final reply to the others. He just made a plain statement of his client's case as it is in part known to the reader.

He told the court how, at the age of fifteen, she had been decoyed from her mother's house and married by the plaintiff, a man more than twice her age; how when she had come into her property he had squandered it all by a method that he, the plaintiff, called speculation, but that others called gambling; how he had then left her in poverty and embarrassment and with one child to support; how he remained away two years, during which time her friends had set his wife up in business in a little fancy store. She was prospering when he came back, took up his abode with her, got into debt which he could not pay, and when all her stock and furniture was seized to satisfy his creditors, he took himself off once more, leaving her with two children. She was worse off than before; her friends grumbled, but once more came to her assistance, set her up a little book and news agency, the stock of which was nearly all purchased on credit, and told her plainly that if she permitted her husband to come and break up her business again they would abandon and leave her to her fate. Notwithstanding this warning, when at the end of seven or eight months he came back again she received him again. He stayed with her thirteen months; and suddenly disappeared without bidding her good-by, leaving her within a few weeks of becoming the mother of a third child. A few days after his disappearance another execution was put into the house to satisfy a debt contracted by him, and everything was sold under the hammer. She was reduced to the last degree of poverty; her friends held themselves aloof, disgusted at what they termed her culpable weakness; she and her children suffered from cold and hunger; and during her subsequent illness she and they must have starved and frozen but for the public charities, that would not let anyone in our midst perish from want of necessary food and fuel. When she recovered from her illness, one relative, a widow now present in court, had from her own narrow means supplied the money to rent and furnish a small schoolroom, and this most hapless of women was once more put in a way to earn daily bread for herself and children. Nine years passed, during which she enjoyed a respite from the persecutions of the plaintiff. In these nine years, by strict attention to business, untiring industry, she not only paid off the debt owed to her aged relative, but she bought a little cottage and garden in a cheap suburb, and furnished the house and stocked the garden. She was now living a laborious but contented life and rearing her children in comfort. But now at the end of nine years comes back the plaintiff. Her husband? No, her enemy! for he comes, not as he pretends, to cherish and protect; but as he ever came before, to lay waste and destroy! How long could it be supposed that the mother would be able to keep the roof over the heads of her children if the plaintiff were permitted to enter beneath it? if the court did not protect her home against his invasion, he would again bring ruin and desolation within its walls. They would prove by competent witnesses every point in this statement of the defendant's case; and then he would demand for his client, not only that she should be secured in the undisturbed possession of her children, her property, and her earnings, but that the plaintiff should be required to contribute an annual sum of money to the support of the defendant and her children, and to give security for its payment.

"That's 'carrying the war into Africa' with a vengeance," whispered Walsh to his counsel, as Ishmael concluded his address.

He then called the witnesses for the defendant. They were numerous and of the highest respectability. Among them was the pastor of her parish, her family physician, and many of the patrons of her school.

They testified to the facts stated by her attorney.

The three giants did their duty in the cross-examining line of business. Wiseman cross-examined in a stern manner; Berners in an insinuating way; and Vivian in a sarcastic style; but the only effect of their forensic skill was to bring out the truth from the witnesses--more clearly, strongly, and impressively.

When the last witness for the defendant had been permitted to leave the stand Wiseman arose to address the court on behalf of the plaintiff. He spoke in his own peculiar sledge-hammer style, sonorously striking the anvil and ringing all the changes upon law, custom, precedent, and so forth that always gave the children into the custody of the father. And he ended by demanding that the children be at once delivered over to his client.

He was followed by Berners, who had charge of the eloquence "business" of that stage, and dealt in pathos, tears, white pocket handkerchiefs, and poetical quotations. He drew a most heart-rending picture of the broken-spirited husband and father, rejected by an unforgiving wife and ill-conditioned children, becoming a friendless and houseless wanderer over the wide world; in danger of being driven, by despair, to madness and suicide! He compared the plaintiff to Byron, whose poetry he liberally quoted. And he concluded by imploring the court, with tears in his eyes, to intervene and save his unhappy client from the gulf of perdition to which his implacable wife would drive him. And he sank down in his seat utterly overwhelmed by his feelings and holding a drift of white cambric to his face.

"Am I such an out-and-out monster, Mr. Worth?" whispered Mrs. Walsh, in dismay.

Ishmael smiled.

"Everybody knows Berners--his 'madness' and 'suicide,' his 'gulf of perdition' and his white cambric pocket-handkerchief are recognized institutions. See! the judge is actually smiling over it."

Mr. Vivian arose to follow--he did up the genteel comedy; he kept on hand a supply of "little jokes" gleaned from Joe Miller, current comic literature, dinner tables, clubs, etc.--"little jokes" of which every point in his discourse continually reminded him, though his hearers could not always perceive the association of ideas. This gentleman was very facetious over family jars, which reminded him of a "little joke," which he told; he was also very witty upon the subject of matrimonial disputes in particular, which reminded him of another "little joke," which he also told; but most of all, he was amused at the caprice of womankind, who very often rather liked to be compelled to do as they pleased, which reminded him of a third "little joke." And if the court should allow the defendant the exclusive possession of her children and a separate maintenance, it was highly probable that she would not thank them for their trouble, but would take the first opportunity of voluntarily reconciling herself to her husband and giving him back herself, her home, and her children, which would be equal to any "little joke" he had ever heard in his life, etc., etc., etc.

The audience were all in a broad grin. Even Mrs. Walsh, with her lips of "life-long sadness," smiled.

"You may smile at him," said Ishmael, "and so will I, since I do not at all doubt the issue of this trial; but for all that, joker as he is, he is the most serious opponent that we have. I would rather encounter half a dozen each of Wisemans and Berners than one Vivian. Take human nature in general, it can be more easily laughed than reasoned or persuaded in or out of any measure. People would rather laugh than weep or reflect. Wiseman tries to make them reflect, which they won't do; Berners tries to make them weep, which they can't do; but Vivian with his jokes makes them laugh, which they like to do. And so, he has joked himself into a very large practice at the Washington bar."

But the facetious barrister was bringing his speech to a close, with a brilliant little joke that eclipsed all the preceding ones and set the audience in a roar. And when the laughter had subsided, he finally ended by expressing a hope that the court would not so seriously disappoint and so cruelly wrong the defendant as by giving a decision in her favor.

LVII. THE YOUNG CHAMPION

Then uprose Gismond; and she knew That she was saved. Some never met His face before; but at first view They felt quite sure that God had set Himself to Satan; who could spend A minute's mistrust on the end?

This pleased her most, that she enjoyed The heart of her joy, with her content In watching Gismond, unalloyed By any doubt of the event; God took that on him--she was bid Watch Gismond for her part! She did.

--Browning.

Ishmael waited a few minutes for the excitement produced by the last address to subside--the last address that in its qualities and effects had resembled champagne--sparkling but transient, effervescent but evanescent. And when order had been restored Ishmael arose amid a profound silence to make his maiden speech, for the few opening remarks he had made in initiating the defense could scarcely be called a speech. Once more then all eyes were fixed upon him in expectancy. And, as before, he was undisturbed by these regards because he was unconscious of them; and he was calm because he was not thinking of himself or of the figure he was making, but of his client and her cause. He did not care to impress the crowd, he only wished to affect the court. So little did he think of the spectators in the room, that he did not observe that Judge Merlin, Claudia, and Beatrice were among them, seated in a distant corner--Judge Merlin and Claudia were watching him with curiosity, and Bee with the most affectionate anxiety. His attention was confined to the judges, the counsel, his client, and the memoranda in his hand. He had a strong confidence in the justice of his cause; perfect faith in the providence of God; and sanguine hopes of success.

True, he had arrayed against him an almost overpowering force: the husband of his client, and the three great guns of the bar--Wiseman, Berners, and Vivian, with law, custom, and precedent. But with him stood the angels of Justice and Mercy, invisible, but mighty; and, over all, the Omnipotent God, unseen, but all-seeing!

Ishmael possessed the minor advantages of youth, manly beauty, a commanding presence, a gracious smile, and a sweet, deep, sonorous voice. He was besides a new orator among them, with a fresh original style.

He was no paid attorney; it was not his pocket that was interested, but his sympathies; his whole heart and soul were in the cause that he had embraced, and he brought to bear upon it all the genius of his powerful mind.

I would like to give you the whole of this great speech that woke up the Washington court from its state of semi-somnolency and roused it to the sense of the unjust and cruel things it sometimes did when talking in its sleep. But I have only time and space to glance at some of its points; and if anyone wishes to see more of it, it may be found in the published works of the great jurist and orator.

He began to speak with modest confidence and in clear, concise, and earnest terms. He said that the court had heard from the learned counsel that had preceded him a great deal of law, sentiment, and wit. From him they should now hear of justice, mercy, and truth!

He reverted to the story of the woman's wrongs, sufferings, and struggles, continued through many years; he spoke of her love, patience, and forbearance under the severest trials; he dwelt upon the prolonged absence of her husband, prolonged through so many weary years, and the false position of the forsaken wife, a position so much worse than widowhood, inasmuch as it exposed her not only to all the evils of poverty, but to suspicion, calumny, and insult. But he bade them note how the woman had passed through the fire unharmed; how she had fought the battle of life bravely and come out victoriously; how she had labored on in honorable industry for years, until she had secured a home for herself and little girls. He spoke plainly of the arrival of the fugitive husband as the coming of the destroyer who had three times before laid waste her home; he described the terror and distress his very presence in the city had brought to that little home; the flight of the mother with her children, and her agony of anxiety to conceal them; he dwelt upon the cruel position of the woman whose natural protector has become her natural enemy; he reminded the court that it had required the mother to take her trembling little ones from their places of safety and concealment and to bring them forward; and now that they were here he felt a perfect confidence that the court would extend the aegis of its authority over these helpless ones, since that would be the only shield they could have under heaven. He spoke noble words in behalf not only of his client, but of woman--woman, loving, feeble, and oppressed from the beginning of time--woman, hardly dealt with by nature in the first place, and by the laws, made by her natural lover and protector, man, in the second place. Perhaps it was because he knew himself to be the son of a woman only, even as his Master had been before him, that he poured so much of awakening, convicting, and condemning fire, force, and weight into this part of his discourse. He uttered thoughts and feelings upon this subject, original and startling at that time, but which have since been quoted, both in the Old and New World, and have had power to modify those cruel laws which at that period made woman, despite her understanding intellect, an idiot, and despite her loving heart a chattel--in the law.

It had been the time-honored prerogative and the invariable custom of the learned judges of this court to go to sleep during the pleadings of the lawyers; but upon this occasion they did not indulge in an afternoon nap, I assure you!

He next reviewed the testimony of the witnesses of the plaintiff; complimented them on the ingenuity they had displayed in making "the worst appear the better cause," by telling half the truth and ignoring the other half; but warned the court at the same time

"That a lie which is half a truth, is ever the blackest of lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright; But a lie which is part a truth, is a harder matter to fight."

Then he reviewed in turn the speeches of the counsel for the plaintiff--first that of Wiseman, the ponderous law-expounder, which he answered with quite as much law and a great deal more equity; secondly, that of Berners, the tear-pumper, the false sentiment of which he exposed and criticised; and thirdly that of Vivian, the laugh-provoker, with which he dealt the most severely of all, saying that one who could turn into jest the most sacred affections and most serious troubles of domestic life, the heart's tragedy, the household wreck before them, could be capable of telling funny stories at his father's funeral, uttering good jokes over his mother's coffin.

He spoke for two hours, warming, glowing, rising with his subject, until his very form seemed to dilate in grandeur, and his face grew radiant as the face of an archangel; and those who heard seemed to think that his lips like those of the prophet of old had been touched with fire from heaven. Under the inspiration of the hour, he spoke truths new and startling then, but which have since resounded through the senate chambers of the world, changing the laws of the nations in regard to woman.

Nora, do you see your son? Oh, was it not well worth while to have loved, suffered, and died, only to have given him to the world!

It was a complete success. All his long, patient, painful years of struggle were rewarded now. It was one splendid leap from obscurity to fame.

The giants attempted to answer him, but it was of no use. After the freshness, the fire, the force, the heart, soul, and life in Ishmael's utterances, their old, familiar, well-worn styles, in which the same arguments, pathos, wit that had done duty in so many other cases was paraded again, only bored their hearers. In vain Wiseman appealed to reason; Berners to feeling; and Vivian to humor; they would not do: the court had often heard all that before, and grown heartily tired of it. Wiseman's wisdom was found to be foolishness; Berner's pathos laughable; and Vivian's humor grievous.

The triumvirate of the Washington bar were dethroned, and Prince Ishmael reigned in their stead.

A few hours later the decision of the court was made known. It had granted all that the young advocate had asked for his client--the exclusive possession of her children, her property, and her earnings, and also alimony from her husband.

As Ishmael passed out of the court amid the tearful thanks of the mother and her children, and the proud congratulations of honest Reuben and Hannah, he neared the group composed of Judge Merlin, Claudia, and Beatrice.

Judge Merlin looked smiling and congratulatory; he shook hands with young barrister, saying:

"Well, Ishmael, you have rather waked up the world to-day, haven't you?"

Bee looked perfectly radiant with joy. Her fingers closed spasmodically on the hand that Ishmael offered her, and she exclaimed a little incoherently:

"Oh, Ishmael, I always knew you could! I am so happy!"

"Thank you, dearest Bee! Under Divine Providence I owe a great deal of my success to-day to your sympathy."

Claudia did not speak; she was deadly pale and cold; her face was like marble and her hand like ice, as she gave it to Ishmael. She had always appreciated and loved him against her will; but now, in this hour of his triumph, when he had discovered to the world his real power and worth, her love rose to an anguish of longing that she knew her pride must forever deny; and so when Ishmael took her hand and looked in her face for the words of sympathy that his heart was hungering to receive from her of all the world, she could not speak.

Ishmael passed out with his friends. When he had gone, a stranger who had been watching him with the deepest interest during the whole course of the trial, now came forward, and, with an agitation impossible to conceal, hastily inquired:

"Judge Merlin, for Heaven's sake! who is that young man?"

"Eh! what! Brudenell, you here! When did you arrive?"

"This morning! But for the love of Heaven who is that young man?"

"Who? why the most talented young barrister of the day--a future chief justice, attorney-general, President of the United States, for aught I know! It looks like it, for whatever may be the aspirations of the boy, his intellect and will are sure to realize them!"

"Yes, but who is he? what is his name? who were his parents? where was he born?" demanded Herman Brudenell excitedly.

"Why, the Lord bless my soul alive, man! He is a self-made barrister; his name is Ishmael Worth; his mother was a poor weaver girl named Nora Worth; his father was an unknown scoundrel; he was born at a little hut near--Why, Brudenell, you ought to know all about it--near Brudenell Hall!"

"Heaven and earth!"

"What is the matter?"

"The close room--the crowd--and this oppression of the chest that I have had so many years!" gasped Herman Brudenell.

"Get into my carriage and come home with us. Come--I will take no denial! The hotels are overcrowded. We can send for your luggage. Come!"

"Thank you; I think I will."

"Claudia! Beatrice! come forward, my dears. Here is Mr. Brudenell."

Courtesies were exchanged, and they all went out and entered the carriage.

"I will introduce you to this young man, who has so much interested you, and all the world, in fact, I suppose. He is living with us; and he will be a lion from to-day, I assure you," said the judge, as soon as they were all seated.

"Thank you! I was interested in--in those two poor sisters. One died--what has become of the other?"

"She married my overseer, Gray; they are doing well. They are in the city on a visit at present, stopping at the Farmer's, opposite Center Market."

"Who educated this young man?"

"Himself."

"Did this unknown father make no provision for him?"

"None--the rascal! The boy was as poor as poverty could make him; but he worked for his own living from the time he was seven years old."

Herman had feared as much, for he doubted the check he had written and left for Hannah had ever been presented and cashed, for in the balancing of his bankbook he never saw it among the others.

Meanwhile Ishmael had parted with his friends and gone home to the Washington House. He knew that he had had a glorious success; but he took no vain credit to himself; he was only happy that his service had been a free offering to a good cause; and very thankful that it had been crowned with victory. And when he reached home he went up to his little chamber, knelt down in humble gratitude, and rendered all the glory to God!

LVIII. HERMAN BRUDENELL

My son! I seem to breathe that word, In utterance more clear Than other words, more slowly round I move my lips, to keep the sound Still lingering in my ear.

For were my lonely life allowed To claim that gifted son, I should be met by straining eyes, Welcoming tears and grateful sighs To hallow my return.

But between me and that dear son There lies a bar, I feel, More hard to pass, more girt with awe, Than any power of injured law, Or front of bristling steel.

--Milnes.

When the carriage containing Judge Merlin, Claudia, Beatrice, and Mr. Brudenell reached the Washington House the party separated in the hall; the ladies went each to her own chamber to dress for dinner, and Judge Merlin called a servant to show Mr. Brudenell to a spare room, and then went to his own apartment.

When Herman Brudenell had dismissed his attendant and found himself alone he sat down in deep thought.

Since the death of Nora he had been a wanderer over the face of the earth. The revenues of his estate had been mostly paid over to his mother for the benefit of herself and her daughters, yet had scarcely been sufficient for the pride, vanity, and extravagance of those foolish women, who, living in Paris and introduced into court circles by the American minister, aped the style of the wealthiest among the French aristocracy, and indulged in the most expensive establishment, equipage, retinue, dress, jewelry, balls, etc., in the hope of securing alliances among the old nobility of France.

They might as well have gambled for thrones. The princes, dukes, marquises, and counts drank their wines, ate their dinners, danced at their balls, kissed their hands, and--laughed at them!

The reason was this: the Misses Brudenell, though well-born, pretty, and accomplished, were not wealthy, and were even suspected of being heavily in debt, because of all this show.

And I would here inform my ambitious American readers who go abroad in search of titled husbands whom they cannot find at home, that what is going on in Paris then is going on in all the Old World capitals now; and that now, when foreign noblemen marry American girls, it is because the former want money and the latter have it. If there is any exception to this rule, I, for one, never heard of it.

And so the Misses Brudenell, failing to marry into the nobility, were not married at all.

The expenditures of the mother and daughters in this speculation were enormous, so much so that at length Herman Brudenell, reckless as he was, became alarmed at finding himself on the very verge of insolvency!

He had signed so many blank checks, which his mother and sisters had filled up with figures so much higher than he had reckoned upon, that at last his Paris bankers had written to him informing him that his account had been so long and so much overdrawn that they had been obliged to decline cashing his last checks.

