"After writing to her my earnest thanks," continued Isabel, "I defrayed every debt that I owed, and repaired to my uncle's house well dressed, and in possession of a trifle for immediate expenses. He received me with kindness, and in a few weeks placed me in the situation to which he had alluded in his letter. The lady in question was a neighbour of his own, and was indeed, as he had represented her to be, wealthy and respectable. I cannot say much more in her favour; however, she did not, like some patronesses, sentence me to solitary confinement while she enjoyed the pleasures of society, but allowed me to mix with her guests. Among them was my beloved Darnley; he sought my heart and gained it, and our marriage was honoured with the full consent of my uncle, coupled with a hint that he did not mean to forget me in his will. My early cares thus merged in my present happiness, can you wonder that I associate familiar and delightful images with the sight of an embroidered cambric handkerchief?" "And Alice Dorien," asked Cranfield, "what do you hear of her present situation?" persuade myself to think on, when I recollected, an end; dear Alice remitted me a bank note of the rapidly declining health of my dear mother; fifty pounds as the value of my handkerchiefs." besides, my accomplishments were on a very "Noble, generous girl!" exclaimed Cranfield moderate scale, and I trembled at the idea of involuntarily. coming into competition with the advertising! nonsuches of the "Times." However, even before my uncle's letter arrived, I had thought of a mode by which I might improve our slender finances. I was very skilful in fancy work, I knew that embroidered handkerchiefs were much prized by the belles of fashion, and I resolved to work several, not doubting that I should be able to dispose of them at a high profit. I had scarcely, however, completed my second handkerchief when I was called to the trial of parting from my dear mother. Unwillingly I wrote to my uncle; it was necessary to conciliate his good offices. I was not only penniless, but very much in debt. He returned me an answer written in a tolerably kind spirit, and enclosed me a cheque on his banker, which he said would be amply sufficient to pay for funeral expenses and mourning; of other debts he knew that I could have none, my mother's annuity and his own recent present having been quite sufficient to defray all the charges of sickness. He desired that I should arrange all my affairs, and come to his house in the country without loss of time, as he foresaw that he might have a speedy opportunity of placing me as companion with a lady of wealth and respectability. Alas! the cheque that my uncle evidently deemed so liberal, was quite insufficient for the demands caused by long illness; it scarcely defrayed the funeral expenses. My mourning, the sum due to our medical attendant, and the accumulated rent of our small apartments, rose before me in a fearful phalanx. At length I joyfully recollected the handkerchiefs, and took my way to a celebrated warehouse, fully satisfied that I should dispose of them for a large sum. I will not weary you by an account of my disappointment at this, and similar establishments; suffice it that I bent my weary steps homewards, still in possession of my handkerchiefs, and with an aching heart and sorrowful countenance. I had nearly reached my own door, when I unexpectedly encountered a favourite school-friend, of whom I had lost sight of for some years. Alice Dorien accosted me with the kindest sympathy; my deep mourning had led her to anticipate my loss; she accompanied me home, and I detailed to her all my trials and difficulties. She looked at the handkerchiefs, and sat some little time in apparent deliberation. Will you trust me with them?' she said at length. Perhaps I can secure you a purchaser.' 'Most willingly,' I said, and deposited them in her care. After her departure, my spirits felt a little revived, yet I did not venture to be too sanguine. I imagined that Alice Dorien had probably wealthy friends, but the sum which would extricate me from my embarrassments was so considerable that I feared she might not speedily meet with any one disposed to expend so much on articles of mere trifling ornament. The next morning, however, my doubts and fears came to "I have never seen her," replied Isabel, "since the solitary interview which I have detailed to you, but I have exchanged several letters with her. She, like me, has suffered from the loss of a parent, but she is in easy circumstances, is resident in a beautiful village, and beloved and respected by all who know her. I heard a report that she had been deserted by a contracted lover, who professed to say that her disposition was not congenial with his own; but I own that I am sceptical on this point. I can scarcely believe that any man would be weak and worthless enough to cast such a treasure from him." "Do not doubt it longer," exclaimed Cranfield, in uncontrollable agitation; you see before you the false lover of Alice Dorien; and the generous deed to which you have so touchingly referred, was the cause of our separation." Darnley, who had entered the room just in time to hear this speech of his friend, stood transfixed with astonishment, and Isabel dropped her needle, and evidently considered that her visitor's senses were disordered. Cranfield was determined to make no half-confidences; rapidly and energetically he poured forth the whole history of his desertion of Alice Dorien. Isabel was deeply affected; she now for the first time became sensible of the extent of her obligation to her generous friend; she had imagined that Alice had successfully disposed of the handkerchiefs to some favoured daughter of affluence; she