they were old enough to be apprenticed to some trade or profession. He never quite recovered from the shock received on hearing of the manner of Mrs. Clarkson’s death and that of her paramour, but became prematurely aged when he realized that, instead of the sweet angelic creature whom he thought he had married, he found that he had wedded a regular disciple of Satan.
CHAPTER VII.
The Frail Shop Girl.
The many fine ladies who patronize the fashionable emporiums of Montreal little think (as they sit comfortably at the counter, leisurely examining dozens of articles they never intend to purchase) of the sufferings undergone by those who minister to their wants, and, it may be, their caprices. Dozens of these poor creatures stand day after day, from morn till night, without a moment’s rest except at meal-times; even then the short period allowed them barely suffices to permit of a hasty meal, when they have to hurry back again to undergo another term of misery.
It is strange that we should be so careful of brute beasts that we form ourselves into societies for their protection, prosecuting rigorously any one who shall have the temerity to ill-treat or abuse them, and yet allow our fellow-creatures (and those, too, of the weaker sex) to be treated with the most barbarous cruelty. A bruise or a blow may be brutal and severe, yet neither is so hurtful, so systematically cruel, as the forcing young girls to stand erect for lengthened periods, without change of posture. I am sure if the members of the House of Commons were deprived of their seats even for one session, we would, without further ado have a Bill enacted making it criminal for shopkeepers to make slaves of their employees, or individuals to patronize such establishments.
Were shop-girls provided with even the commonest of seats, untold numbers of crimes and diseases would be heard of no more. I am confident that but for this most refined cruelty the circumstances which gave rise to this story would never have occurred, and that I would have been spared the narration of a history which, though painfully true, is none the less shocking.
M—-‘s dry goods store has long been known in Montreal as a well-started and well-appointed establishment. Carriages daily blocked the thoroughfare while waiting for their fashionable owners outside its door; and inside busy walkers and clerks could be seen running hither and thither, serving customers. Young women, also, some of them still bright and cheerful, many, alas, pale and heavy with sadness, might be seen grouped behind the counter, engaged in handing goods down from the shelves, and displaying them to the fashionable loungers behind the counter.
One of these girls, by name Esther Ryland, was noticed by many who frequented M—-‘s store on account of her unusually attractive person and elegance of manners; she was a little above the average height, yet graceful and well-formed, with remarkably handsome features, and eyes that sparkled like a pair of diamonds. Esther had not been long in Messrs. M—-‘s service, yet she had become so popular as a saleswoman that crowds frequented the particular counter at which she assisted, and she was known to many who were unacquainted with her name as the Pretty Shop-girl at M—-‘s.
Esther was very proud of her attractions, both professionally and otherwise; she did not calculate, however, that the more popular she became the more work she would have to do, and that she would, in time, pay for her popularity with her health, if not her life. She had, in and out of the store, a great many admirers amongst those of the opposite sex, but there was one she prized above all others, a certain Mr. Quintin, a merchant tailor, who had just started business for himself, and had persuaded Esther to promise that, after another year’s service, she would give up business and become his wife.
It had been their custom to go for a stroll together on the long summer evenings, and together they might have been seen, fondly looking into each other’s faces, as, arm-in-arm, they perambulated the more remote portions of Sherbrooke and St. Denis streets, which at that time were scarcely built upon.
One evening when Quintin called, as usual, to take his enamorata for a walk, she said she would prefer to stay at home, as she was quite fatigued with the day’s work. Nothing disconcerted, her lover remained with her in the house, and they amused themselves with a pack of cards and a chessboard. The following evening, however, Miss Ryland was again indisposed, and, on questioning her closely, Quintin drew forth the avowal that she _had not sat down for a quarter of an hour_ during the whole day! It seems it was the busy season at M—-‘s, and, besides being engaged incessantly in serving customers, Miss Ryland was obliged to shorten her dinner hour, and to hurry back to meet the increased demand.
Quintin was quite shocked at this discovery. Although well aware of the brutal treatment of shopkeepers’ assistants, he had never been an interested party, and so had the matter placed before him _in all its horrors_ for the first time. He resolved that, come what might, he would emancipate his intended wife from a life of such slavery, and so, having carefully arranged his business and purchased a neat little cottage in Cadieux street, he urged Miss Ryland to consent to marry him without delay, and so avoid her life of thraldom. She agreed to marry him during the ensuing month, pleading with feminine weakness that it would take at least that time to get her trousseau ready, and the day was finally arranged to their mutual satisfaction.
The excitement of preparation before marriage, and the change of scene during her wedding-tour, wrought such an effect on the woman that Mr. Quintin became convinced that his wife’s health was thoroughly restored, and be labored assiduously at his business, looking forward cheerfully to the time when she should become a mother, and the merry laughter of his children should, in his hours of rest from worldly cares, gladden and enliven their home.