It was this that had startled Herman Brudenell out of his lethargy and goaded him to look into his affairs. After examining his account with his Paris banker with very unsatisfactory results, he determined to retrench his own personal expenses, to arrange his estates upon the most productive plan, and to let out Brudenell Hall.

He wrote to the Countess of Hurstmonceux, requesting her to vacate the premises, and to his land-agent instructing him to let the estate.

In due course of time he received answers to both his letters. That of the countess we have already seen; that of the land-agent informing him of the vast improvement of the estate during the residence of the Countess of Hurstmonceux upon it, and of the accumulation of its revenues, and finally of the large sum placed to his credit in the local bank by her ladyship.

This sum, of course, every sentiment of honor forbade Herman Brudenell from appropriating. He therefore caused it to be withdrawn and deposited with Lady Hurstmonceux's London bankers.

Soon after this he received notice that Brudenell Hall, stocked and furnished as it was, had been let to Mr. Middleton.

The accumulated revenues of the estate he devoted to paying his mother's debts, and the current revenues to her support, warning her at the same time of impending embarrassments unless her expenses were retrenched.

But the warning was unheeded, and the folly and extravagance of his mother and sisters were unabated. Like all other desperate gamblers, the heavier their losses the greater became their stakes; they went on living in the best hotels, keeping the most expensive servants, driving the purest blooded horses, wearing the richest dresses and the rarest jewels, giving the grandest balls, and--to use a common but strong phrase--"going it with a rush!" All in the desperate hope of securing for the young ladies wealthy husbands from among the titled aristocracy.

At length came another crisis; and once more Herman Brudenell was compelled to intervene between them and ruin. This he did at a vast sacrifice of property.

He wrote and gave Mr. Middleton warning to leave Brudenell Hall at the end of the year, because, he said, that he himself wished to return thither.

He did return thither; but it was only to sell off, gradually and privately, all the stock on the home-farm, all the plate, rich furniture, rare pictures, statues, vases, and articles of virtu in the house, and all the old plantation negroes--ancient servants who had lived for generations on the premises.

While he was at this work he instituted cautious inquiries about "one of the tenants, Hannah Worth, the weaver, who lived at Hill hut, with her nephew"; and he learned that Hannah was prosperously married to Reuben Gray and had left the neighborhood with her nephew, who had received a good education from Mr. Middleton's family school. Brudenell subsequently received a letter from Mr. Middleton himself, recommending to his favorable notice "a young man named Ishmael Worth, living on the Brudenell estates."

But as the youth had left the neighborhood with his relatives, and as Mr. Brudenell really hoped that he was well provided for by the large sum of money for which he had given Hannah a check on the day of his departure, and as he was overwhelmed with business cares, and lastly, as he dreaded rather than desired a meeting with his unknown son, he deferred seeking him out.

When Brudenell Hall was entirely dismantled, and all the furniture of the house, the stock of the farm, and the negroes of the plantation, and all the land except a few acres immediately around the house had been sold, and the purchase money realized, he returned to Paris, settled his mother's debts, and warning her that they had now barely sufficient to support them in moderate comfort, entreated her to return and live quietly at Brudenell Hall.

But no! "If they were poor, so much the more reason why the girls should marry rich," argued Mrs. Brudenell; and instead of retrenching her expenses, she merely changed the scene of her operations from Paris to London, forgetting the fact everyone else remembered, that her "girls," though still handsome, because well preserved, were now mature women of thirty-two and thirty-five. Herman promised to give them the whole proceeds of his property, reserving to himself barely enough to live on in the most economical manner. And he let Brudenell Hall once more, and took up his abode at a cheap watering-place on the continent, where he remained for years, passing his time in reading, fishing, boating, and other idle seaside pastimes, until he was startled from his repose by a letter from his mother--a letter full of anguish, telling him that her younger daughter, Eleanor, had fled from home in company with a certain Captain Dugald, and that she had traced them to Liverpool, whence they had sailed for New Tork, and entreated him to follow and if possible save his sister.

Upon this miserable errand he had revisited his native country. He had found no such name as Dugald in any of the lists of passengers arrived within the specified time by any of the ocean steamers from Liverpool to New York, and no such name on any of the hotel books; so he left the matter in the hands of a skillful detective, and came down to Washington, in the hope of finding the fugitives here.

On his first walk out he had been attracted by the crowd around the City Hall; had learned that an interesting trial was going on; and that some strange, new lawyer was making a great speech. He had gone in, and on turning his eyes towards the young barrister had been thunderstruck on being confronted by what seemed to him the living face of Nora Worth, elevated to masculine grandeur. Those were Nora's lips, so beautiful in form, color, and expression; Nora's splendid eyes, that blazed with indignation, or melted with pity, or smiled with humor; Nora's magnificent breadth of brow, spanning from temple to temple. He saw in these remarkable features so much of the likeness of Nora, that he failed to see, in the height of the forehead, the outline of the profile, and the occasional expression of the countenance, the striking likeness of himself.

He had been spellbound by this, and by the eloquence of the young barrister until the end of the speech, when he had hastened to Judge Merlin and demanded the name and the history of the debutante.

And the answer had confirmed the prophetic instincts of his heart--this rising star of the forum was Nora's son!

Nora's son, born in the depths of poverty and shame; panting from the hour of his birth for the very breath of life; working from the days of his infancy for daily bread; striving from the years of his boyhood for knowledge; struggling by the most marvelous series of persevering effort out of the slough of infamy into which he had been cast, to his present height of honor! Scarcely twenty-one years old and already recognized not only as the most gifted and promising young member of the bar, but as a rising power among the people.

How proud he, the childless man, would be to own his share in Nora's gifted son, if in doing so he could avoid digging up the old, cruel reproach, the old, forgotten scandal! How proud to hail Ishmael Worth as Ishmael Brudenell!

But this he knew could never, never be. Every principle of honor, delicacy, and prudence forbade him now to interfere in the destiny of Nora's long-ignorant and neglected, but gifted and rising son. With what face could he, the decayed, impoverished, almost forgotten master of Brudenell Hall go to this brilliant young barrister, who had just made a splendid debut and achieved a dazzling success, and say to him:

"I am your father!"

And how should he explain such a relationship to the astonished young man? At making the dreadful confession, he felt that he should be likely to drop at the feet of his own son.

No! Ishmael Worth must remain Ishmael Worth. If he fulfilled the promise of his youth, it would not be his father's name, but his young mother's maiden name which would become illustrious in his person.

And yet, from the first moment of his seeing Ishmael and identifying him as Nora's son, he felt an irresistible desire to meet him face to face, to shake hands with him, to talk with him, to become acquainted with him, to be friends with him.

It was this longing that urged Mr. Brudenell to accept Judge Merlin's invitation and accompany the latter home. And now in a few moments this longing would be gratified.

In the midst of all other troubled thoughts one question perplexed him. It was this: What had become of the check he had given Hannah in the hour of his departure years ago?

That it had never been presented and cashed two circumstances led him to fear. The first was that he had never seen it among those returned to him when his bankbook had been made up; and the second was that Hannah had shared the bitter poverty of her nephew, and therefore could not have received and appropriated the money to her own uses.

As he had learned from the judge that Hannah was in Washington, he resolved to seek a private interview with her, and ascertain what had become of the check, and why, with the large sum of money it represented, she had neglected to use it, and permitted herself and her nephew to suffer all the evils of the most abject poverty.

LIX. FIRST MEETING OF FATHER AND SON

Oh, Christ! that thus a son should stand Before a father's face.

--Byron.

While Mr. Brudenell still ruminated over these affairs the second dinner-bell rang, and almost at the same moment Judge Merlin rapped and entered the chamber, with old-fashioned hospitality, to show his guest the way to the drawing room.

"You feel better, I hope, Brudenell?" he inquired.

"Yes, thank you, judge."

"Come then. We will go down. We are a little behind time at best this evening, upon account of our young friend's long-winded address. It was a splendid affair, though. Worth waiting to hear, was it not?" proudly inquired the judge as they descended the stairs.

They entered the drawing room.

It was a family party that was assembled there, with the sole exception of the Viscount Vincent, who indeed had become a daily visitor, a recognized suitor of Miss Merlin, and almost one of their set.

As soon as Mr. Brudenell had paid his respects to each member of the family, Lord Vincent advanced frankly and cordially to greet him as an old acquaintance, saying:

"I had just learned from Miss Merlin of your arrival. You must have left London very soon after I did."

Before Mr. Brudenell could reply, Judge Merlin came up with Ishmael and said:

"Lord Vincent, excuse me. Mr. Brudenell, permit me--Mr. Worth, of the Washington bar."

Herman Brudenell turned and confronted Ishmael Worth. And father and son stood face to face.

Herman's face was quivering with irrepressible yet unspeakable emotion; Ishmael's countenance was serene and smiling.

No faintest instinct warned Nora's son that he stood in the presence of his father. He saw before him a tall, thin, fair-complexioned, gentlemanly person, whose light hair was slightly silvered, and whose dark brown eyes, in such strange contrast to the blond hair, were bent with interest upon him.

"I am happy to make your acquaintance, young gentleman. Permit me to offer you my congratulations upon your very decided success," said Mr. Brudenell, giving his hand.

Ishmael bowed.

"Brudenell, will you take my daughter in to dinner?" said Judge Merlin, seeing that Lord Vincent had already given his arm to Mrs. Middleton.

Herman, glad to be relieved from a position that was beginning to overcome his self-possession, bowed to Miss Merlin, who smilingly accepted his escort.

Judge Merlin drew Bee's arm within his own and followed. And Mr. Middleton, with a comic smile, crooked his elbow to Ishmael, who laughed instead of accepting it, and those two walking side by side brought up the rear.

That dinner passed very much as other dinners of the same class. Judge Merlin was cordial, Mr. Middleton facetious, Lord Vincent gracious, Mr. Brudenell silent and apparently abstracted, and Ishmael was attentive--a listener rather than a speaker. The ladies as usual at dinner-parties, where the conversation turns upon politics, were rather in the background, and took an early opportunity of withdrawing from the table, leaving the gentlemen to finish their political discussion over their wine.

The latter, however, did not linger long; but soon followed the ladies to the drawing room, where coffee was served. And soon after the party separated for the evening. Herman Brudenell withdrew to his chamber with one idea occupying him--his son. Since the death of Nora had paralyzed his affections, Herman Brudenell had loved no creature on earth until he met her son upon this evening. Now the frozen love of years melted and flowed into one strong, impetuous stream towards him--her son--his son! Oh, that he might dare to claim him!

It was late when Mr. Brudenell fell asleep--so late that he overslept himself in the morning. And when at last he awoke he was surprised to find that it was ten o'clock.

But Judge Merlin's house was "liberty hall." His guests breakfasted when they got up, and got up when they awoke. It was one of his crochets never to have anyone awakened. He said that when people had had sleep enough, they would awaken of themselves, and to awaken them before that was an injurious interference with nature. And his standing order in regard to himself was, that no one should ever arouse him from sleep unless the house was on fire, or someone at the point of death. And woe betide anyone who should disregard this order!

So Mr. Brudenell had been allowed to sleep until he woke up at ten o'clock, and when he went downstairs at eleven he found a warm breakfast awaiting him, and the little housewife, Bee, presiding over the coffee.

As Bee poured out his coffee she informed him, in answer to his remarks, that all the members of the family had breakfasted and gone about their several affairs. The judge and Ishmael had gone to court, and Mrs. Middleton and Claudia on a shopping expedition; but they would all be back at the luncheon hour, which was two o'clock.

LX. HERMAN AND HANNAH

She had the passions of her herd. She spake some bitter truths that day, Indeed he caught one ugly word, Was scarcely fit for her to say!

--Anon.

When breakfast was over Mr. Brudenell took his hat and walked down the Avenue to Seventh Street, and to the Farmer's in search of Hannah.

In answer to his inquiries he was told that she was in, and he was desired to walk up to her room. A servant preceding him, opened a door, and said:

"Here is a ge'man to see you, mum."

And Mr. Brudenell entered.

Hannah looked, dropped the needlework she held in her hand, started up, overturning the chair, and with a stare of consternation exclaimed:

"The Lord deliver us! is it you? And hasn't the devil got you yet, Herman Brudenell?"

"It is I, Hannah," he answered, dropping without invitation into the nearest seat.

"And what on earth have you come for, after all these years?" she asked, continuing to stare at him.

"To see you, Hannah."

"And what in the name of common sense do you want to see me for? I don't want to see you; that I tell you plainly; for I'd just as lief see Old Nick!"

"Hannah," said Herman Brudenell, with an unusual assumption of dignity, "I have come to speak to you about--Are you quite alone?" he suddenly broke off and inquired, cautiously glancing around the room.

"What's that to you? What can you have to say to me that you could not shout from the housetop? Yes, I'm alone, if you must know!"

"Then I wish to speak to you about my son."

"Your--what?" demanded Hannah, with a frown as black as midnight.

"My son," repeated Herman Brudenell, with emphasis.

"Your son? What son? I didn't know you had a son! What should I know about your son?"

"Woman, stop this! I speak of my son, Ishmael Worth--whom I met for the first time in the courtroom yesterday! And I ask you how it has fared with him these many years?" demanded Mr. Brudenell sternly, for he was beginning to lose patience with Hannah.

"Oh--h! So you met Ishmael Worth in the courtroom yesterday, just when he had proved himself to be the most talented man there, did you? That accounts for it all. I understand it now! You could leave him in his helpless, impoverished, orphaned infancy to perish! You could utterly neglect him, letting him suffer with cold and hunger and sickness for years and years and years! And now that, by the blessing of Almighty God, he has worked himself up out of that horrible pit into the open air of the world; and now that from being a poor, despised outcast babe he has risen to be a man of note among men; now, forsooth, you want to claim him as your son! Herman Brudenell, I always hated you, but now I scorn you! Twenty odd years ago I would have killed you, only I didn't want to kill your soul as well as your body, nor likewise to be hanged for you! And now I would shy this stick of wood at your head only that I don't want Reuben Gray to have the mortification of seeing his wife took up for assault! But I hate you, Herman Brudenell! And I despise you! There! take yourself out of my sight!"

Mr. Brudenell stamped impatiently and said:

"Hannah, you speak angrily, and therefore, foolishly. What good could accrue to me, or to him, by my claiming Ishmael as my son, unless I could prove a marriage with his mother? It would only unearth the old, cruel, unmerited scandal now forgotten! No, Hannah; to you only, who are the sole living depository of the secret, will I solace myself by speaking of him as my son! You reproach me with having left him to perish. I did not so. I left in your hands a check for several--I forget how many--thousand dollars to be used for his benefit. And I always hoped that he was well provided for until yesterday, when Judge Merlin, little thinking the interest I had in the story, gave me a sketch of Ishmael's early sufferings and struggles. And now I ask you what became of that check?"

"That check? What check? What in the world do you mean?"

"The check for several thousand dollars which I gave you on the day of my departure, to be used for Ishmael's benefit."

"Well, Herman Brudenell! I always thought, with all your faults, you were still a man of truth; but after this--"

And Hannah finished by lifting her hands and eyes in horror.

"Hannah, you do severely try my temper, but in memory of all your kindness to my son--"

"Oh! I wasn't kind to him! I was as bad to him as you, and all the rest! I wished him dead, and neglected him!"

"You did!"

"Of course! Could anybody expect me to care more for him than his own father did? Yes, I wished him dead, and neglected him, because I thought he had no right to be in the world, and would be better out of it! So did everyone else. But he sucked his little, skinny thumb, and looked alive at us with his big, bright eyes, and lived in defiance of everybody. And only see what he has lived to be! But it is the good Lord's doings and not mine, and not yours, Herman Brudenell, so don't thank me anymore for kindness that I never showed to Ishmael, and don't tell any more bragging lies about the checks for thousands of dollars that you never left him!"

Again Herman Brudenell stamped impatiently, frowned, bit his lips, and said:

"You shall not goad me to anger with the two-edged sword of your tongue, Hannah! You are unjust, because you are utterly mistaken in your premises! I did leave that check of which I speak! And I wish to know what became of it, that it was not used for the support and education of Ishmael. Listen, now, and I will bring the whole circumstance to your recollection."

And Herman Brudenell related in detail all the little incidents connected with his drawing of the check, ending with: "Now don't you remember, Hannah?"

Hannah looked surprised, and said:

"Yes, but was that little bit of dirty white paper, tore out of an old book, worth all that money?"

"Yes! after I had drawn a check upon it!"

"I didn't know! I didn't understand! I was sort o' dazed with grief, I suppose."

"But what became of the paper, Hannah?"

"Mrs. Jones lit the candle with it!"

"Oh! Hannah!"

"Was the money all lost? entirely lost because that little bit of paper was burnt?"

"To you and to Ishmael it was, of course, since you never received it; but to me it was not, since it was never drawn from the bank."

"Well, then, Mr. Brudenell, since the money was not lost, I do not so much care if the check was burnt! I should not have used it for myself, or Ishmael, anyhow! Though I am glad to know that you did not neglect him, and leave him to perish in destitution, as I supposed you had! I am very glad you took measures for his benefit, although he never profited by them, and I never would have let him do so. Still, it is pleasant to think that you did your duty; and I am sorry I was so unjust to you, Mr. Brudenell."

"Say no more of that, Hannah. Let us talk of my son. Remember that it is only to you that I can talk of him. Tell me all about his infancy and childhood. Tell me little anecdotes of him. I want to know more about him than the judge could tell me. I know old women love to gossip at great length of old times, so gossip away, Hannah--tell me everything. You shall have a most interested listener."

"'Old women,' indeed! Not so very much older than yourself, Mr. Herman Brudenell--if it comes to that! But anyways, if Reuben don't see as I am old, you needn't hit me in the teeth with it!" snapped Mrs. Gray.

"Hannah, Hannah, what a temper you have got, to be sure! It is well Reuben is as patient as Job."

"It is enough to rouse any woman's temper to be called old to her very face!"

"So it is, Hannah; I admit it, and beg your pardon. But nothing was farther from my thoughts than to offend you. I feel old myself--very old, and so I naturally think of the companions of my youth as old also. And now, will you talk to me about my son?"

"Well, yes, I will," answered Hannah, and her tongue being loosened upon the subject, she gave Mr. Brudenell all the incidents and anecdotes with which the reader is already acquainted, and a great many more with which I could not cumber this story.

While she was still "gossiping," and Herman all attention, steps were heard without, and the door opened, and Reuben Gray entered, smiling and radiant, and leading two robust children--a boy and a girl--each with a little basket of early fruit in hand.

On seeing a stranger Reuben Gray took off his hat, and the children stopped short, put their fingers in their mouths and stared.