little imagined that Alice, from her small means, had contributed so munificent a sum; still less did she imagine that the noble girl had paid for them the far more costly price of her prospects of wedded happiness. "You have deeply and bitterly wronged dear Alice Dorien," Isabel said; “but take comfort— reparation is in your power." "And to promote it," said Darnley, with a smile, "I am quite ready to speed the parting guest.' Cranfield, you must seek out the residence of Alice, and make your peace with her; can you not invent an excuse for visiting your friends who live in the same village?" Cranfield remembered that his friend, in the postscript of a letter which he had received from him on business, had given him a general invitation to his house, which he forthwith resolved to convert into a particular one. The succeeding evening he arrived, an unexpected guest, at one of the best houses in Alice Dorien's very pretty village; astonished his friend, alarmed his friend's wife, electrified the cook, and awakened divers hopes in the minds of the three unmarried daughters of the family. These hopes, however, were very soon annihilated; for on the ensuing morning, Cranfield inquired his way to the cottage of Alice, declining all companionship in his visit to her. Alice was sitting in a neat pretty little parlour, full of the tokens of elegant and busy occupation; books, work, writing, drawing materials, an open piano-all betokened that if Alice still suffered from the troubles of love, it was not "love in idleness." Disappointments of the heart render some people slothful and indolent, but dispose others to increased activity and energy; you may wear your willow, like your rue, "with a difference." Alice looked excessively surprised when Cranfield was announced; but in a moment she regained her self-possession, and received him with freezing politeness. Cranfield, however, was not disposed to lose a moment in his vindication of himself; the names of Darnley and Isabel were instantly pronounced, and prepared her for what was to follow. "And now, dearest Alice," said Cranfield, after forgiveness had been accorded to him, tell me, why did you not vindicate yourself from the suspicion of extravagance? Why did you not at once tell me your reason for purchasing the embroidered handkerchiefs which have been the cause of so much disquietude to us?" Cranfield agreed to everything she said, and blamed himself so bitterly, and asserted so positively that he was quite unworthy of such a treasure as Alice, that it was really moving to listen to his self-depreciation. This deep humility, however, did not hinder him from urging that Alice would name an early day, from whence the aforesaid undeserved bliss was to date; and Alice, after a little hesitation, complied with his request. "Well," said Mrs. Hatfield to Mary Moreton, as they returned from paying a wedding visit to Mr. and Mrs. Cranfield, “ I should like to know by what legerdemain the cards have been shuffled into their proper places againour friend Alice seems to be as happy and con. tented a bride as if her engagement with Cranfield had never been broken off." Mary Moreton, who was not quite so goodtempered as she had been two years before, having failed in her attack on the deaf old bachelor, replied in rather a splenetic tone, “I am very much surprised at Alice's want of spirit: broken vows may be cemented, like broken china; but it will require a vast amount of care to prevent a second fracture. Then Cranfield has the character of being a good deal too fond of money; the house and appointments seemed all in a very ordinary style, and Alice was a very plainly attired bride." Excepting the beautiful embroidered handkerchief that she held in her hand," said Mrs. Hatfield, "did you not remark it, Mary? I was delighted with the elegance of the work; depend upon it that it was Cranfield's gift to her; she never would have purchased it for her. self." "That may be the case," replied Mary; "when miserly people make gifts, they are always unnecessarily profuse; such a handker chief appears to me quite out of keeping with the usual style of Alice's equipments." The newly-married couple soon after dined with Mrs. Hatfield, and Alice bore another handkerchief in her hand, quite as magnificent as the former one. Her friends soon grew tired of admiring the twin-handkerchiefs, and saying that they were much out of place in her modest "You allowed me no time to do so," replied wardrobe; but she never failed to rejoice that Alice, with a smile. "I did not wish to become she possessed them. Cranfield was very dull in the immediate chronicler of my own charitable understanding the mysteries of dress, he condeeds; but had we not been suddenly inter- stantly confused glacé-silk with satin, lace with rupted by visitors, you would probably have blonde, and muslin with barege; but one paruttered some very severe strictures on my prodi- ticular species of vanity" was always sure to gality, which I should have been able imme-interest him-he never omitted to recognise and diately to refute; you did not, however, give me to welcome his wife's Embroidered Handker any opportunity of doing so; your letter, reject- chiefs! ing my hand, contained no specific accusation against me; you merely spoke of general incompatibility of habits and tastes: no instance of dissimilarity was particularised; what more, then, could I do than bear your desertion with all the fortitude I could command? It would have been degrading alike to the dignity and delicacy of woman, if I had come forward and requested to be furnished with a categorical list of all my failings and short-comings." 66 On the fair borders of a mighty stream Just veiled by misty haze which serves to hide II.