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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER X.

A Blighted Life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XI.

The Mother-in-Law.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XII.

A Deserted Wife, or Model Woman

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

LONDON, England, August 6 18—

To whoever is with my precious wife in her hour of trial:

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

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

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

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

Yours in intensity of anxious interest, P. MERRICK.

My address is Sunny Hill Avenue, London, E.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LONDON, December 18.

MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,

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

EMMA MERRICK STEPHENS



CHAPTER XIII.

A Tale of Bigamy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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