"Reuben, have you forgotten our old landlord, Mr. Herman Brudenell?" inquired Hannah.

"Why, law, so it is! I'm main glad to see you, sir! I hope I find you well!" exclaimed Reuben, beaming all over with welcome, as Mr. Brudenell arose and shook hands with him, replying:

"Quite well, and very happy to see you, Gray."

"John and Mary, where are your manners? Take your fingers out of your mouths this minute,--I'm quite ashamed of you!--and bow to the gentleman," said Hannah, admonishing her offspring.

"Whose fine children are these?" inquired Mr. Brudenell, drawing the shy little ones to him.

Reuben's honest face glowed all over with pride and joy as he answered:

"They are ours, sir! they are indeed! though you mightn't think it, to look at them and us! And Ishmael--that is our nephew, sir--and though he is now Mr. Worth, and a splendid lawyer, he won't turn agin his plain kin, nor hear to our calling of him anythink else but Ishmael; and after making his great speech yesterday, actilly walked right out'n the courtroom, afore all the people, arm in arm long o' Hannah!--Ishmael, as I was a-saying, tells me as how this boy, John, have got a good head, and would make a fine scollard, and how, by-and-by, he means to take him for a stoodient, and make a lawyer on him. And as for the girl, sir--why, law! look at her! you can see for yourself, sir, as she will have all her mother's beauty."

And Reuben, with a broad, brown hand laid benignantly upon each little head, smiled down upon the children of his age with all the glowing effulgence of an autumnal noonday sun shining down upon the late flowers.

But--poor Hannah's "beauty"!

Mr. Brudenell repressed the smile that rose to his lips, for he felt that the innocent illusions of honest affection were far too sacred to be laughed at.

And with some well-deserved compliments to the health and intelligence of the boy and girl, he kissed them both, shook hands with Hannah and Reuben, and went away.

He turned his steps towards the City Hall, with the intention of going into the courtroom and comforting his soul by watching the son whom he durst not acknowledge.

And as he walked thither, how he envied humble Reuben Gray his parental happiness!

LXI. ENVY

Well! blot him black with slander's ink, He stands as white as snow! You serve him better than you think And kinder than you know; What? is it not some credit then, That he provokes your blame? This merely, with all better men, Is quite a kind of fame!

--M.F. Tupper.

Mr. Brudenell found Ishmael in the anteroom of the court in close conversation with a client, an elderly, care-worn woman in widow's weeds. He caught a few words of her discourse, to which Ishmael appeared to be listening with sympathy.

"Yes, sir, Maine; we belong to Bangor. He went to California some years ago and made money. And he was on his way home and got as far as this city, where he was taken ill with the cholera, at his brother's house, where he died before I could get to him; leaving three hundred thousand dollars, all in California gold, which his brother refuses to give up, denying all knowledge of it. It is robbery of the widow and orphan, sir, and nothing short of that!"--she was saying.

"If this is as you state it, it would seem to be a case for a detective policeman and a criminal prosecution, rather than for an attorney and a civil suit," said Ishmael.

"So it ought to be, sir, for he deserves punishment; but I have been advised to sue him, and I mean to do it, if you will take my case. But if you do take it, sir, it must be on conditions."

"Yes. What are they?"

"Why, if you do not recover the money, you will not receive any pay; but if you do recover the money, you will receive a very large share of it yourself, as a compensation for your services and your risk."

"I cannot take your case on these terms, madam; I cannot accept a conditional fee," said Ishmael gently.

"Then what shall I do?" exclaimed the widow, bursting into tears. "I have no money, and shall not have any until I get that! And how can I get that unless I sue for it? Or how sue for it, unless you are willing to take the risk? Do, sir, try it! It will be no risk, after all; you will be sure to gain it!"

"It is not the risk that I object to, madam," said Ishmael very gently, "but it is this--to make my fee out of my case would appear to me a sort of professional gambling, from which I should shrink."

"Then, Heaven help me, what shall I do?" exclaimed the widow, weeping afresh.

"Do not distress yourself. I will call and see you this afternoon. And if your case is what you represent it to be, I will undertake to conduct it," said Ishmael. And in that moment he made up his mind that if he should find the widow's cause a just one, he would once more make a free offering of his services.

The new client thanked him, gave her address, and departed.

Ishmael turned to go into the courtroom, and found himself confronted with Mr. Brudenell.

"Good-morning, Mr. Worth! I see you have another client already."

"A possible one, sir," replied Ishmael, smiling with satisfaction as he shook hands with Mr. Brudenell.

"A poor one, you mean! Poor widows with claims always make a prey of young lawyers, who are supposed to be willing to plead for nothing, rather than not plead at all! And it is all very well, as it gives the latter an opening. But you are not one of those briefless lawyers; you have already made your mark in the world, and so you must not permit these female forlornities that haunt the courts to consume all your time and attention."

"Sir," said Ishmael gravely and fervently, "I owe so much to God--so much more than I can ever hope to pay, that at least I must show my gratitude to him by working for his poor! Do you not think that is only right, sir?"

And Ishmael looked into the face of this stranger, whom he had seen but once before, with a singular longing for his approval.

"Yes! I do! my--I do, Mr. Worth!" replied Brudenell with emotion, as they entered the courtroom together.

Late that afternoon Ishmael kept his appointment with the widow Cobham, and their consultation ended in Ishmael's acceptance of her brief. Other clients also came to him, and soon his hands were full of business.

As the Supreme Court had risen, and Judge Merlin had little or no official business on hand, Ishmael's position in his office was almost a sinecure, and therefore the young man delicately hinted to his employer the propriety of a separation between them.

"No, Ishmael! I cannot make up my mind to part with you yet. It is true, as you say, that there is little to do now; but recollect that for months past there has been a great deal to do, and you have done about four times as much work for me as I was entitled to expect of you. So that now you have earned the right to stay on with me to the end of the year, without doing any work at all."

"But, sir--"

"But I won't hear a word about your leaving us just yet, Ishmael. I will hold you to your engagement, at least until the first of June, when we all return to Tanglewood; then, if you wish it, of course I will release you, as your professional duties will require your presence in the city. But while we remain in town, I will not consent to your leaving us, nor release you from your engagement," said the judge.

And Ishmael was made happy by this decision. It had been a point of honor with him, as there was so little to do, to offer to leave the judge's employment; but now that the offer had been refused, and he was held to his engagement, he was very much pleased to find himself obliged to remain under the same roof with Claudia.

Ah! sweet and fatal intoxication of her presence! he would not willingly tear himself away from it.

Meanwhile this pleasure was but occasional and fleeting. He seldom saw Claudia except at the dinner hour.

Miss Merlin never now got up to breakfast with the family. Her life of fashionable dissipation was beginning to tell even on her youthful and vigorous constitution. Every evening she was out until a late hour, at some public ball, private party, concert, theater, lecture room, or some other place of amusement. The consequence was that she was always too tired to rise and breakfast with the family, whom she seldom joined until the two o'clock lunch. And at that hour Ishmael was sure to be at court, where the case of Cobham versus Hanley, in which Mr. Worth was counsel for the plaintiff, was going on. At the six o'clock dinner he daily met her, as I said, but that was always in public. And immediately after coffee she would go out, attended by Mrs. Middleton as chaperone and the Viscount Vincent as escort. And she would return long after Ishmael had retired to his room, so that he would not see her again until the next day at dinner. And so the days wore on.

Mr. Brudenell remained the guest of Judge Merlin. A strange affection was growing up between him and Ishmael Worth. Brudenell understood the secret of this affection; Ishmael did not. The father, otherwise childless, naturally loved the one gifted son of his youth, and loved him the more that he durst not acknowledge him. And Ishmael, in his genial nature, loved in return the stranger who showed so much affectionate interest in him. No one perceived the likeness that was said by the viscount to exist between the two except the viscount himself; and since he had seen them together he had ceased to comment upon the subject.

Reuben Gray and his family had returned home, so that Mr. Brudenell got no farther opportunity of talking with Hannah.

The Washington season, prolonged by an extra session of Congress, was at length drawing to a close; and it was finished off with a succession of very brilliant parties. Ishmael Worth was now included in every invitation sent to the family of Judge Merlin, and in compliance with the urgent advice of the judge he accepted many of these invitations, and appeared in some of the most exclusive drawing rooms in Washington, where his handsome person, polished manners, and distinguished talents made him welcome.

But none among these brilliant parties equaled in splendor the ball given early in the season by the Merlins.

"And since no one has been able to eclipse my ball, I will eclipse it myself by a still more splendid one--a final grand display at the end of the season, like a final grand tableau at the close of the pantomime," said Claudia.

"My dear, you will ruin yourself," expostulated Mrs. Middleton.

"My aunt, I shall be a viscountess," replied Miss Merlin.

And preparations for the great party were immediately commenced. More than two hundred invitations were sent out. And the aid of the three great ministers of fashion--Vourienne, Devizac, and Dureezie--were called in, and each was furnished with a carte-blanche as to expenses. And as to squander the money of the prodigal heiress was to illustrate their own arts, they availed themselves of the privilege in the freest manner.

For a few days the house was closed to visitors, and given up to suffer the will of the decorator Vourienne and his attendant magicians, who soon contrived to transform the sober mansion of the American judge into something very like the gorgeous palace of an Oriental prince. And as if they would not be prodigal enough if left to themselves, Claudia continually interfered to instigate them to new extravagances.

Meanwhile nothing was talked of in fashionable circles but the approaching ball, and the novelties it was expected to develop.

On the morning of the day, Vourienne and his imps having completed their fancy papering, painting, and gilding, and put the finishing touches by festooning all the walls and ceilings, and wreathing all the gilded pillars with a profusion of artificial flowers, at last evacuated the premises, just it time to allow Devizac and his army to march in for the purpose of laying the feast. These forces held possession of the supper room, kitchen, and pantry for the rest of the evening, and prepared a supper which it would be vain to attempt to describe, since even the eloquent reporter of the "Republican Court Journal" failed to do it justice. A little later in the evening Dureezie and his celebrated troupe arrived, armed with all the celebrated dances--waltzes, polkas, etc.--then known, and one or two others composed expressly for this occasion.

And, when they had taken their places, Claudia and her party came down into the front drawing room to be ready to receive the company.

On this occasion it was Miss Merlin's whim to dress with exceeding richness. She wore a robe of dazzling splendor--a fabric of the looms of India, a sort of gauze of gold, that seemed to be composed of woven sunbeams, and floated gracefully around her elegant figure and accorded well with her dark beauty. The bodice of this gorgeous dress was literally starred with diamonds. A coronet of diamonds flashed above her black ringlets, a necklace of diamonds rested upon her full bosom, and bracelets of the same encircled her rounded arms. Such a glowing, splendid, refulgent figure as she presented suggested the idea of a Mohammedan sultana rather than that of a Christian maiden. But it was Miss Merlin's caprice upon this occasion to dazzle, bewilder, and astonish.

Bee, who stood near her like a maid of honor to a queen, was dressed with her usual simplicity and taste, in a fine white crepe, with a single white lily on her bosom.

Mrs. Middleton, standing also with Claudia, wore a robe of silver gray.

And this pure white on one side and pale gray on the other did but heighten the effect of Claudia's magnificent costume.

The fashionable hour for assembling at evening parties was then ten o'clock. By a quarter past ten the company began to arrive, and by eleven the rooms were quite full.

The Viscount Vincent arrived early, and devoted himself to Miss Merlin, standing behind her chair like a lord in waiting.

Ishmael was also present with this group ostensibly in attendance upon Beatrice, but really and truly waiting every turn of Claudia's countenance or conversation.

While they were all standing, grouped in this way, to receive all comers, Judge Merlin approached, smiling, and accompanied by an officer in the uniform of the United States army, whom he presented in these words:

"Claudia, my love, I bring you an old acquaintance--a very old acquaintance--Captain Burghe."

Claudia bowed as haughtily and distantly as it was possible to do; and then, without speaking, glanced inquiringly at her father as if to ask--"How came this person here?"

Judge Merlin replied to that mute question by saying:

"I was so lucky as to meet our young friend on the Avenue to-day; he is but just arrived. I told him what was going on here this evening and begged him to waive ceremony and come to us. And he was so good as to take me at my word! Bee, my dear, don't you remember your old playmate, Alfred Burghe?" said the judge, appealing for relief to his amiable niece.

Now, Bee was too kind-hearted to hurt anyone's feelings, and yet too truthful to make professions she did not feel. She could not positively say that she was glad to see Alfred Burghe; but she could give him her hand and say:

"I hope you are well, Mr. Burghe."

"Captain! Captain, my dear! he commands a company now! Lord Vincent permit me--Captain Burghe."

A haughty bow from the viscount and a reverential one from the captain acknowledged this presentation.

Then Mrs. Middleton kindly shook hands with the unwelcome visitor.

And finally Claudia unbent a little from her hauteur and condescended to address a few commonplace remarks to him. But at length her eyes flashed upon Ishmael standing behind Bee.

"You are acquainted with Mr. Worth, I presume, Captain Burghe?" she inquired.

"I have not that honor," said Alfred Burghe arrogantly.

"Then I will confer it upon you!" said Claudia very gravely. "Mr. Worth, I hope you will permit me to present to you Captain Burghe. Captain Burghe, Mr. Worth, of the Washington bar."

Ishmael bowed with courtesy; but Alfred Burghe grew violently red in the face, and with a short nod turned away.

"Captain Burghe has a bad memory, my lord!" said Claudia, turning to the viscount. "The gentleman to whom I have just presented him once saved his life at the imminent risk of his own. It is true the affair happened long ago, when they were both boys; but it seems to me that if anyone had exposed himself to a death by fire to rescue me from a burning building, I should remember it to the latest day of my life."

"Pardon me, Miss Merlin. The circumstance to which you allude was beyond my control, and Mr.--a--Word's share in it without my consent; his service was, I believe, well repaid by my father; and the trouble with me is not that my memory is defective, but rather that it is too retentive. I remember the origin of--"

"Our acquaintance with Mr. Worth!" interrupted Claudia, turning deadly pale and speaking in the low tones of suppressed passion. "Yes, I know! there was a stopped carriage, rifled hampers, and detected thieves. There was a young gentleman who dishonored his rank, and a noble working boy who distinguished himself in that affair. I remember perfectly well the circumstances to which you refer."

"You mistake, Miss Merlin," retorted Burghe, with a hot flush upon his brow, "I do not refer to that boyish frolic, for it was no more! I refer to--"

"Mr. Burghe, excuse me. Mr. Worth, will you do me the favor to tell the band to strike up a quadrille? Lord Vincent, I presume they expect us to open the ball. Bee, my dear, you are engaged to Mr. Worth for this set. Be sure when he returns to come to the same set with us and be our vis-a-vis," said Claudia, speaking rapidly.

Before she had finished Ishmael had gone upon her errand, and the band struck up a lively quadrille. Claudia gave her hand to Lord Vincent, who led her to the head of the first set. When Ishmael returned, Bee gave him her hand and told him Claudia's wish, which, of course, had all the force of a command for him, and he immediately led Bee to the place opposite Lord Vincent and Hiss Merlin.

And Captain Burghe was left to bite his nails in foiled malignity.

But later in the evening he took his revenge and received his punishment.

It happened in this manner: New quadrilles were being formed. Claudia was again dancing with Lord Vincent, and they had taken their places at the head of one of the sets. Ishmael was dancing with one of the poor neglected "wallflowers" to whom Bee had kindly introduced him, and he led his partner to a vacant place at the foot of one of the sets; he was so much engaged in trying to entertain the shy and awkward girl that he did not observe who was their vis-a-vis, or overhear the remarks that were made.

But Claudia, who, with the viscount, was standing very near, heard and saw all. She saw Ishmael lead his shy young partner up to a place in the set, exactly opposite to where Alfred Burghe with his partner, Miss Tourneysee, stood. And she heard Mr. Burghe whisper to Miss Tourneysee:

"Excuse me; and permit me to lead you to a seat. The person who has just taken the place opposite to us is not a proper associate even for me, still less for you."

And she saw Miss Tourneysee's look of surprise and heard her low-toned exclamation:

"Why, it is Mr. Worth! I have danced with him often!"

"I am sorry to hear it. I hope you will take the word of an officer and a gentleman that he is not a respectable person, and by no means a proper acquaintance for any lady."

"But why not?"

"Pardon me. I cannot tell you why not. It is not a story fit for your ears. But I will tell your father. For I think the real position of the fellow ought to be known. In the meantime, will you take my word for the truth of what I have said, and permit me to lead you to a seat?"

"Certainly," said the young lady, trembling with distress.

"I regret exceedingly to deprive you of your dance; but you perceive that there is no other vacant place."

"Oh, don't mention it! Find me a seat."

This low-toned conversation, every word of which had been overheard by Claudia who, though in another set, stood nearly back to back with the speaker, was entirely lost to Ishmael, who stood at the foot of the same set with him, but was at a greater distance, and was besides quite absorbed in the task of reassuring his timid schoolgirl companion.

Just as Burghe turned to lead his partner away, and Ishmael, attracted by the movement, lifted his eyes to see the cause, Claudia gently drew Lord Vincent after her, and going up to the retiring couple said:

"Miss Tourneysee, I beg your pardon; but will you and your partner do myself and Lord Vincent the favor to exchange places with us? We particularly desire to form a part of this set."

"Oh, certainly!" said the young lady, wondering, but rejoiced to find that she should not be obliged to miss the dance.

They exchanged places accordingly; but as they still stood very near together, Claudia heard him whisper to his partner:

"This evening I think I will speak to your father and some other gentlemen and enlighten them as to who this fellow really is!"

Claudia heard all this; but commanded herself. Her face was pale as marble; her lips were bloodless; but her dark eyes had the terrible gleam of suppressed but determined hatred! In such moods as hers, people have sometimes planned murder.

However, she went through all the four dances very composedly. And when they were over and Lord Vincent had led her to a seat, she sent him to fetch her a glass of water, while she kept her eye on the movements of Captain Burghe, until she saw him deposit his partner on a sofa and leave her to fetch a cream, or some such refreshment.

And then Claudia arose, drank the ice-water brought her by the viscount, set the empty glass on a stand and requested Lord Vincent to give her his arm down the room, as she wished to speak to Captain Burghe.

The viscount glanced at her in surprise, saw that her face was bloodless; but ascribed her pallor to fatigue.

Leaning on Lord Vincent's arm, she went down the whole length of the room until she paused before the sofa on which sat Miss Tourneysee and several other ladies, attended by General Tourneysee, Captain Burghe and other gentlemen.