-(ESOTERIC.) Approach more near, my subtle friend, and see Some of the inner things which crowd this hive, Where millions perish, and where millions thrive. True 'tis a giant city, but there be Within its walls gigantic woes and wrongs; Here a proud dome, and there a fœtid cell, Their tales of tyranny and crime can tell ; Here princely halls resound with cheerful songs Near festering grave-yards rank with human clay; Here empty churches and vast crowded marts Too plainly shew the secrets of our hearts, And prove that Mammon holds no weakly sway. Spirit of Love! descend mysteriously, And make our lives and homes more worthy thee! -From the KEEPSAKE, 1850. A MARRIAGE FOR THE OTHER WORLD. CHAP. I. (From the French.) BY MISS M. S. WATSON. In the year of grace 1740 the good town of Nantes was the theatre of numerous painful scenes, as the Regent had there convoked the tribunal, to judge the many noble gentlemen of Brittany who adhered to their ancient Parliament, and were therefore held disaffected, and treated as rebels, wherever they could be taken. It was soon known that the ancient blood of Brittany would be little cared for, as the State executioner accompanied into the town the members forming the tribunal, or chambre ardente, as it was called. her) was too ignorant to afford her the solace of conversation, at all events the old woman lent a willing ear to her young mistress's prattle. Of affectionate heart and confiding temper, Mauricette easily consoled herself by thinking that, having no one to talk with her, at least she had some one to listen; she was, besides, blessed with such a happy flow of spirits, that sometimes even Charlotte's heavy countenance beamed into a smile. Mauricette chatted constantly of the studies she had pursued at her convent, of the amusements she partook while there, and the dear friends she had left on quitting it; and then would suddenly drop out the name of a handsome young man; and Mauricette forgot all the rest to talk about Edouard. Let us hasten to put an end to all false conjectures by stating that this Edouard, so fondly spoken of, so often thought upon, was her elder brother. Master Honoré Fauvel, the rigid counsellor of Nantes, was the father of two children, but his son (the elder) was the object At this time there lived in Nantes a father and daughter, inhabiting a vast old edifice, of appearance most austere: attached to their service was an elderly female, who performed all the domestic concerns of the house; silent from stupidity, and awkward from the same cause, she obeyed to the letter every order received from her master, rather from excess of fear than anxiety to perform her tasks so as to give satis-on which concentrated all his affections; if his faction. Such, however, was the very creature to serve this identical man, whose despotic temper was better pleased by mechanical subjection than intelligent zeal. The father and daughter, though inhabiting the same house, lived as much strangers to each other as if separated by immeasurable space: days and weeks often passed without their meeting, even by accident, as Mauricette was never permitted to see her father without a special invitation from him to that effect; so that she would as soon have thought of razing the house with a silver bodkin, as presenting herself in his presence uncalled for. The existence she was thus condemned to by Master Honoré Fauvel was exceedingly monotonous: to say more would be passing the truth; for such was Mauricette's happy disposition, that she found amusement for herself where many others would have found nothing but ennui; and if not quite resigned, she was at least subdued to the mode of life her father imposed upon her. She was not quite a prisoner either, for every morning she went, escorted by old Charlotte, to hear mass; and during the remainder of her day she found enough in domestic occupations, needle-work, and the care of her modest wardrobe, to employ some of the talents she had acquired during a ten years' residence in the convent, where her education had been conducted; besides, she was not always alone in the apartment assigned for her use; and if Charlotte (who every evening brought up her knitting, and sat a couple of hours with heart (to all appearance), so hard and cold, retained any spark of tenderness, it belonged to Edouard alone-one thought, one image, alone had the power of unbending his brow, of softening the iron expression of his rigid countenance, and this was his son; the only ornament permitted a place in Master Honoré Fauvel's study was his picture; and it was only by gazing upon it, at least a hundred times a day, that he could in any way console himself for the absence of this dearly beloved son, from whom he had been compelled to separate for a season, that he might pursue in Paris the studies befitting him for an ornament to the long robe! So long as Edouard had remained at home, Mauricette-who had been sent at six years old to a convent fifteen leagues from Nantes, for education-was not once thought of; but when, for the furtherance of his profession, he was obliged to part with his son, he once more bethought himself of his daughter, and sent for her to the convent, where she had resided ten years without his having once seen her, in the hope that her presence might in some degree replace Edouard. This, however, was not to be; Honoré Fauvel, although feeling in himself the great injustice he was guilty of towards his unoffending child, was unable to overcome the feeling of aversion with which he had beheld her from the hour of her birth; hence the unkindness with which she was treated. The having passed ten years without once beholding her, and now that he had fancied his antipathy