Burghe stood in front of the sofa, facing the ladies and with his back towards Claudia, of whose approach he was entirely ignorant, as he discoursed as follows:

"Quite unfit to be received in respectable society, I assure you, General! Came of a wretchedly degraded set, the lowest of the low, upon my honor. This fellow--"

Claudia touched his shoulder with the end of her fan.

Alfred Burghe turned sharply around and confronted Miss Merlin, and on meeting her eyes grew as pale as she was herself.

"Captain Burghe," she said, modulating her voice to low and courteous tones, "you have had the misfortune to malign one of our most esteemed friends, at present a member of our household. I regret this accident exceedingly, as it puts me under the painful necessity of requesting you to leave the house with as little delay as possible!"

"Miss Merlin--ma'am!" began the captain, crimsoning with shame and rage.

"You have heard my request, sir! I have no more to say but to wish you a very good evening," said Claudia, as with a low and sweeping courtesy she turned away.

Passing near the hall where the footmen waited, she spoke to one of them, saying:

"Powers, attend that gentleman to the front door."

All this was done so quietly that Alfred Burghe was able to slink from the room, unobserved by anyone except the little group around the sofa, whom he had been entertaining with his calumnies. To them he had muttered that he would have satisfaction; that he would call Miss Merlin's father to a severe account for the impertinence of his daughter, etc.

But the consternation produced by these threats was soon dissipated. The band struck up an alluring waltz, and Lord Vincent claimed the hand of Beatrice, and Ishmael, smiling, radiant and unsuspicious, came in search of Miss Tourneysee, who accepted his hand for the dance without an instant's hesitation.

"Do you know"--inquired Miss Tourneysee, with a little curiosity to ascertain whether there was any mutual enmity between Burghe and Ishmael--"do you know who that Captain Burghe is that danced the last quadrille with me?"

"Yes; he is the son of the late Commodore Burghe, who was a gallant officer, a veteran of 1812, and did good service during the last War of Independence," said Ishmael generously, uttering not one word against his implacable foe.

Miss Tourneysee looked at him wistfully and inquired: "Is the son as good a man as the father?"

"I have not known Captain Burghe since we were at school together."

"I do not like him. I do not think he is a gentleman," said Miss Tourneysee.

Ishmael did not reply. It was not his way to speak even deserved evil of the absent.

But Miss Tourneysee drew a mental comparison between the meanness of Alfred's conduct and the nobility of Ishmael's. And the dance succeeded the conversation.

Claudia remained sitting on the sofa beside Mrs. Middleton, until at the close of the dance, when she was rejoined by the viscount, who did not leave her again during the evening.

The early summer nights were short, and so it was near the dawn when the company separated.

The party as a whole had been the most splendid success of the season.

LXII. FOILED MALICE

Through good report and ill report, The true man goes his way, Nor condescends to pay his court To what the vile may say: Aye, be the scandal what they will, And whisper what they please, They do but fan his glory still By whistling up a breeze.

--M.F. Tupper.

The family slept late next day, and the breakfast was put back to the luncheon hour, when at length they all, with one exception, assembled around the table.

"Where is Mr. Worth?" inquired the judge.

"He took a cup of coffee and went to the courthouse at the usual hour, sir," returned Powers, who was setting the coffee on the table.

"Humph! that hotly contested case of Cobham versus Hanley still in progress, I suppose," said the judge.

At this moment Sam entered the breakfast room and laid a card on the table before his master.

"Eh? 'Lieutenant Springald, U.S.A.' Who the mischief is he?" said the judge, reading the name on the card.

"The gentleman, sir, says he has called to see you on particular business," replied Sam.

"This is a pretty time to come on business! Show him up into my office, Sam."

The servant withdrew to obey.

The judge addressed himself to his breakfast, and the conversation turned upon the party of the preceding evening.

"I wonder what became of Burghe? He disappeared very early in the evening," said Judge Merlin.

"I turned him out of doors," answered Claudia coolly.

The judge set down his coffee cup and stared at his daughter.

"He deserved it, papa! And nothing on earth but my sex prevented me from giving him a thrashing as well as a discharge," said Claudia.

"What has he done?" inquired her father.

Claudia told him the whole.

"Well, my dear, you did right, though I am sorry that there should have been any necessity for dismissing him. Degenerate son of a noble father, will nothing reform him!" was the comment of the judge.

Mr. Brudenell, who was present, and had heard Claudia's account, was reflecting bitterly upon the consequences of his own youthful fault of haste, visited so heavily in unjust reproach upon the head of his faultless son.

"Well!" said the judge, rising from the table, "now I will go and see what the deuce is wanted of me by Lieutenant--Spring--Spring--Spring chicken! or whatever his name is!"

He went upstairs and found seated in his office a beardless youth in uniform, who arose and saluted him, saying, as he handed a folded note:

"I have the honor to be the bearer of a challenge, sir, from my friend and superior officer, Captain Burghe."

"A--what?" demanded the judge, with a frown as black as a thunder-cloud and a voice sharp as its clap, which made the little officer jump from his feet.

"A challenge, sir!" repeated the latter, as soon as he had composed himself.

"Why what the deuce do you mean by bringing a challenge to me--breaking the law under the very nose of an officer of the law?" said the judge, snatching the note and tearing it open. When he had read it, he looked sternly at the messenger and said:

"Why don't you know it is my solemn duty to have you arrested and sent to prison, for bringing me this, eh?"

"Sir," began the little fellow, drawing his figure up, "men of honor never resort to such subterfuges to evade the consequences of their own acts."

"Hold your tongue, child! You know nothing about what you are talking of. Men of honor are not duelists, but peaceable, law-abiding citizens. Don't be frightened, my brave little bantam! I won't have you arrested this time; but I will answer your heroic principal instead. Let us see again--what it is he says?"

And the judge sat down at his writing table and once more read over the challenge.

It ran thus:

Mansion House, Friday.

Judge Merlin--Sir: I have been treated with the grossest contumely by your daughter, Miss Claudia Merlin. I demand an ample apology from the young lady, or in default of that, the satisfaction of a gentleman from yourself. In the event of the first alternative offered being chosen, my friend, Lieutenant Springald, the bearer of this, is authorized to accept in my behalf all proper apologies that may be tendered. Or in the event of the second alternative offered being chosen, I must request that you will refer my friend to any friend of yours, that they may arrange together the terms of our hostile meeting.

I have the honor to be, etc.,

Alfred Burghe.

Judge Merlin smiled grimly as he laid this precious communication aside and took up his pen to reply to it.

His answer ran as follows:

Washington House, Friday.

Captain Alfred Burghe: My daughter, Miss Merlin, did perfectly right, and I fully endorse her act. Therefore, the first alternative offered--of making you the apology you demand--is totally inadmissible; but I accept the second one of giving you the satisfaction you require. The friend to whom I refer your friend is Deputy Marshal Browning, who will be prepared to take you both in custody. And the weapons with which I will meet you will be the challenge that you have sent me and a warrant for your arrest. Hoping that this course may give perfect satisfaction,

I have the honor to be, etc.,

Randolph Merlin.

Judge Merlin carefully folded and directed this note, and put it into the hands of the little lieutenant, saying pleasantly:

"There, my child! There you are! Take that to your principal."

The little fellow hesitated.

"I hope, sir, that this contains a perfectly satisfactory apology?" he said, turning it around in his fingers.

"Oh, perfectly! amply! We shall hear no more of the challenge."

"I am very glad, sir," said the little lieutenant, rising.

"Won't you have something before you go?"

The lieutenant hesitated.

"Shall I ring for the maid to bring you a slice of bread and butter and a cup of milk?"

"No, thank you, sir!" said Springald, with a look of offended dignity.

"Very well, then; you must give my respects to your papa and mamma, and ask them to let you come and play with little Bobby and Tommy Middleton! They are nice little boys!" said the judge, so very kindly that the little lieutenant, though hugely affronted, scarcely knew in what manner to resent the affront.

"Good-day, sir!" he said, with a vast assumption of dignity, as he strutted towards the door.

"Good-day, my little friend. You seem an innocent little fellow enough. Therefore I hope that you will never again be led into the sinful folly of carrying a challenge to fight a duel, especially to a gray-headed chief justice."

And so saying, Judge Merlin bowed his visitor out.

And it is scarcely necessary to say that Judge Merlin heard no more of "the satisfaction of a gentleman."

The story, however, got out, and Captain Burghe and his second were so mercilessly laughed at, that they voluntarily shortened their own furlough and speedily left Washington.

The remainder of that week the house was again closed to company, during the process of dismantling the reception rooms of their festive decorations and restoring them to their ordinarily sober aspect.

By Saturday afternoon this transformation was effected, and the household felt themselves at home again.

Early that evening Ishmael joined the family circle perfectly radiant with good news.

"What is it, Ishmael?" inquired the judge.

"Well, sir, the hard-fought battle is over at length, and we have the victory. The case of Cobham versus Hanley is decided. The jury came into court this afternoon with a verdict for the plaintiff."

"Good!" said the judge.

"And the widow and children get their money. I am so glad!" said Bee, who had kept herself posted up in the progress of the great suit by reading the reports in the daily papers.

"Yes, but how much money will you get, Ishmael?" inquired the judge.

"None, sir, on this case. A conditional fee that I was to make out of my case was offered me by the plaintiff in the first instance, but of course I could not speculate in justice."

"Humph! well, it is of no use to argue with you, Ishmael. Now, there are two great cases which you have gained, and which ought to have brought you at least a thousand dollars, and which have brought you nothing."

"Not exactly nothing, uncle; they have brought him fame," said Bee.

"Fame is all very well, but money is better," said the judge.

"The money will come also in good time, uncle; never you fear. Ishmael has placed his capital out at good interest, and with the best security."

"What do you mean, Bee?"

"'Whoso giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord.' Ishmael's services, given to the poor, are lent to the Lord," said Bee reverently.

"Humph! humph! humph!" muttered the judge, who never ventured to carry on an argument when the Scripture was quoted against him. "Well! I suppose it is all right. And now I hear that you are counsel for that poor devil Toomey, who fell through the grating of Sarsfield's cellar, and crippled himself for life."

"Yes," said Ishmael. "I think he is entitled to heavy damages. It was criminal carelessness in Sarsfield & Company to leave their cellar grating in that unsafe condition for weeks, to the great peril of the passers-by. It was a regular trap for lives and limbs. And this poor laborer, passing over it, has fallen and lamed himself for life! And he has a large family depending upon him for support. I have laid the damages at five thousand dollars."

"Yes; but how much do you get?"

"Nothing. As in the other two cases, my client is not able to pay me a retaining fee, and it is against my principles to accept a contingent one."

"Humph! that makes three 'free, gratis, for nothing' labors! I wonder how long it will be before the money cases begin to come on?" inquired the judge, a little sarcastically.

"Oh, not very long," smiled Ishmael. "I have already received several retaining fees from clients who are able to pay, but whose cases may not come on until the next term."

"But when does poor Toomey's case come on?"

"Monday."

At that moment the door opened, and Powers announced:

"Lord Vincent!"

The viscount entered the drawing room; and Ishmael's pleasure was over for that evening.

On Monday Ishmael's third case, Toomey versus Sarsfield, came on. It lasted several days, and then was decided in favor of the plaintiff--Toomey receiving every dollar of the damages claimed for him by his attorney. In his gratitude the poor man would have pressed a large sum of money, even to one-fifth of his gains, upon his young counsel; but Ishmael, true to his principle of never gambling in justice, refused to take a dollar.

That week the court adjourned; and the young barrister had leisure to study and get up his cases for the next term. The extra session of Congress was also over. The Washington season was in fact at an end. And everybody was preparing to leave town.

Judge Merlin issued a proclamation that his servants should pack up all his effects, preparatory to a migration to Tanglewood; for that chains should not bind him to Washington any longer, nor wild horses draw him to Saratoga, or any other place of public resort; because his very soul was sick of crowds and longed for the wilderness.

But the son of Powhatan was destined to find that circumstances are often stronger than those forces that he defied.

And so his departure from Washington was delayed for weeks by this event.

One morning the Viscount Vincent called as usual, and, after a prolonged private interview with Miss Merlin, he sent a message to Judge Merlin requesting to see him alone for a few minutes.

Ishmael was seated with Judge Merlin in the study at the moment Powers brought this message.

"Ah! Lord Vincent requests the honor of a private interview with me, does he? Well, it is what I have been expecting for some days! Wonder if he doesn't think he is conferring an honor instead of receiving one? Ask him to be so good as to walk up, Powers. Ishmael, my dear boy, excuse me for dismissing you for a few minutes; but pray return to me as soon as this Lord--'Foppington'--leaves me. May Satan fly away with him, for I know he is coming to ask me for my girl!"

It was well that Ishmael happened to be sitting with his back to the window. It was well also that Judge Merlin did not look up as his young partner passed out, else would the judge have seen the haggard countenance which would have told him more eloquently than words could of the force of the blow that had fallen on Ishmael's heart.

He went up into his own little room, and sat down at his desk, and leaning his brow upon his hand struggled with the anguish that wrung his heart.

It had fallen, then! It had fallen--the crushing blow! Claudia was betrothed to the viscount. He might have been, as everyone else was, prepared for this. But he was not. For he knew that Claudia was perfectly conscious of his own passionate love for her, and he knew that she loved him with almost equal fervor. It is true his heart had been often wrung with jealousy when seeing her with Lord Vincent; yet even then he had thought that her vanity only was interested in receiving the attentions of the viscount; and he had trusted in her honor that he believed would never permit her, while loving himself, to marry another, or even give that other serious encouragement. It is true also that he had never breathed his love to Claudia, for he knew that to do so would be an unpardonable abuse of his position in Judge Merlin's family, a flagrant breach of confidence, and a fatal piece of presumption that would insure his final banishment from Claudia's society. So he had struggled to control his passion, seeing also that Claudia strove to conquer hers. And though no words passed between them, each knew by secret sympathy the state of the other's mind.

But lately, since his brilliant success at the bar and the glorious prospect that opened before him, he had begun to hope that Claudia, conscious of their mutual love, would wait for him only a few short years, at the end of which he would be able to offer her a position not unworthy even of Judge Merlin's daughter.

Such had been his splendid "castle in the air." But now the thunderbolt had fallen and his castle was in ruins.

Claudia, whom he had believed to be, if not perfectly faultless, yet the purest, noblest, and proudest among women; Claudia, his queen, had been capable of selling herself to be the wife of an unloved man, for the price of a title and a coronet--a breath and a bauble!

Claudia had struck a fatal blow, not only to his love for her, but to his honor of her; and both love and honor were in their death-throes!

Anguish is no computer of time. He might have sat there half an hour or half a day, he could not have told which, when he heard the voice of his kind friend calling him.

"Ishmael, Ishmael, my lad, where are you, boy? Come to me!"

"Yes, yes, sir, I am coming," he answered mechanically.

And like one who has fainted from torture, and recovered in bewilderment, he arose and walked down to the study.

Some blind instinct led him straight to the chair that was sitting with its back to the window; into this he sank, with his face in the deep shadow.

Judge Merlin was walking up and down the floor, with signs of disturbance in his looks and manners.

A waiter with decanters of brandy and wine, and some glasses, stood upon the table. This was a very unusual thing.

"Well, Ishmael, it is done! my girl is to be a viscountess; but I do not like it; no, I do not like it!"

Ishmael was incapable of reply; but the judge continued:

"It is not only that I shall lose her; utterly lose her, for her home will be in another hemisphere, and the ocean will roll between me and my sole child,--it is not altogether that,--but, Ishmael, I don't like the fellow; and I never did, and never can!"

Here the judge paused, poured out a glass if wine, drank it, and resumed:

"And I do not know why I don't like him! that is the worst of it! His rank is, of course, unexceptionable, and indeed much higher than a plain republican like myself has a right to expect in a son-in-law! And his character appears to be unquestionable! He is good-looking, well-behaved, intelligent and well educated young fellow enough, and so I do not know why it is that I don't like him! But I don't like him, and that is all about it!"

The judge sighed, ran his hands through his gray hair, and continued:

"If I had any reason for this dislike; if I could find any just cause of offense in him; if I could put my hand down on any fault of his character, I could then say to my daughter: 'I object to this man for your husband upon this account,' and then I know she would not marry him in direct opposition to my wishes. But, you see, I cannot do anything like this, and my objection to the marriage, if I should express it, would appear to be caprice, prejudice, injustice--"

He sighed again, walked several times up and down the floor in silence, and then once more resumed his monologue:

"People will soon be congratulating me on my daughter's very splendid marriage. Congratulating me! Good Heaven, what a mockery! Congratulating me on the loss of my only child, to a foreigner, whom I half dislike and more than half suspect--though without being able to justify either feeling. What do you think, Ishmael? Is that a subject for congratulation. But, good Heaven, boy! what is the matter with you? Are you ill?" he suddenly exclaimed, pausing before the young man and noticing for the first time the awful pallor of his face and the deadly collapse of his form.

"Are you ill, my dear boy? Speak!"

"Yes, yes, I am ill!" groaned Ishmael.

"Where? where?"

"Everywhere!"

The judge rushed to the table and poured out a glass of brandy and brought it to him.

But the young man, who was habitually and totally abstinent, shook his head.

"Drink it! drink it!" said the judge, offering the glass.

But Ishmael silently waved it off.

"As a medicine, you foolish fellow--as a medicine! You are sinking, don't you know!" persisted the judge, forcing the glass into Ishmael's hand.

Ishmael then placed it to his lips and swallowed its contents.

The effect of this draught upon him, unaccustomed as he was to alcoholic stimulants, was instantaneous. The brandy diffused itself through his chilled, sinking, and dying frame, warming, elevating, and restoring its powers.

"This is the fabled 'elixir of life.' I did not believe there was such a restorative in the world!" said Ishmael, sitting up and breathing freely under the transient exhilaration.

"To be sure it is, my boy!" said the judge heartily, as he took the empty glass from Ishmael's hand and replaced it on the waiter. "But what have you been doing to reduce yourself to this state? Sitting up all night over some perplexing case, as likely as not."

"No."

"But I am sure you overwork yourself. You should not do it, Ishmael! It is absurd to kill yourself for a living, you know."

"I think, Judge Merlin, that, as you are so soon about to leave Washington, and as there is so little to do in your office, I should be grateful if you would at once release me from our engagement and permit me to leave your employment," said Ishmael, who felt that it would be to him the most dreadful trial to remain in the house and meet Claudia and Vincent as betrothed lovers every day, and at last witness their marriage.

The judge looked annoyed and then asked:

"Now, Ishmael, why do you wish to leave me before the expiration of the term for which you were engaged?"

And before Ishmael could answer that question, he continued:

"You are in error as to the reasons you assign. In the first place, I am not to leave Washington so soon as I expected; as it is arranged that we shall remain here for the solemnization of the marriage, which will not take place until the first of July. And in the second place, instead of there being but little to do in the office, there will be a great deal to do--all Claudia's estate to be arranged, the viscount's affairs to be examined, marriage settlements to be executed,--I wish it was the bridegroom that was to be executed instead,--letters to be written, and what not. So that you see I shall need your services very much. And besides, Ishmael, my boy, I do not wish to part with you just now, in this great trial of my life; for it is a great trial to me, Ishmael, to part with my only child, to a foreigner whom I dislike and who will take her across the sea to another world. I have loved you as a son, Ishmael. And now I ask you to stand by me in this crisis--for I do not know how I shall bear it. It will be to me like giving her up to death."

Ishmael arose and placed his hand in that of his old friend. His stately young form was shaken by agitation, as an oak tree is by a storm, as he said:

"I will remain with you, Judge Merlin. I will remain with you through this trial. But oh, you do not know--you cannot know how terrible the ordeal will be to me!"

A sudden light of revelation burst upon Judge Merlin's mind! He looked into that agonized young face, clasped that true hand and said:

"Is it so, my boy? Oh, my poor boy, is it indeed so?"

"Make some excuse for me to the family below; say that I am not well, for that indeed is true; I cannot come into the drawing room this evening!" said Ishmael.

And he hastily wrung his friend's hand and hurried from the room, for after that one touch of sympathy from Claudia's father he felt that if he had stayed another moment he should have shamed his manhood and wept.

He hurried up into his little room to strive, in solitude and prayer, with his great sorrow.

Meanwhile the judge took up his hat for a walk in the open air. He had not seen his daughter since he had given his consent to her betrothal. And he felt that as yet he would not see her. He wished to subdue his own feelings of pain and regret before meeting her with the congratulations which he wished to offer.

"After all," he said to himself, as he descended the stairs "after all, I suppose, I should dislike any man in the world who should come to marry Claudia, so it is not the viscount who is in fault; but I who am unreasonable. But Ishmael! Ah, poor boy! poor boy! Heaven forgive Claudia if she has had anything to do with this! And may Heaven comfort him, for be deserves to be happy!"

LXIII. THE BRIDE-ELECT

She stands up her full height, With her rich dress flowing round her, And her eyes as fixed and bright As the diamond stars that crown her,-- An awful, beautiful sight.

Beautiful? Yes, with her hair So wild and her cheeks so flushed! Awful? Yes, for there In her beauty she stands hushed By the pomp of her own despair.

--Meredith.

Judge Merlin walked about, reasoning with himself all day; but he could not walk off his depression of spirits, or reason away his misgivings.

He returned home in time to dress for dinner. He crept up to his chamber with a wearied and stealthy air, for he was still dispirited and desirous of avoiding a meeting with his daughter.

He made his toilet and then sat down, resolved not to leave his chamber until the dinner-bell rang, so that he should run no risk of seeing her until he met her at dinner, where of course no allusion would be made to the event of the morning.

He took up the evening paper, that lay upon the dressing-table by some chance, and tried to read. But the words conveyed no meaning to his mind.

"She is all I have in this world!" he sighed as he laid the paper down.

"Papa!"

He looked up.

There she stood within his chamber door! It was an unprecedented intrusion. There she stood in her rich evening dress of purple moire-antique, with the bandeau of diamonds encircling her night-black hair. Two crimson spots like the flush of hectic fever burned in her cheeks, and her eyes were unnaturally bright and wild, almost like those of insanity.

"Papa, may I come to you? Oh, papa, I have been waiting to speak to you all day; and it seems to me as if you had purposely kept out of my way. Are you displeased, papa? May I come to you now?"

He opened his arms, and she came and threw herself upon his bosom, sobbing as if her heart would break.

"What is the matter, my darling?"

"Are you displeased, papa?"

"No, no, my darling! Why should I be? How could I be so unreasonable? But--do you love him, Claudia?"

"He will be an earl, papa."

"Are you happy, Claudia?"

"I shall be a countess, papa!"

"But--are you happy, my dear, I ask you."

"Happy? Who is? Who ever was?"

"Your mother and myself were happy, very happy during the ten blessed years of our union. But then we loved each other, Claudia. Do you love this man whom you are about to make your husband?"

"Papa, I have consented to be his wife. Should not that satisfy you?"

"Certainly, certainly, my child! Besides, it is not for my rough, masculine hand to probe your heart. Your mother might do it if she were living, but not myself."

"Papa, bless me! it was for that I came to you. Oh, give me your blessing before I go downstairs to--him, whom I must henceforth meet as my promised husband."

"May the Lord bless and save you, my poor, motherless girl!" he said, laying his hand on her bowed head.

And she arose, and without another word went below stairs.

When she entered the drawing room she found the viscount there alone. He hastened to meet her with gallant alacrity and pressed his lips to hers, but at their touch the color fled from her face and did not return. With attentive courtesy Lord Vincent handed her to a seat and remained standing near, seeking to interest and amuse her with his conversation. But just as the tete-a-tete was growing unsupportable to Claudia, the door opened and Beatrice entered. Too many times had Bee come in upon just such a tete-a-tete to suspect that there was anything more in this one than there had been in any other for the last six months. So, unconscious of the recent betrothal of this pair, she, smiling, accepted the chair the viscount placed for her, and readily followed Claudia's lead, by allowing herself to be drawn into conversation. Several times she looked up at Claudia's face, noticing its marble whiteness; but at length concluded that it must be only the effect of late hours, and so dropped the subject from her mind.

Presently the other members of the family dropped in and the dinner was served.

One vacant chair at the table attracted general attention. But, ah! to one there that seat was not vacant; it was filled with the specter of her murdered truth.

"Where is Mr. Worth?" inquired Mrs. Middleton, from the head of the table.

"Oh! worked himself into a nervous headache over Allenby's complicated brief! I told him how it would be if he applied himself so unintermittingly to business; but he would take no warning. Well, these young enthusiasts must learn by painful experience to modify their zeal," said the judge, in explanation.

Everyone expressed regret except Claudia, who understood and felt how much worse than any headache was the heart-sickness that had for the time mastered even Ishmael's great strength; but she durst utter no word of sympathy. And the dinner proceeded to its conclusion. And directly after the coffee was served the viscount departed.

Meanwhile Ishmael lay extended upon his bed, clasping his temples and waging a silent war with his emotions.

A rap disturbed him.

"Come in."

Powers entered with a tea tray in his hands, upon which was neatly arranged a little silver tea-service, with a transparent white cup, saucer, and plate. The wax candle in its little silver candlestick that sat upon the tray was the only light, and scarcely served to show the room.

Ishmael raised himself up just as Powers sat the tray upon the stand beside the bed.

"Who has had leisure to think of me this evening?" thought Ishmael, as he contemplated this unexpected attention. Then, speaking aloud, he inquired:

"Who sent me these, Powers?"

"Miss Middleton, sir; and she bade me to say to you that you must try to eat; and that it is a great mistake to fast when one has a nervous headache, brought on by fatigue and excitement; and that the next best thing to rest is food, and both together are a cure," replied the man, carefully arranging the service on the stand.

"I might have known it," thought Ishmael, with an undefined feeling of self-reproach. "I might have known that she would not forget me, even though I forgot myself. What would my life be at home without this dear little sister? Sweet sister! dear sister! Yes, I will follow her advice; I will eat and drink for her sake, because I know she will question Powers and be disappointed if she finds that I have not done justice to this repast."

"Will you have more light, sir?" asked the footman.

"No, no, thank you," replied Ishmael, rising and seating himself in a chair beside the stand.

The tea was strong and fragrant, the cream rich, the sugar crystalline, and a single cup of the beverage refreshed him. The toast was crisp and yellow, the butter fresh, and the shavings of chipped beef crimson and tender. And so, despite his heartache and headache, Ishmael found his healthy and youthful appetite stimulated by all this. And the meal that was begun for Bee's sake was finished for his own.

"Tour head is better now, I hope, sir?" respectfully inquired Powers, as he prepared to remove the service.

"Much, thank you. Tell Miss Middleton so, with my respects, and say how grateful I feel to her for this kind attention."

"Yes, sir."

"And, Powers, you may bring me lights now."

And a few minutes later, when Powers had returned with two lighted candles and placed them on the table, Ishmael, who knew that not an over tasked brain, but an undisciplined heart, was the secret of his malady, set himself to work as to a severe discipline, and worked away for three or four hours with great advantage; for, when at twelve o'clock he retired to bed, he fell asleep and slept soundly until morning.

That is what work did for Ishmael. And work will do as much for anyone who will try it.

It is true in the morning he awoke to a new sense of woe; but the day had also its work to discipline him. He breakfasted with Bee and her father and the judge, who were the only members of the family present at the table; and then he went to the City Hall, where he had an appointment with the District Attorney.

That morning the engagement between Lord Vincent and Claudia was formally announced to the family circle. And Bee understood the secret of Ishmael's sudden illness. The marriage was appointed to take place on the first of the ensuing month, and so the preparations for the event were at once commenced.

Mrs. Middleton and Claudia went to New York to order the wedding outfit. They were gone a week, and when they returned Claudia, though much thinner in flesh, seemed to have recovered the gloom that had been frightened away by the viscount's first kiss.

The great responsibility of the home preparations fell upon Bee. The house had to be prepared for visitors; not only for the wedding guests; but also for friends and relatives of the family, who were coming from a distance and would remain for several days. For the last mentioned, new rooms had to be made ready. And all this was to be done under the immediate supervision of Beatrice.

As on two former occasions, Miss Merlin called in the aid of her three favorite ministers--Vourienne, Devizae, and Dureezie.

On the morning of the last day of June Vourienne and his assistants decorated the dining room. On the evening of the same day Devizae and his waiters laid the table for the wedding breakfast. And then the room was closed up until the next day. While the family took their meals in their small breakfast room.

During the evening relatives from a distance arrived and were received by Bee, who conducted them to their rooms.

By this inroad of visitors Bee herself, with the little sister who shared her bed, were driven up into the attic to the plain spare room next to Ishmael's own. Here, early in the evening, as he sat at his work, he could hear Bee, who would not neglect little Lu for anything else in the world, rocking and singing her to sleep. And Ishmael, too, who had just laid down his pen because the waning light no longer enabled him to write, felt his great trouble soothed by Bee's song.

LXIV. CLAUDIA'S WOE

Ay, lady, here alone You may think till your heart is broken, Of the love that is dead and done, Of the days that with no token, For evermore are gone.

Weep, if you can, beseech you! There's no one by to curb you: His heart cry cannot reach you: His love will not disturb you: Weep?--what can weeping teach you?

--Meredith.

Sifting within the recess of the dormer window, soothed by the gathering darkness of the quiet, starlight night, and by the gentle cadences of Bee's low, melodious voice, as she sung her baby sister to sleep, Ishmael remained some little time longer, when suddenly Bee's song ceased, and he heard her exclamation of surprise:

"Claudia, you up here! and already dressed for dinner! How well you look! How rich that maize-colored brocade is! And how elegant that spray of diamonds in your hair! I never saw you wear it before! Is it a new purchase?"

"It is the viscount's present. I wear it this evening in his honor."

"How handsome you are, Lady Vincent! You know I do not often flatter, but really, Claudia, all the artist in me delights to contemplate you. I never saw you with such brilliant eyes, or such a beautiful color."

"Brilliant eyes! beautiful color! Ha! ha! ha! the first frenzy, I think! The last--well, it ought to be beautiful. I paid ten dollars a scruple for it at a wicked French shop in Broadway! And I have used the scruple unscrupulously!" she cried, with a bitter laugh as of self-scorn.

"Oh, Claudia--rouged!" said Bee, in a tone of surprise and pain.

"Yes, rouged and powdered! why not? Why should the face be true when the life is false! Oh, Bee," she suddenly broke forth in a wail of anguish; "lay that child down and listen to me! I must tell someone, or my heart will break!"

There was a movement, a low, muffling, hushing sound, that told the unwilling listener that Bee was putting her baby sister in the bed. Ishmael arose with the intention of leaving his room, and slipping out of hearing of the conversation that was not intended for his ears; but utterly overcome by the crowding emotions of his heart, he sank back in his chair.

He heard Bee return to her place. He heard Claudia throw herself down on the floor by Bee's side, and say:

"Oh, let me lay my head down upon your lap, Bee!"

"Claudia, dear Claudia, what is the matter with you? What can I do for you?"

"Receive my confidence, that is all. Hear my confession. I must tell somebody or die. I wish I was a Catholic, and had a father confessor who would hear me and comfort me, and absolve my sins, and keep my secrets!"

"Can any man stand in that relation to a woman except her father, if she is single, or her husband, if she is married?" asked Bee.

"I don't know--and I don't care! Only when I passed by St. Patrick's Church, with this load of trouble on my soul, I felt as if it would have done me good to steal into one of those veiled recesses and tell the good old father there!"

"You could have told your heavenly Father anywhere."

"He knows it already; but I durst not pray to him! I am not so impious as that either. I have not presumed to pray for a month--not since my betrothal."

"You have not presumed to pray. Oh, Claudia!"

"How should I dare to pray, after I had deliberately sold myself to the demon--after I had deliberately determined to sin and take the wages of sin?"

"Claudia! Oh, Heaven! You are certainly mad!"

"I know it; but the knowledge does not help me to the cure. I have been mad a month!" Then breaking forth into a wail of woe, she cried: "Oh, Bee! I do not love that man! I do not love him! and the idea of marrying him appalls my very soul!"

"Good Heaven, Claudia, then why--" begun Bee, but Claudia fiercely continued:

"I loathe him! I sicken at him! His first kiss! Oh, Bee! the cold, clammy touch of those lips struck all the color from my face forever, I think! I loathe him!"

"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, why, in the name of all that is wise and good, do you do yourself, and him, too, such a terrible wrong as to marry him?" inquired the deeply-shocked maiden.

"Because I must! Because I will! I have deliberately determined to be a peeress of England, and I will be one, whatever the cost."

"But oh! have you thought of the deadly sin--the treachery, the perjury, the sacrilege; oh! and the dreadful degradation of such a loveless marriage?"

"Have I thought of these things--these horrors? Yes; witness this tortured heart and racked brain of mine!"

"Then why, oh, why, Claudia, do you persevere?"

"I am in the vortex of the whirlpool, and cannot stop myself!"

"Then let me stop you. My weak hand is strong enough for that. Remain here, dear Claudia. Let me go downstairs and report that you are ill, as indeed and in truth you are. The marriage can be delayed, and then you can have an explanation with the viscount, and break it off altogether."

"And break my plighted faith! Is that your advice, young moralist?"

"There was no faith in your plighted word, Claudia. It was very wrong to promise to marry a man you could not love; but it would be criminal to keep such a promise. Speak candidly to his lordship, Claudia, and ask him to release you from your engagement. My word on it he will do it."

"Of course, and make me the town talk for the delight of all who envy me."

"Better be that than an unloving wife."

"No, Bee! I must fulfill my destiny. And, besides, I never thought of turning from it. I am in the power of the whirlpool or the demon."

"It is the demon--the demon that is carrying you down into this whirlpool. And the name of the demon is Ambition, Claudia; and the name of the whirlpool is Ruin."

"Yes! it is ambition that possesses my soul. None other but the sins by which angels fell would have power to draw my soul down from heaven--for heaven was possible to me, once!" And with these last words she melted into tears and wept as if the fountains of her heart were broken up and gushing through her eyes.

"Yes," she repeated in the pauses of her weeping. "Heaven was possible for me once! Never more, oh, never, never more! Filled with the ambition of Lucifer I have cast myself out of that heaven. But alas! alas! I have Lucifer's ambition without his strength to suffer."

"Claudia, dear Claudia!"

"Do not speak to me. Let me speak, for I must speak, or die! It is not only that I do not love this viscount, but, oh, Bee!" she wailed in the prolonged tones of unutterable woe, "I love another! I love Ishmael!"

There was a sudden movement and a fall.

"You push me from you! Oh, cruel friend! Let me lay my head upon your lap again, Bee, and sob out all this anguish here. I must, or my heart will burst. I love Ishmael! His love is the heaven of heavens from which Ambition has cast me down. I love Ishmael! Oh, how much, my reason, utterly overthrown, may some time betray to the world! This love fills my soul. Oh, more than that, it is greater than my soul; it goes beyond it, into infinitude! There is light, warmth, and life where Ishmael is; darkness, coldness, and death where he is not! To meet his eyes,--those beautiful, dark, luminous eyes, that seem like inlets to some perfect inner world of wisdom, love, and pure joy; or to lay my hand in his, and feel that soft, strong, elastic hand close upon mine,--gives me a moment of such measureless content, such perfect assurance of peace, that for the time I forget all the sin and horror that envelopes and curses my life. But to be his beloved wife--oh, Bee! I cannot imagine in the life of heaven a diviner happiness!"

A low, half-suppressed cry from Bee. And Claudia continued:

"It is a love that all which is best in my nature approves. For oh, who is like Ishmael? Who so wise, so good, so useful? Morally, intellectually, and physically beautiful! an Apollo! more than that, a Christian gentleman! He is human, and yet he appears to me to be perfectly faultless."

There was a pause and a low sound of weeping, broken at last by Claudia, who rustled up to her feet, saying:

"There, it is past!"

"Claudia," said Bee solemnly, "you must not let this marriage go on; to do so would be to commit the deadliest sin!"

"I have determined to commit it, then, Bee."

"Claudia, if I saw you on the brink of endless woe, would I not be justified in trying to pluck you back? Oh, Claudia, dear cousin, pause, reflect--"

"Bee, hush! I have reflected until my brain has nearly burst. I must fulfill my destiny. I must be a peeress of England, cost what it may in sin against others, or in suffering to myself."

"Oh, what an awful resolution! and what an awful defiance! Ah, what have you invoked upon your head!"

"I know not--the curse of Heaven, perhaps!"

"Claudia!"

"Be silent, Bee!"

"I must not, cannot, will not, be silent! My hand is weak, but it shall grasp your arm to hold you back; my voice is low, but it shall be raised in remonstrance with you. You may break from my hold; you may deafen yourself to my words; you may escape me so; but it will be to cast yourself into--"

"Lawyer Vivian's 'gulf of perdition'! Is that what you mean? Nonsense, Bee. My hysterics are over now; my hour of weakness is past; I am myself again. And I feel that I shall be Lady Vincent--the envy of Washington, the admiration of London, the only titled lady of the republican court, and the only beauty at St. James!" said Claudia, rustling a deep courtesy.