deadened by long absence, the sight of her E brought with it the assurance that it had only with success, and recompensed by marrying the young lady, who had as it were saved him from himself! The birth of a son augmented the happiness of the young couple, and seven happy years flew-rather than passed, over their heads, when Mauricette, coming into this world of care and pain, cost the life of her mother; and the cup of bliss being thus suddenly snatched from his hand, he could not bring himself to look Honoré Fauvel did not then send her back to upon his innocent child in any other light than the convent, but he did not on this account live that of a being who had rendered his existence the less alone in his own house; and, to his mind, a blank. Hence arose, then, the unconquerable the void occasioned by his son's absence re-feeling of aversion which the sight of her ever mained in full force. The day after her return, recalled in his memory, and which sixteen Mauricette penetrated to her father's study to years had not sufficed to place in less vivid give him the morning salutation, and was dis- colours before his mind's eye. "I am well missed with these words :-" For the future, aware," he would often say to himself, "that it Mauricette, remember that you never take the was the will of God my wife should be taken liberty of intruding upon me; my avocations from me, and not the fault of this poor child; are too important, and my clients too numerous but my reason speaks in vain-it cannot form to admit of your breaking in upon. Whenever I my heart to love her! I cannot look upon her wish to see you, Charlotte shall bring you word. without thinking of all of which her birth Do not forget, Mademoiselle!" Then, as if re-deprived me!" proaching himself for this harshness, he added, Having thus shown the circumstances giving "You will not forget, my dear!" So that Mau- rise to the harsh treatment poor Mauricette rericette retired, only very much confused. She cer-ceived from her father, let us pursue the narratainly did not find home what she had fancied it tive, and relate a scene which took place between would be; but her convent education had trained Master Fauvel and his daughter. her to obedience, and her cheerful temperament sustained her against all unpleasant surmises. Sometimes, too, M. Fauvel reviewed his conduct towards her with painful reproaches to himself, and then he would send for her to dine or take coffee with him; and these events Mauricette looked upon as bright gleams, promising better things for the future; and the young recluse of seventeen reckoned one more happy moment amongst those already stored in her memory. And besides, they had spoken of her brotherthis inexhaustible subject of conversation to Mauricette; and the father, who had no thought, no love, no pride but for his son, felt almost grateful towards the young girl, who responded to all his feelings on this dear subject. For, though so many years separated, this fraternal affection had not diminished on either side; but on the contrary, seemed to increase with every revolving season. In order that this repugnance towards one of his children, and overweening love for the other, may be in some measure accounted for, it is necessary to go a little up the current of Master Honoré Fauvel's preceding life. In his youth he had been of an ardent spirit and excitable feelings, and just on the verge of being carried away by the whirlwind of turbulent dissipation; his headlong downward course was suddenly arrested by the magic of a few words pronounced by the lips of a lovely girl, to whom, though adoring her in his heart, he had not dared to lift his hopes, so much was she in rank above him. "I am grieved," said she, "to see you taking a wrong bias, for-I love you!" These words showed him at once the folly he was guilty of, and brought him back to the point from which he had started; and the exertions he made to recover lost time were at length crowned Charlotte, having obeyed a hasty peal from her master's bell, one fine morning, was desired to summon Mauricette into his presence forthwith; which she accordingly did with all the speed she could put forth, informing her that her father desired to speak with her instantly. It was the first time that week the magistrate had notified a wish to see her; and as the week was nearly at an end, she had ceased hoping for a summons. "I feared this week would close without a bright day for me, Charlotte," said she, "but now I may add this to my calendar." And throwing aside her work, she hastily readjusted her hair, and with the sweet smile of a contented heart on her face, ran light as a fawn down the stairs, and entered her father's study; but scarcely had she glanced at him when her countenance fell, her heart seemed to stop its pulsations, as if a bolt of ice had fallen on it; and the eyes, which a minute before were lighted up with gladness, now sought a veil under their long fringed lids. The position in which M. Fauvel placed himself as his daughter approached, and the expression of anger visible in every lineament of his harsh countenance, fully justified the terror and apprehension which had seized upon Mauricette as she entered the study. She stood trembling before him, anxiously awaiting the first dreaded word that should fall from his lips; he remained, however, silent, but fixed his eyes upon her with an intensity that she felt more than saw; and which, from its lengthened duration, had the effect of acute pain, as if a sharp dagger pierced her heart's core. At length the poor girl, wholly unconscious why she was thus tortured, timidly raised her head, and imploringly demanded, "Father! what have I done that you look upon me so terribly?" |