"Claudia--"

"And in time I shall be Countess of Hurstmonceux, and perhaps after a while Marchioness of Banff; for Vincent thinks if the Conservatives come in his father will be raised a step in the peerage."

"And is it for that you sell yourself? Oh, Claudia, how Satan fools you! Be rational; consider: what is it to be a countess, or even a marchioness? It is 'distance lends enchantment to the view.' Here in this country, where, thank the Lord, there is no hereditary rank,--no titles and no coronets,--these things, from their remoteness, impress your imagination, and disturb your judgment. You will not feel so in England; there, where there are hundreds and thousands of titled personages, your coveted title will sink to its proper level, and you will find yourself of much less importance in London as Lady Vincent, than you are in Washington as Miss Merlin. There you will find how little you have really gained by the sacrifice of truth, honor, and purity; all that is best in your woman's nature--all that is best in your earthly, yes, and your eternal life."

"Bee, have you done?"

"No. You have given me two reasons why I think you ought not to marry the viscount: first, because you do not love him, and secondly, because you do love--someone else. And now I will give you two more reasons why you should not marry him--viz., first, because he is not a good man, and, secondly, because he does not love you. There!" said Beatrice firmly.

"Bee, how dare you say that! What should you know of his character? And why should you think he does not love me?"

"I feel that he is not a good man; so do you, I will venture to say, Claudia. And I know that he marries you for some selfish or mercenary motive--your money, possibly. And so also do you know it, Claudia, I dare to affirm."

"Have you anything more to say?"

"Only this: to beg, to pray, to urge you not to sin--not to debase yourself! Oh, Claudia, if loving Ishmael as you profess to do, and loathing the viscount as you confess you do, and knowing that he cares nothing for you, you still marry him for his title and his rank, as you admit you will--Claudia! Claudia! in the pure sight of angels you will be more guilty, and less pardonable than the poor lost creatures of the pavement, whose shadow you would scarcely allow to fall across your path!"

"Bee, you insult, you offend, you madden me! If this be so--if you speak the truth--I cannot help it, and I do not care. I am ambitious. If I immolate all my womanly feelings to become a peeress, it is as I would certainly and ruthlessly destroy everything that stood in my way to become a queen, if that were possible."

"Good heavens, Claudia! are you then really a fiend in female form?" exclaimed the dismayed girl.

"I do not know. I may be so. I think Satan has taken possession of me since my betrothal. At least I feel that I could be capable of great crimes to secure great ends," said Claudia recklessly.

"And, oh, Heaven! the opportunity will be surely afforded you, if you do not repent. Satan takes good care to give his servants the fullest freedom to develop their evil. Oh, Claudia, for the love of Heaven, stop where you are! go no further. Your next step on this sinful road may make retreat impossible. Break off this marriage at once. Better the broken troth--better the nine days' wonder--than the perjured bride, and the loveless, sinful nuptials! You said you were ambitious. Claudia!" here Bee's voice grew almost inaudible from intense passion--"Claudia! you do not know--you cannot know what it costs me to say what I am about to say to you now; but--I will say it: You love Ishmael. Well, he loves you--ah! far better than you love him, or than you are capable of loving anyone. For you all his toils have been endured, all his laurels won. Claudia! be proud of this great love; it is a hero's love--a poet's love. Claudia! you have received much adulation in your life, and you will receive much more; but you never have received, and you never will, so high an honor as you have in Ishmael's love. It is a crown of glory to your life. You are ambitious! Well, wait for him; give him a few short years and he will attain honors, not hereditary, but all his own. He will reach a position that the proudest woman may be proud to share; and his wife shall take a higher rank among American matrons than the wife of a mere nobleman can reach in England. And his untitled name, like that of Caesar, shall be a title in itself."

"Bee! Bee! you wring my heart in two. You drive me mad. It cannot be, I tell you! It can never be. He may rise--there is no doubt but that he will! But let him rise ever so high, I cannot be his wife--his wife! Horrible! I came of a race of which all the men were brave, and all the women pure! And he--"

"Is braver than the bravest man of your race! purer than the purest woman!" interrupted Bee fervently.

"He is the child of shame, and his heritage is dishonor! He bears his mother's maiden name, and she was--the scorn of his sex and the reproach of ours! And this is the man you advise me, Claudia Merlin, whose hand is sought in marriage by the heir of one of the oldest earldoms in England, to marry! Bee, the insult is unpardonable! You might as well advise me to marry my father's footman! and better, for Powers came at least of honest parents!" said Claudia, speaking in the mad, reckless, defiant way in which those conscious of a bad argument passionately defend their point.

For a few moments Bee seemed speechless with indignation. Then she burst forth vehemently:

"It is false! as false as the Father of Falsehood himself! When thorns produce figs, or the deadly nightshade nectarines; when eaglets are hatched in owls' nests and young lions spring from rat holes, then I may believe these foul slanders of Ishmael and his parents. Shame on you, Claudia Merlin, for repeating them! You have shown me much evil in your heart to-night; but nothing so bad as that! Ishmael is nature's gentleman! His mother must have been pure and lovely and loving! his father good and wise and brave! else how could they have given this son to the world! And did you forget, Claudia, when you spoke those cruel words of him, did you forget that only a little while ago you admitted that you loved him, and that all which was best in your nature approved that love?"

"No, I did not and do not forget it! It was and it is true! But what of that? I may not be able to help adoring him for his personal excellence! But to be his wife--the wife of a--Horrible!"

"Have you forgotten, Claudia, that only a few minutes ago you said that you could not conceive of a diviner happiness than to be the beloved wife of Ishmael?"

"No, I have not forgotten it! And I spoke the truth! but that joy which I could so keenly appreciate can never, never be mine! And that is the secret of my madness--for I am mad, Bee! And, oh, I came here to-night with my torn and bleeding heart--torn and bleeding from the dreadful battle between love and pride--came here with my suffering heart; my sinful heart if you will; and laid it on your bosom to be soothed; and you have taken it and flung it back in my face! You have broken the bruised reed; quenched the smoking flax; humbled the humble; smitten the fallen! Oh, Bee, you have been more cruel than you know! Good-by! Good-by!" And she turned and flung herself out of the room.

"Claudia, dear Claudia, oh, forgive me! I did not mean to wound you; if I spoke harshly it was because I felt for both! Claudia, come back, love!" cried Bee, hurrying after her; but Claudia was gone. Bee would have followed her; but little Lu's voice was heard in plaintive notes. Bee returned to the room to find her little sister lying awake with wide-open, frightened eyes.

"Oh, Bee! don't do! and don't let she tome bat. She stares Lu!"

"Shall Bee take Lu up and rock her to sleep?"

"'Es."

Bee gently lifted the little one and sat down in the rocking-chair and began to rock slowly and sing softly. But presently she stopped and whispered:

"Baby!"

"'Es, Bee."

"Do you love cousin Claudia?"

"'Es, but she wates me up and stares me; don't let she tome adain, Bee."

"No, I will not; but poor Claudia is not happy; won't you ask the Lord to bless poor Claudia? He hears little children like you!"

"'Es; tell me what to say, Bee." And without another word the little one slid down upon her knees and folded her hands, while Bee taught the sinless child to pray for the sinful woman.

And then she took the babe again upon her lap, and rocked slowly and sung softly until she soothed her to sleep.

Then Bee arose and rustled softly about the room, making her simple toilet before going to the saloon to join the guests.

LXV. ISHMAEL'S WOE

And with another's crime, my birth She taunted me as little worth, Because, forsooth, I could not claim The lawful heirship of my name; Yet were a few short summers mine, My name should more than ever shine, With honors all my own!

--Byron.

Ishmael sat in the shadows of his room overwhelmed with shame and sorrow and despair. He had heard every cruel word; they had entered his ears and pierced his heart. And not only for himself he bowed his head and sorrowed and despaired, but for her; for her, proud, selfish, sinful, but loving, and oh, how fatally beloved!

It was not only that he worshiped her with a blind idolatry, and knew that she returned his passion with equal strength and fervor, and that she would have waited for him long years, and married him at last but for the cloud upon his birth. It was not this--not his own misery that crushed him, nor even her present wretchedness that prostrated him--no! but it was the awful, shapeless shadow of some infinite unutterable woe is Claudia's future, and into which she was blindly rushing, that overwhelmed him. Oh, to have saved her from this woe, he would gladly have laid down his life!

The door opened and Jim, his especial waiter, entered with two lighted candles on a tray. He sat them on the table and was leaving the room, when Ishmael recalled him. What I am about to relate is a trifle perhaps, but it will serve to show the perfect beauty of that nature which, in the midst of its own great sorrow, could think of the small wants of another.

"Jim, you asked me this morning to write a letter for you, to your mother, I think."

"Yes, Master Ishmael, I thank you, sir; whenever you is at leisure, sir, with nothing to do; which I wouldn't presume to be in a hurry, sir, nor likewise inconvenience you the least in the world."

"It will not inconvenience me, Jim; it will give me pleasure, whenever you can spare me half an hour," replied Ishmael, speaking with as much courtesy to the poor dependent as he would have used in addressing his wealthiest patron.

"Well, Master Ishmael, which I ought to say Mr. Worth, and I beg your pardon, sir, only it is the old love as makes me forget myself, and call you what I used to in the old days, because Mr. Worth do seem to leave me so far away--"

"Call me what you please, Jim, we are old friends, and I love my old friends better than any new distinctions that could come between us, but which I will never allow to separate us. What were you about to say, Jim?"

"Well, Master Ishmael, and I thank you sincere, sir, for letting of me call you so, I was going for to say, as I could be at your orders any time, even now, if it would suit you, sir; because I have lighted up all my rooms and set my table for dinner, which it is put back an hour because of Master Walter, who is expected by the six o'clock train this evening; and Sam is waiting in the hall, and I aint got anything very partic'lar to do for the next hour or so."

"Very well, Jim; sit down in that chair and tell me what you want me to write," said Ishmael, seating himself before his desk and dipping his pen in ink.

Yes, it was a small matter in itself; but it was characteristic of the man, thus to put aside his own poignant anguish to interest himself in the welfare of the humblest creature who invoked his aid.

"Now then, Jim."

"Well, Master Ishmael," said the poor fellow. "You know what to say a heap better'n I do. Write it beautiful, please."

"Tell me what is in your heart, Jim, and then I will do the best I can," said Ishmael, who possessed the rare gift of drawing out from others the best that was in their thoughts.

"Well, sir, I think a heap o' my ole mother, I does; 'membering how she did foh me when I was a boy and wondering if anybody does for her now, and if she is comfortable down there at Tanglewood. And I wants her to know it; and not to be a-thinking as I forgets her."

Ishmael wrote rapidly for a few moments and then looked up.

"What else, Jim?"

"Well, sir, tell her as I have saved a heap of money for her out'n the presents the gemmen made me o' Christmas, and I'll bring it to her when I come down--which the ole 'oman do love money, sir, better than she do anything in this world, 'cept it is me and old marster and Miss Claudia. And likewise what she wants me to bring her from town, and whether she would like a red gownd or a yallow one."

Ishmael set down this and looked up.

"Well, Jim?"

"Well, sir, tell her how she aint got no call to be anxious nor likewise stressed in her mind, nor lay 'wake o' nights thinking 'bout me, fear I should heave myself 'way, marrying of these yer trifling city gals as don't know a spinning wheel from a harrow. And how I aint seen nobody yet as I like better'n my ole mother and the young lady of color as she knows 'bout and 'proves of; which, sir, it aint nobody else but your own respected aunt, Miss Hannah's Miss Sally, as lives at Woodside."

"I have put all that down, Jim."

"Well, sir, and about the grand wedding as is to be to-morrow, sir; and how the Bishop of Maryland is going to 'form the ceremony; and how the happy pair be going to go on a grand tower, and then going to visit Tanglewood afore they parts for the old country; and how she will see a rale, livin' lord as she'll be 'stonished to see look so like any other man; and last ways how Miss Claudia do talk about taking me and Miss Sally along of her to foreign parts, because she prefers to be waited on by colored ladies and gentlemen 'fore white ones; and likewise how I would wish to go and see the world, only I won't go, nor likewise would Miss Claudia wish to take me, if the ole 'oman wishes otherwise."

Ishmael wrote and then looked up. Poor Jim, absorbed in his own affairs, did not notice how pale the writer's face had grown, or suspect how often during the last few minutes he had stabbed him to the heart.

"Well, sir, that is about all I think, Master Ishmael. Only, please, sir, put it all down in your beautiful language as makes the ladies cry when you gets up and speaks afore the great judges theirselves."

"I will do my best, Jim."

"Thank you, sir. And please sign my name to it, not yourn--my name--James Madison Monroe Mortimer."

"Yes, Jim."

"And please direct it to Mistress Catherine Maria Mortimer, most in general called by friends, Aunt Katie, as is housekeeper at Tanglewood."

Ishmael complied with his requests as far as discretion permitted.

"And now, sir, please read it all out aloud to me, so I can hear how it sound."

Ishmael complied with this request also, and read the letter aloud, to the immense delight of Jim, who earnestly expressed his approbation in the emphatic words:

"Now--that--is--beautiful! Thank y', sir! That is ekal to anything as ever I heard out'n the pulpit--and sides which, sir, it is all true, true as gospel, sir. It is just exactly what I thinks and how I feels and what I wants to say, only I aint got the words. Won't mother be proud o' that letter nyther? Why, laws, sir, the ole 'oman 'll get the minister to read that letter. And then she'll make everybody as comes to the house as can read, read it over and over again for the pride she takes in it, till she'll fairly know it all by heart," etc., etc., etc.

For Jim went on talking and smiling and covering the writer all over with gratitude and affection, until he was interrupted by the stopping of a carriage, the ringing of a door bell, and the sound of a sudden arrival.

"There's Master Walter Middleton now, as sure as the world! I must run! Dinner'll be put on the table soon's ever he's changed his dress. I'm a thousand times obleeged to you, sir. I am, indeed, everlasting obleeged! I wish I could prove it some way. Mother'll be so pleased." And talking all the way downstairs, Jim took himself and his delight away.

Ishmael sighed, and arose to dress for dinner. His kindness had not been without its reward. The little divertisement of Jim's letter had done him good. Blessed little offices of loving-kindness--what ministering angels are they to the donor as well as the receiver! With some degree of self-possession Ishmael completed his toilet and turned to leave the room, when the sound of someone rushing up the stairs like a storm arrested his steps.

Then a voice sounded outside:

"Which is Ishmael's room? Bother! Oh, here it is!" and Bee's door was opened. "No! calico! Ah! now I'm right."

And the next instant Walter Middleton burst open the door and rushed in, exclaiming joyfully, as he seized and shook the hands of his friend:

"Ah, here you are, old fellow! God bless you! How glad I am to see you! You are still the first love of my heart, Ishmael. Damon, your Pythias has not even a sweetheart to dispute your empire over him. How are you? I have heard of your success. Wasn't is glorious! You're a splendid fellow, Ishmael, and I'm proud of you. You may have Bee, if you want her. I always thought there was a bashful kindness between you two. And there isn't a reason in the world why you shouldn't have her. And so her Royal Highness, the Princess Claudia, has caught a Lord, has she? Well, you know she always said she would, and she has kept her word. But, I say, how are you? How do you wear your honors? How do the toga and the bays become you? Turn around and let us have a look at you." And so the affectionate fellow rattled on, shaking both Ishmael's hands every other second, until he had talked himself fairly out of breath.

"And how are you, dear Walter? But I need not ask; you look so well and happy," said Ishmael, as soon as he could get in a word.

"Me? Oh, I'm well enough. Nought's never in danger. I've just graduated, you know; with the highest honors, they say. My thesis won the great prize; that was because you were not in the same class, you know. I have my diploma in my pocket; I'm an M.D.; I can write myself doctor, and poison people, without danger of being tried for murder! isn't that a privilege? Now let my enemies take care of themselves! Why don't you congratulate me, you--"

"I do, with all my heart and soul, Walter!"

"That's right! only I had to drag it from you. Well, so I'm to be 'best man' to this noble bridegroom. Too much honor. I am not prepared for it. One cannot get ready for graduating and marrying at the same time. I don't think I have got a thing fit to wear. I wrote to Bee to buy me some fine shirts, and some studs, and gloves, and handkerchiefs, and hair oil, and things proper for the occasion. I wonder if she did?"

"I don't know. I know that she has been overwhelmed with care for the last month, too much care for a girl, so it is just possible that she has had no opportunity. Indeed, she has a great deal to think of and to do."

"Oh, it won't hurt her; especially if it consists of preparations for the wedding."

A bell rang.

"There now, Ishmael, there is that diabolical dinner-bell! You may look, but it is true: a dinner-bell that peals out at seven o'clock in the evening is a diabolical dinner-bell. At college we dine at twelve meridian, sharp, and sup at six. It is dreadful to sit at table a whole hour, and be bored by seeing other people eat, and pretending to eat yourself, when you are not hungry. Well, there's no help for it. Come down and be bored, Ishmael."

They went down into the drawing room, where quite a large circle of near family connections were assembled.

Walter Middleton was presented to the Viscount Vincent, who was the only stranger, to him, present.

Claudia was there, looking as calm, as self-possessed and queenly, as if she had not passed through a storm of passion two hours before.

Ishmael glanced at her and saw the change with amazement, but he dared not trust himself to look again.

The dinner party, with all this trouble under the surface, passed off in superficial gayety. The guests separated early, because the following morning would usher in the wedding day.

LXVI. THE MARRIAGE MORNING

I trust that never more in this world's shade Thine eyes will be upon me: never more Thy face come back to me. For thou hast made My whole life sore. Fare hence, and be forgotten.... Sing thy song, And braid thy brow, And be beloved and beautiful--and be In beauty baleful still ... a Serpent Queen To others not yet curst in loving thee As I have been!

--Meredith.

Ishmael awoke. After a restless night, followed by an hour't complete forgetfulness, that more nearly resembled the swoon of exhaustion than the sleep of health, Ishmael awoke to a new sense of wretchedness.

You who have suffered know what such awakenings are. You have seen someone dearer than life die; but hours, days, or weeks of expectation have gradually prepared you for the last scene; and though you have seen the dear one die, and though you have wept yourself half blind and half dead, you have slept the sleep of utter oblivion, which is like death; but you have at last awakened and returned to consciousness to meet the shock of memory and the sense of sorrow a thousand times more overwhelming than the first blow of bereavement had been.

Or you have been for weeks looking forward to the parting of one whose presence is the very light of your days. And in making preparations for that event the thought of coming separation has been somewhat dulled; but at last all is ready; the last night has come; you all separate and go to bed, with the mutual injunction to be up early in the morning for the sake of seeing "him"--it may be some brave volunteer going to war--off; after laying awake nearly all night you suddenly drop into utter forgetfulness of impending grief, and into some sweet dream of pleasantness and peace. You awake with a start; the hour has come; the hour of parting; the hour of doom.

Yes, whatever the grief may be, it is in the hour of such awakenings we feel it most poignantly.

Thus it was with Ishmael. The instant he awoke the spear of memory transfixed his soul. He could have cried out in his agony. It took all his manhood to control his pain. He arose and dressed himself and offered up his morning worship and went to the breakfast room, resolved to pass through the day's fiery ordeal, cost what it might.

Claudia was not at breakfast. In fact, she seldom or never appeared at the breakfast table; and this morning of all mornings it was quite natural she should be absent. But Mrs. Middleton and Bee, Judge Merlin, Mr. Middleton, Mr. Brudenell, Walter, and Ishmael were present. It was in order that people should be merry on a marriage morning; but somehow or other that order was not followed. Judge Merlin, Mrs. Middleton, and Bee were unusually grave and silent; Mr. Brudenell was always sad; Ishmael was no conventional talker, and therefore could not seem other than he was--very serious. It was quite in vain that Mr. Middleton and Walter tried to get up a little jesting and badinage. And when the constraint of the breakfast table was over everyone felt relieved.

"Remember," said Mrs. Middleton, with her hand upon the back of her chair, "that the carriages will be at the door at half-past ten; it is now half-past nine."

"And that means that we have but an hour to get on our wedding garments," said Walter. "Bee, have you got my finery ready?"

"You will find everything you require laid out on your bed, Walter."

"You are the best little sister that ever was born. I doubt whether I shall let Ishmael, or anyone else, hate you until I get a wife of my own; and even then I don't know but what I shall want you home to look after her and the children!" rattled Walter, careless or unobservant of the deep blush that mantled the maiden's face.

"Ishmael," said the judge, "I wish you to take the fourth seat in the carriage with myself and daughter and Beatrice. Will you do so?"

Ishmael's emotions nearly choked him, but he answered:

"Certainly, if you wish."

"The four bridesmaids will fill the second carriage, and Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, Mr. Brudenell and Walter the third, I do not know the arrangements made for our other friends; but I dare say it is all right. Oh, Ishmael, I feel as though we were arranging a procession to the grave instead of the altar," he added, with a heavy sigh. Then correcting himself, he said: "But this is all very morbid. So no more of it."

And the judge wrung Ishmael's hand; and each went his separate way to dress for the wedding.

Meanwhile the bride-elect sat alone in her luxurious dressing room.

Around her, scattered over tables, chairs, and stands, lay the splendid paraphernalia of her bridal array--rich dresses, mantles, bonnets, veils, magnificent shawls, sparkling jewels, blooming flowers, intoxicating perfumes.

On the superb malachite stand beside her stood a silver tray, on which was arranged an elegant breakfast service of Bohemian china. But the breakfast was untasted and forgotten.

There was no one to watch her; she had sent her maid away with orders not to return until summoned by her bell.

And now, while her coffee unheeded grew cold, she sat, leaning forward in her easy-chair, with her hands tightly clasped together over her knees, her tumbled black ringlets fallen down upon her dressing gown, and her eyes flared open and fixed in a dreadful stare upon the far distance as if spellbound by some horror there.

To have seen her thus, knowing that she was a bride-elect, you might have judged that she was about to be forced into some loathed marriage, from which her whole tortured nature revolted.

And you would have judged truly. She was being thus forced into such a marriage, not by any tyrannical parent or guardian, for flesh and blood could not have forced Claudia Merlin into any measure she had set her will against. She was forced by the demon Pride, who had taken possession of her soul.

And now she sat alone with her sin, dispossessed of all her better self, face to face with her lost soul.

She was aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Middleton--Mrs. Middleton in full carriage-dress--robe and mantle of mauve-colored moire-antique, a white lace bonnet with mauve-colored flowers, and white kid gloves finished at the wrists with mauve ribbon quillings.

"Why, Claudia, is it possible? Not commenced dressing yet, and everybody else ready, and the clock on the stroke of ten! What have you been thinking of, child?"

Claudia started like one suddenly aroused from sleep, threw her hands to her face as if to clear away a mist, and looked around.

But Mrs. Middleton had hurried to the door and was calling:

"Here, Alice! Laura! 'Gena! Lotty! Where are you?"

Receiving no answer, she flew to the bell and rang it and brought Claudia's maid to the room.

"Ruth, hurry to the young ladies' room and give my compliments, and ask them to come here as soon as possible! Miss Merlin is not yet dressed."

The girl went on her errand and Mrs. Middleton turned again to Claudia:

"Not even eaten your breakfast yet. Oh, Claudia!" and she poured out a cup of coffee and handed it to her niece.

And Claudia drank it, because it was easier to do so than to expostulate.

At the moment that Claudia returned the cup the door opened and the four bridesmaids entered--all dressed in floating, cloud-like, misty white tulle, and crowned with wreaths of white roses and holding bouquets of the same.

They laid down their bouquets, drew on their white gloves and fluttered around the bride and with their busy fingers quickly dressed her luxuriant black hair, and arrayed her stately form in her superb bridal dress.

This dress was composed of an under-skirt of the richest white satin and an upper robe of the finest Valenciennes lace looped up with bunches of orange flowers. A bertha of lace fell over the satin bodice. And a long veil of lace flowed from the queenly head down to the tiny foot. A wreath of orange flowers, sprinkled over with the icy dew of small diamonds, crowned her black ringlets. And diamonds adorned her neck, bosom, arms, and stomacher. Her bouquet holder was studded with diamonds, and her initials on the white velvet cover of her prayer-book were formed of tiny seed-like diamonds.

No sovereign queen on her bridal morn was ever more richly arrayed. But, oh, how deadly pale and cold she was!

"There!" they said triumphantly, when they had finished dressing her, even to the arranging of the bouquet of orange flowers in its costly holder and putting it in her hand. "There!" And they wheeled the tall Psyche mirror up before her, that she might view and admire herself.

She looked thoughtfully at the image reflected there. She looked so long that Mrs. Middleton, growing impatient, said:

"My love, it is time to go."

"Leave me alone for a few minutes, all of you! I will not keep you waiting long," said Claudia.

"She wishes to be alone to offer up a short prayer before going to be married," was the thought in the heart of each one of the party, as they filed out of the room.

Did Claudia wish to pray? Did she intend to ask God's protection against evil? Did she dare to ask his blessing on the act she contemplated?

We shall see.

She went after the last retreating figure and closed and bolted the door. Then she returned to her dressing bureau, opened a little secret drawer and took from it a tiny jar of rouge, and with a piece of cotton-wool applied it to her deathly-white cheeks until she had produced there an artificial bloom, more brilliant than that of her happiest days, only because it was more brilliant than that of nature. Then to soften its fire she powdered her face with pearl white, and finally with a fine handkerchief carefully dusted off the superfluous particles.

Having done this, she put away her cosmetics and took from the same receptacle a vial of the spirits of lavender and mixed a spoonful of it with water and drank it off.

Then she returned the vial to its place and locked up the secret drawer where she kept her deceptions.

She gave one last look at the mirror, saw that between the artificial bloom and the artificial stimulant her face presented a passable counterfeit of its long-lost radiance; she drew her bridal veil around so as to shade it a little, lowered her head and raised her bouquet, that her friends might not see the suspicious suddenness of the transformation from deadly pallor to living bloom--for though Claudia, in an hour of hysterical passion, had discovered this secret of her toilet to Beatrice, yet she was really ashamed of it, and wished to conceal it from all others.

She opened the door, went out, and joined her friends in the hall, saying with a cheerfulness that she had found in the lavender vial:

"I am quite ready for the show now!"

But she kept her head lowered and averted, for a little while, though in fact her party were too much excited to scrutinize her appearance, especially as they had had a good view of her while making her toilet.

They went down into the drawing room, where the family and their nearest relations were assembled and waiting for them.

Bee was there, looking lovely as usual. Bee, who almost always wore white when in full dress, now varied from her custom by wearing a glace silk of delicate pale blue, with a white lace mantle and a white lace bonnet and veil. Bee did this because she did not mean to be mustered into the bride's service, or even mistaken by any person for one of the bridesmaids. Beyond her obligatory presence in the church as one of the bride's family, Bee was resolved to have nothing to do with the sacrilegious marriage.

"Come, my dear! Are you ready? How beautiful you are, my Claudia! I never paid you a compliment before, my child; but surely I may be excused for doing so now that you are about to leave me! 'How blessings brighten as they take their flight,'" whispered the judge, as he met and kissed his daughter.

And certainly Claudia's beauty seemed perfectly dazzling this morning. She smiled a greeting to all her friends assembled there, and then gave her hand to her father, who drew it within his arm and led her to the carriage.

Ishmael, like one in a splendid, terrible dream, from which he could not wake, in which he was obliged to act, went up to Bee and drew her little white-gloved hand under his arm, and led her after the father and daughter.

The other members of the marriage party followed in order.

Besides Judge Merlin's brougham and Mr. Middleton's barouche, there were several other carriages drawn up before the house.

Bee surveyed this retinue and murmured:

"Indeed, except that we all wear light colors instead of black, and the coachmen have no hat-scarfs, this looks quite as much like a funeral as a wedding."

Ishmael did not reply; he could not wake from the dazzling, horrible dream.

When they were seated in the carriage, Claudia and Beatrice occupied the back seat; the judge and Ishmael the front one; the judge sat opposite Bee, and Ishmael opposite Claudia.

The rich drifts of shining white satin and misty white lace that formed her bridal dress floated around him; her foot inadvertently touched his, and her warm, balmy breath passed him. Never had he been so close to Claudia before; that carriage was so confined and crowded--dread proximity! The dream deepened; it became a trance--that strange trance that sometimes falls upon the victim in the midst of his sufferings held Ishmael's faculties in abeyance and deadened his sense of pain.

And indeed the same spell, though with less force, acted upon all the party in that carriage. Its mood was expectant, excited, yet dream-like. There was scarcely any conversation. There seldom is under such circumstances. Once the judge inquired:

"Bee, my dear, how is it that you are not one of Claudia's bridesmaids?"

"I did not wish to be, and Claudia was so kind as to excuse me," Beatrice replied.

"But why not, my love? I thought young ladies always liked to fill such positions."

Bee blushed and lowered her head, but did not reply.

Claudia answered for her:

"Beatrice does not like Lord Vincent; and does not approve of the marriage," she said defiantly.

"Humph!" exclaimed the judge, and not another word was spoken during the drive.

It was a rather long one. The church selected for the performance of the marriage rites being St. John's, at the west end of the town, where the bridegroom and his friends were to meet the bride and her attendants.

They reached the church at last; the other carriages arrived a few seconds after them, and the whole party alighted and went in.

The bridegroom and his friends were already there. And the bridal procession formed and went up the middle aisle to the altar, where the bishop in his sacerdotal robes stood ready to perform the ceremony.

The bridal party formed before the altar, the bishop opened the book, and the ceremony commenced. It proceeded according to the ritual, and without the slightest deviation from commonplace routine.

When the bishop came to that part of the rites in which he utters the awful adjuration--"I require and charge you both, as ye shall answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that if any persons are joined together, otherwise than God's word doth allow, their marriage is not lawful,"--Bee, who was standing with her mother and father near the bridal circle, looked up at the bride.

Oh, could Claudia, loving another, loathing the bridegroom, kneel in that sacred church, before that holy altar, in the presence of God's minister, in the presence of God himself, hear that solemn adjuration, and persevere in her awful sin?

Yes, Claudia could! as tens of thousands, from ignorance, from insensibility, or from recklessness, have done before her; and as tens of thousands more, from the same causes, will do after her.

The ceremony proceeded until it reached the part where the ring is placed upon the bride's finger, and all went well enough until, as they were rising from the prayer of "Our Father," the bride happened to lower her hand, and the ring, which was too large for her finger, dropped off, and rolled away and passed out of sight.

The ceremony ended, and the ring was sought for; but could not be found then: and, I may as well tell you now, it has not been found yet.

Seeing at length that their search was quite fruitless, the gentlemen of the bridal train reluctantly gave up the ring for lost, and the whole party filed into the chancel to enter their names in the register, that lay for this purpose on the communion table.

The bridegroom first approached and wrote his. It was a prolonged and sonorous roll of names, such as frequently compose the tail of a nobleman's title:

Malcolm--Victor--Stuart--Douglass--Gordon--Dugald, Viscount Vincent.

Then the bride signed hers, and the witnesses theirs.

When Mr. Brudenell came to sign his own name as one of the witnesses, he happened to glance at the bridegroom's long train of names. He read them over with a smile at their length, but his eye fastened upon the last one--"Dugald," "Dugald"? Herman Brudenell, like the immortal Burton, thought he had "heard that name before," in fact, was sure he had "heard that name before!" Yes, verily; he had heard it in connection with his sister's fatal flight, in which a certain Captain Dugald had been her companion! And he resolved to make cautious inquiries of the viscount. He had known Lord Vincent on the Continent, but he had either never happened to hear what his family name was, or if he had chanced to do so, he had forgotten the circumstances. At all events, it was not until the instant in which he read the viscount's signature in the register that he discovered the family name of Lord Vincent and the disreputable name of Eleanor Brudenell's unprincipled lover to be the same.

But this was no time for brooding over the subject. He affixed his own signature, which was the last one on the list, and then joined the bridal party, who were now leaving the church.

At the door a signal change took place in the order of the procession.

Lord Vincent, with a courtesy as earnest and a smile as beaming as gallantry and the occasion required, handed his bride into his own carriage.

Judge Merlin, Ishmael, and Beatrice rode together.

And others returned in the order in which they had come.

Ishmael was coming out of that strange, benumbed state that had deadened for a while all his sense of suffering--coming back to a consciousness of utter bereavement and insupportable anguish--anguish written in such awful characters upon his pallid and writhen brow that Beatrice and her uncle exchanged glances of wonder and alarm.

But Ishmael, in his fixed agony, did not perceive the looks of anxiety they turned towards him--did not even perceive the passage of time or space, until they arrived at home again, and the wedding guests once more began to alight from the carriages.

The party temporarily separated in the hall, the ladies dispersing each to her own chamber to make some trifling change in her toilet before appearing in the drawing room.

"Ishmael, come here, my lad," said the judge, as soon as they were left alone.

Ishmael mechanically followed him to the little breakfast parlor of the family, where on the sideboard sat decanters of brandy and wine, and pitchers of water, and glasses of all shapes and sizes.

He poured out two glasses of brandy--one for himself and one for Ishmael.

"Let us drink the health of the newly-married couple," he said, pushing one glass towards Ishmael, and raising the other to his own lips.

But Ishmael hesitated, and poured out a tumbler of pure water, saying, in a faint voice:

"I will drink her health in this."

"Nonsense! put it down. You are chilled enough without drinking that to throw you into an ague. Drink something, warm and strong, boy! drink something warm and strong. I tell you, I, for one, cannot get through this day without some such support as this," said the judge authoritatively, as he took from the young man's nerveless hand the harmless glass of water, and put into it the perilous glass of brandy.

For ah! good men do wicked things sometimes, and wise men foolish ones.

Still Ishmael hesitated; for even in the midst of his great trouble he heard the "still, small voice" of some good angel--it might have been his mother's spirit--whispering him to dash from his lips the Circean draught, that would indeed allay his sense of suffering for a few minutes, but might endanger his character through all his life and his soul through all eternity. The voice that whispered this, as I said, was a "still, small voice" speaking softly within him. But the voice of the judge was bluff and hearty, and he stood there, a visible presence, enforcing his advice with strength of action.

And Ishmael, scarcely well assured of what he did, put the glass to his lips and quaffed the contents, and felt at once falsely exhilarated.

"Come, now, we will go into the drawing room. I dare say they are all down by this time," said the judge. And in they went.

He was right in his conjecture; the wedding guests were all assembled there.

And soon after his entrance the sliding doors between the drawing room and the dining room were pushed back, and Devizac, who was the presiding genius of the wedding feast, appeared and announced that breakfast was served.

The company filed in--the bride and bridegroom walking together, and followed by the bridesmaids and the gentlemen of the party.

Ishmael gave his arm to Beatrice. Mr. Brudenell conducted Mrs. Middleton, and the judge led one of the lady guests.

The scene they entered upon was one of splendor, beauty, and luxury, never surpassed even by the great Vourienne and Devizac themselves! Painting, gilding, and flowers had not been spared. The walls were covered with frescoes of Venus, Psyche, Cupid, the Graces, and the Muses, seen among the rosy bowers and shady groves of Arcadia. The ceiling was covered with celestial scenery, in the midst of which was seen the cloudy court of Jupiter and Juno and their attendant gods and goddesses; the pillars were covered with gilding and twined with flowers, and long wreaths of flowers connected one pillar with another and festooned the doorways and windows and the corners of the room.

The breakfast table was a marvel of art--blazing with gold plate, blooming with beautiful and fragrant exotics, and intoxicating with the aroma of the richest and rarest viands.

At the upper end of the room a temporary raised and gilded balcony wreathed with roses was occupied by Dureezie's celebrated band, who, as the company came in, struck up an inspiring bridal march composed expressly for this occasion.

The wedding party took their seats at the table and the feasting began. The viands were carved and served and praised. The bride's cake was cut and the slices distributed. The ring fell to one of the bridesmaids and provoked the usual badinage. The wine circulated freely.

Mr. Middleton arose and in a neat little speech proposed the fair bride's health, which proposal was hailed with enthusiasm.

Judge Merlin, in another little speech, returned thanks to the company, and begged leave to propose the bridegroom's health, which was duly honored.

Then it was Lord Vincent's turn to rise and express his gratitude and propose Judge Merlin's health.

This necessitated a second rising of the judge, who after making due acknowledgments of the compliments paid him, proposed--the fair bridesmaids.

And so the breakfast proceeded.

They sat at table an hour, and then, at a signal from Mrs. Middleton, all arose.

The gentlemen adjourned to the little breakfast parlor to drink a parting glass with their host in something stronger than the light French breakfast wines they had been quaffing so freely.

And the bride, followed by all her attendants, went up to her room to change her bridal robe and veil for her traveling dress and bonnet; as the pair were to take the one o'clock train to Baltimore en route for New York, Niagara, and the Lakes.

She found her dressing room all restored to the dreary good order that spoke of abandonment. Her rich dresses and jewels and bridal presents were all packed up. And every trunk was locked and corded and ready for transportation to the railway station, except one large trunk that stood open, with its upper tray waiting for the bridal dress she was about to put off.

Ruth, who had been very busy with all this packing, while the wedding party were at church and at breakfast, now stood with the brown silk dress and mantle that was to be Claudia's traveling costume, laid over her arm.

Claudia, assisted by Mrs. Middleton, changed her dress with the feverish haste of one who longed to get a painful ordeal over; and while Ruth hastily packed away the wedding finery and closed the last trunk, Claudia tied on her brown silk bonnet and drew on her gloves and expressed herself ready to depart.

They went downstairs to the drawing room, where all the wedding guests were once more gathered to see the young pair off.

There was no time to lose, and so all her friends gathered around the bride to receive her adieus and to express their good wishes.

One by one she bade them farewell.

When she came to her cousin, Bee burst into tears and whispered:

"God forgive you, poor Claudia! God avert from you all evil consequences of your own act!"

She caught her breath, wrung Bee's hand and turned away, and looked around. She had taken leave of all except her father and Ishmael.

Her father she knew would accompany her as far as the railway station, for he had said as much.

But there was Ishmael.

As she went up to him slowly and fearfully, every vein and artery in her body seemed to throb with the agony of her heart. She tried to speak; but could utter no articulate sound. She held out her hand; but he did not take it; then she lifted her beautiful eyes to his, with a glance so helpless, so anguished, so imploring, as if silently praying from him some kind word before she should go, that Ishmael's generous heart was melted and he took her hand and pressing it while he spoke, said in low and fervent tones:

"God bless you, Lady Vincent. God shield you from all evil. God save you in every crisis of your life."

And she bowed her head, lowly and humbly, to receive this benediction as though it had been uttered by an authorized minister of God.

LXVII. BEE'S HANDKERCHIEF

"I would bend my spirit o'er yon." "I am humbled, who was humble! Friend! I bow my head before you!"

--E.B. Browning.

But a mist fell before Ishmael's eyes, and when it cleared away Claudia was gone.

The young bridesmaids were chattering gayly in a low, melodious tone with each other, and with the gentlemen of the party filling the room with a musical hum of many happy voices.

But all this seemed unreal and dreadful, like the illusions of troubled sleep. And so Ishmael left the drawing room and went up to the office, to see if perhaps he could find real life there.

There lay the parcels of papers tied up with red tape, the open books that he had consulted the day before, and the letters that had come by the morning's mail.

He sat down wearily to the table and began to open his letters. One by one he read and laid them aside. One important letter, bearing upon a case he had on hand, he laid by itself.

Then rising, he gathered up his documents, put them into his pocket, took his hat and gloves and went to the City Hall.

This day of suffering, like all other days, was a day of duties also.

It was now one o'clock, the hour at which the train started which carried Claudia away.

It was also the hour at which a case was appointed to be heard before the Judge of the Orphan's Court--a case in which the guardianship of certain fatherless and motherless children was disputed between a grandmother and an uncle, and in which Ishmael was counsel for the plaintiff. He appeared in court, punctually to the minute, found his client waiting for him there, and as soon as the judge had taken his seat the young counsel opened the case. By a strong effort of will he wrested his thoughts from his own great sorrow, and engaged them in the interests of the anxious old lady, who was striving for the possession of her grandchildren only from the love she bore them and their mother, her own dead daughter; while her opponent wished only to have the management of their large fortune.

It was nature that pleaded through the lips of the eloquent young counsel, and he gained this case also.

But he was ill in mind and body. He could scarcely bear the thanks and congratulations of his client and her friends.

The old lady had retained him by one large fee, and now she placed another and a larger one in his hands; but he could not have told whether the single banknote was for five dollars or five hundred, as he mechanically received it and placed it in his pocketbook.

And then, with the courteous bow and smile, never omitted, because they were natural and habitual, he turned and left the courtroom.

"What is the matter with Worth?" inquired one lawyer.

"Can't imagine; he looks very ill; shouldn't wonder if he was going to have a congestion of the brain. It looks like it. He works too hard," replied another.

Old Wiseman, the law-thunderer, who had been the counsel opposed to Ishmael in this last case, and who, in fact, was always professionally opposed to him, but, nevertheless, personally friendly towards him, had also noticed his pale, haggard, and distracted looks, and now hurried after him in the fear that he should fall before reaching home.

He overtook Ishmael in the lobby. The young man was standing leaning on the balustrade at the head of the stairs, as if unable to take another step.

Wiseman bent over him.

"Worth, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you? Does it half kill you to overthrow me at law?"

"I--fear that I am not well," replied Ishmael, in a hollow voice, and with a haggard smile.

"What is it? Only exhaustion, I hope? You have been working too hard, and you never even left the courtroom to take any refreshments to-day. You are too much in earnest, my young friend. You take too much pains. You apply yourself too closely. Why, bless my life, you could floor us all any day with half the trouble! But you must always use a trip-hammer to drive tin tacks. Take my arm, and let us go and get something."

And the stout lawyer drew the young man's arm within his own and led him to a restaurant that was kept on the same floor for the convenience of the courts and their officers and other habitues of the City Hall.

Wiseman called for the best old Otard brandy, and poured out half a tumblerful, and offered it to Ishmael. It was a dose that might have been swallowed with impunity by a seasoned old toper like Wiseman; but certainly not by an abstinent young man like Ishmael, who, yielding to the fatal impulse to get rid of present suffering by any means, at any cost, or any risk, took the tumbler and swallowed the brandy.

Ah, Heaven have mercy on the sorely-tried and tempted!

This was only the third glass of alcoholic stimulants that Ishmael had ever taken in the whole course of his life.

On the first occasion, the day of Claudia's betrothal, the glass had been placed in his hand and urged upon his acceptance by his honored old friend, Judge Merlin.

On the second occasion, the morning of this day, of Claudia's marriage, the glass had also been offered him by Judge Merlin.

And on the third occasion, this afternoon of the terrible day of trial and suffering, it was placed to his lips by the respectable old lawyer, Wiseman.

Alas! alas!

On the first occasion Ishmael had protested long before he yielded; on the second he had hesitated a little while; but on the third he took the offered glass and drank the brandy without an instant's doubt or pause.

Lord, be pitiful!

And oh, Nora, fly down from heaven on wings of love and watch over your son and save him--from his friends!--lest he fall into deeper depths than any from which he has so nobly struggled forth. For he is suffering, tempted, and human! And there never lived but one perfect man, and he was the Son of God.

"Well?" said old Wiseman as he received the glass from Ishmael's hand and sat it down.

"I thank you; it has done me good; I feel much better; you are very kind," said Ishmael.

"I wish you would really think so, and go into partnership with me. My business is very heavy--much more than I can manage alone, now that I am growing old and stout; and I must have somebody, and I would rather have you than anyone else. You would succeed to the whole business after my death, you know."

"Thank you; your offer is very flattering. I will think it over, and talk with you on some future occasion. Now I feel that I must return home, while I have strength to do so," replied Ishmael.

"Very well, then, my dear fellow, I will let you off."

And they shook hands and parted.

Ishmael, feeling soothed, strengthened, and exhilarated, set off to walk home. But this feeling gradually passed off, giving place to a weakness, heaviness, and feverishness, that warned him he was in no state to appear at judge Merlin's dinner table.

So when he approached the house he opened a little side gate leading into the back grounds, and strayed into the shrubbery, feeling every minute more feverish, heavy, and drowsy.

At last he strayed into an arbor, quite at the bottom of the shrubberies, where he sank down upon the circular bench and fell into a deep sleep.

Meanwhile up at the house changes had taken place. The wedding guests had all departed. The festive garments had had been laid away. The decorated dining room had been shut up. The household had returned to its usual sober aspect, and the plain family dinner was laid in the little breakfast parlor. But the house was very sad and silent and lonely because its queen was gone. At the usual dinner-hour, six o'clock, the family assembled at the table.

"Where is Ishmael, uncle?" inquired Beatrice.

"I do not know, my dear," replied the judge, whose heart was sore with the wrench that had torn his daughter from him.

"Do you, papa?"

"No, dear."

"Mamma, have you seen Ishmael since the morning?"

"No, child."

"Nor you, Walter?"

"Nor I, Bee."

Mr. Brudenell looked up at the fair young creature, who took such thought of his absent son, and volunteered to say:

"He had a case before the Orphans' Court to-day, I believe. But the court is adjourned, I know, because I met the judge an hour ago at the Capitol; so I suppose he will be here soon."

Bee bowed in acknowledgment of this information, but she did not feel at all reassured. She had noticed Ishmael's dreadful pallor that morning; she felt how much he suffered, and she feared some evil consequences; though her worst suspicions never touched the truth.

"Uncle," she said, blushing deeply to be obliged still to betray her interest in one whom she was forced to remember, because everyone else forgot him, "uncle, had we not better send Powers up to Ishmael's room to see if he has come in, and let him know that dinner is on the table?"

"Certainly, my dear; go, Powers, and if Mr. Worth is in his room, let him know that dinner is ready."

Powers went, but soon returned with the information that Mr. Worth was neither in his room nor in the office, nor anywhere else in the house.

"Some professional business has detained him; he will be home after a while," said the judge.

But Bee was anxious, and when dinner was over she went upstairs to a window that overlooked the Avenue, and watched; but, of course, in vain. Then with the restlessness common to intense anxiety she came down and went into the shrubbery to walk. She paced about very uneasily until she had tired herself, and then turned towards a secluded arbor at the bottom of the grounds to rest herself. She put aside the vines that overhung the doorway and entered.

What did she see?

Ishmael extended upon the bench, with the late afternoon sun streaming through a crevice in the arbor, shining full upon his face, which was also plagued with flies!

She had found him then, but how?

At first she thought he was only sleeping; and she was about to withdraw from the arbor when the sound of his breathing caught her ear and alarmed her, and she crept back and cautiously approached and looked over him.

His face was deeply flushed; the veins of his temples were swollen; and his breathing was heavy and labored. In her fright Bee caught up his hand and felt his pulse. It was full, hard, and slowly throbbing. She thought that he was very ill--dangerously ill, and she was about to spring up and rush to the house for help, when, in raising her head, she happened to catch his breath.

And all the dreadful truth burst upon Bee's mind, and overwhelmed her with mortification and despair!

With a sudden gasp and a low wail she sank on her knees at his side and dropped her head in her open hands and sobbed aloud.

"Oh, Ishmael, Ishmael, is it so? Have I lived to see you thus? Can a woman reduce a man to this? A proud and selfish woman have such power so to mar God's noblest work? Oh, Ishmael, my love, my love! I love you better than I love all the world besides! And I love you better than anyone else ever did or ever can; yet, yet, I would rather see you stark dead before me than to see you thus! Oh, Heaven! Oh, Saviour! Oh, Father of Mercies, have pity on him and save him!" she cried.

And she wrung her hands and bent her head to look at him more closely, and her large tears dropped upon his face.

He stirred, opened his eyes, rolled them heavily, became half conscious of someone weeping over him, turned clumsily and relapsed into insensibility.

At his first motion Bee had sprung up and fled from the arbor, at the door of which she stood, with throbbing heart, watching him, through the vines. She saw that he had again fallen into that deep and comatose sleep. And she saw that his flushed and fevered face was more than ever exposed to the rays of the sun and the plague of the flies. And she crept cautiously back again, and drew her handkerchief from her pocket and laid it over his face, and turned and hurried, broken-spirited from the spot.

She gained her own room and threw herself into her chair in a passion of tears and sobs.

Nothing that had ever happened in all her young life had ever grieved her anything like this. She had loved Ishmael with all her heart, and she knew that Ishmael loved Claudia with all of his; but the knowledge of this fact had never brought to her the bitter sorrow that the sight of Ishmael's condition had smitten her with this afternoon. For there was scarcely purer love among the angels in heaven than was that of Beatrice for Ishmael. First of all she desired his good; next his affection; next his presence; but there was scarcely selfishness enough in Bee's nature to wish to possess him all for her own.

First his good! And here, weeping, sobbing, and praying by turns, she resolved to devote herself to that object; to do all that she possibly could to shield him from the suspicion of this night's event; and to save him from falling into a similar misfortune.

She remained in her own room until tea-time, and then bathed her eyes, and smoothed her hair, and went down to join the family at the table.

"Well, Bee," said the judge, "have you found Ishmael yet?"

Bee hesitated, blushed, reflected a moment, and then answered:

"Yes, uncle; he is sleeping; he is not well; and I would not have him disturbed if I were you; for sleep will do him more good than anything else."

"Certainly. Why, Bee, did you ever know me to have anybody waked up in the whole course of my life? Powers, and the rest of you, hark ye: Let no one call Mr. Worth. Let him sleep until the last trump sounds, or until he wakes up of his own accord!"

Powers bowed, and said he would see the order observed.

Soon after tea was over, the family, fatigued with the day's excitement, retired to bed.

Bee went up to her room in the back attic; but she did not go to bed, or even undress, for she knew that Ishmael was locked out; and so she threw a light shawl around her, and seated herself at the open back window, which from its high point of view commanded every nook and cranny of the back grounds, to watch until Ishmael should wake up and approach the house, so that she might go down and admit him quietly, without disturbing the servants and exciting their curiosity and conjectures. No one should know of Ishmael's misfortune, for she would not call it fault, if any vigilance of hers could shield him. All through the still evening, all through the deep midnight, Bee sat and watched.

When Ishmael had fallen asleep, the sun was still high above the Western horizon; but when he awoke the stars were shining.

He raised himself to a sitting posture, and looked around him, utterly bewildered and unable to collect his scattered faculties, or to remember where he was, or how he came there, or what had occurred, or who he himself really was--so deathlike had been his sleep.

He had no headache; his previous habits had been too regular, his blood was too pure, and the brandy was too good for that. He was simply bewildered, but utterly bewildered, as though he had waked up in another world.

He was conscious of a weight upon his heart, but could not remember the cause of it; and whether it was grief or remorse, or both, he could not tell. He feared that it was both.

Gradually memory and misery returned to him; the dreadful day; the marriage; the feast; the parting; the lawsuit; the two glasses of brandy, and their mortifying consequences. All the events of that day lay clearly before him now--that horrible day begun in unutterable sorrow, and ended in humiliating sin!

Was it himself, Ishmael Worth, who had suffered this sorrow, yielded to this temptation, and fallen into this sin? To what had his inordinate earthly affections brought him? He was no longer "the chevalier without fear and without reproach." He had fallen, fallen, fallen!

He remembered that when he had sunk to sleep the sun was shining and smiling all over the beautiful garden, and that even in his half-drowsy state he had noticed its glory. The sun was gone now. It had set upon his humiliating weakness. The day had given up the record of his sin and passed away forever. The day would return no more to reproach him, but its record would meet him in the judgment.

He remembered that once in his deep sleep he had half awakened and found what seemed a weeping angel bending over him, and that he had tried to rouse himself to speak; but in the effort he had only turned over and tumbled into a deeper oblivion than ever.

Who was that pitying angel visitant?

The answer came like a shock of electricity. It was Bee! Who else should it have been? It was Bee! She had sought him out when he was lost; she had found him in his weakness; she had dropped tears of love and sorrow over him.

At that thought new shame, new grief, new remorse swept in upon his soul.

He sprang upon his feet, and in doing so dropped a little white drift upon the ground. He stooped and picked it up.

It was the fine white handkerchief that on first waking up he had plucked from his face. And he knew by its soft thin feeling and its delicate scent of violets, Bee's favorite perfume, that it was her handkerchief, and she had spread it as a veil over his exposed and feverish, face. That little wisp of cambric was redolent of Bee! of her presence, her purity, her tenderness.

It seemed a mere trifle; but it touched the deepest springs of his heart, and, holding it in both his hands, he bowed his humbled head upon it and wept.

When a man like Ishmael weeps it is no gentle summer shower, I assure you; but as the breaking up of great fountains, the rushing of mighty torrents, the coming of a flood.

He wept long and convulsively. And his deluge of tears relieved his surcharged heart and brain and did him good. He breathed more freely; he wiped his face with this dear handkerchief, and then, all dripping wet with tears as it was, he pressed it to his lips and placed it in his bosom, over his heart, and registered a solemn vow in Heaven that this first fault of his life should also, with God's help, be his last.

Then he walked forth into the starlit garden, murmuring to himself:

"By a woman came sin and death into the world, and by a woman came redemption and salvation. Oh, Claudia, my Eve, farewell! farewell! And Bee, my Mary, hail!"

The holy stars no longer looked down reproachfully upon him; the harmless little insect-choristers no longer mocked him; love and forgiveness beamed down from the pure light of the first, and cheering hope sounded in the gleeful songs of the last.

Ishmael walked up the gravel-walk between the shrubbery and the house. Once, when his face was towards the house, he looked up at Bee's back window. It was open, and he saw a white, shadowy figure just within it.

Was it Bee?

His heart assured him that it was; and that anxiety for him had kept her there awake and watching.

As he drew near the house, quite uncertain as to how he should get in, he saw that the shadowy, white figure disappeared from the window; and when he went up to the back door, with the intention of rapping loudly until he should wake up the servants and gain admission, his purpose was forestalled by the door being softly opened by Bee, who stood with a shaded taper behind it.

"Oh, Bee!"

"Oh, Ishmael!"

Both spoke at once, and in a tone of irrepressible emotion.

"Come in, Ishmael," she next said kindly.

"You know, Bee?" he asked sadly, as he entered.

"Yes, Ishmael! Forgive me for knowing, for it prevented others finding out. And your secret could not rest safer, or with a truer heart than mine."

"I know it, dear Bee! dear sister, I know it. And Bee, listen! That glass of brandy was only the third of any sort of spirituous liquor that I ever tasted in my life. And I solemnly swear in the presence of Heaven and before you that it shall be the very last! Never, no, never, even as a medicine, will I place the fatal poison to my lips again."

"I believe you, Ishmael. And I am very happy. Thank God!" she said, giving him her hand.

"Dear Bee! Holy angel! I am scarcely worthy to touch it," he said, bowing reverently over that little white hand.

"'There shall be more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance.' Good-night, Ishmael!" said Bee sweetly, as she put the taper in his hand and glided like a spirit from his presence.

She was soon sleeping beside her baby sister.

And Ishmael went upstairs to bed. And the troubled night closed in peace.

The further career of Ishmael, together with the after fate of all the characters mentioned in this work, will be found in the sequel to and final conclusion of this volume, entitled, "Self-Raised; or, From the Depths."