A year rolled by, and both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin looked hopefully towards the future; two years passed and still they were childless. Mrs. Quintin would have given all the world, had she possessed it, for one of God’s blessings; she loved children, even those of other children, and _one of her own_ would have been a priceless treasure. But she lamented more on her husband’s account. She knew that he doted on children; and when she saw him take the neighbours’ children on his knee, and, after looking wistfully in their faces, rise and dash his hand across his eyes, she knew what it meant. “Oh,” she would cry, “if only these abandoned wretches who desert their offspring could realize what it is to desire them and yet live unblest! If they but knew the priceless treasures they were casting from them, they would turn and repent in sackcloth and ashes.”
Mr. and Mrs. Quintin had been married about three years when one day the former called on me, his face beaming with joy, and informed me that his fondest hopes were about to be realized, and that he would like me to call and consult with his wife. I was a little surprised at this intimation, as, from what I knew of Mrs. Quintin, I had fully made up my mind that she would never become a patient of nine; however, I was glad to hear that I had been mistaken, and so, when next in the neighborhood I waited on that lady and congratulated her on her improved prospects. To my great surprise she burst into tears, and confessed that she was not _enceinte_, or likely ever to become so; that her career in M—-‘s store, and continued standing for hours together, had rendered her physically unable ever to become a mother. She added that her husband had so set his heart upon the one object (viz., the desire to have children), and had spent so much money for medicine and medical advice with a view to that end, that she could not bear him to think that all his efforts were unavailing, and her complaint having assumed a form to all outward appearances similar to pregnancy, she had permitted him to delude himself with the belief that the latter was the cause of her altered appearance, and that scientific skill had counteracted the effects of years of abuse.
I was greatly taken aback at this disclosure, but my surprise was as nothing compared to that in hearing the plot which the woman’s now diseased mind had concocted. She said she was going to bear reproach no longer (for, though her husband never murmured, at least in words, his friends and her neighbors were ever ready to deepen her sorrow and humiliation by taunting her with her impotency), and her eyes rolled in frenzy as she almost shouted: I MUST AND SHALL HAVE A CHILD’! Why am I prohibited from having what many do not know how to value? Many of them cast their treasures from them; shall I, frantic with despair, _refuse to pick one up_!
As she walked up and down the room in her fury, she looked like one demented. Her hands were clenched till the nails entered her flesh, her eyes rolled wildly, and, were I more easily frightened, I would have felt impelled to call for help. Gradually becoming cooler, Mrs. Quintin unfolded to me her plan for deceiving her husband, and, with a coolness that I would not have pardoned but for her evidently unhinged condition, actually _requested me to assist her?_ She said she had been offered a child for adoption by a lady who was more guilty and unfeeling than herself, and that the person in question had promised to send her word when she was taken ill, so that she might send for me, and make her arrangements for the reception of the child, which was to be transported secretly into her bedroom.
I was so astonished that I was for a time unable to a speak. The deep plot itself, the proposition made to me to assist her, and the cool manner of the lady herself, fairly staggered me. At length, speaking as calmly as I could, I tried to convince Mrs. Quintin of the enormity of the crime she intended to commit, telling her that, if she wished to adopt a child, she would find it quite an easy matter to do so without taking any such course as she evidently intended; and, after arguing for some time, she seemed to yield a little to reason, and promised to do nothing rashly. She had already, however, committed herself to the first part of her programme, and told her husband a falsehood; how was she to undeceive him? I suggested that she should tell him on his return that she had been mistaken, and that on examination I had found nothing unusual the matter with her. This she positively refused to do, saying that her husband had so set his heart on this one object that, were his hopes suddenly dashed to the ground, he might do something desperate. She said she would break it to him gently, and, imploring me to say nothing to him of what had passed, she escorted me to the door, and, with tearful eyes, bade me farewell.
Several months elapsed, and I had, for the time, thought little of either Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, when one evening in glancing over the papers, my eye fell on the following announcement: “On the —-th inst., at —- Cadieux street the wife of R. Quintin of a daughter.” I let the paper drop as I gazed vacantly at the ceiling and tried to realize the whole affair. Undecided how to act, I mechanically put on my bonnet and cloak, and walked up Cadieux street, when, coming out of the house, I spied my friend, Dr. P—-.
“Good evening, Doctor,” said I.
“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Schroeder. I have just been attending a patient of yours; it seems they were not at all prepared, and had not time to notify you. Indeed, I was late myself, as I did not arrive till some minutes after the child was born.”
Without saying a word I beckoned the Doctor aside, and made a sign that I wished to speak with him privately. He invited me to step into his carriage, and we drove in perfect silence to his residence in Beaver Hall Terrace. Alighting, he preceded me to his surgery, and closed the door; then, with a look full of meaning, he said:
“Well, what is there wrong here?”
“I said, Before I reply, will you permit me to ask you one or two questions.”
“Who called you to attend Mrs. Quintin?”
“A carter came and requested me to come with all speed to attend a lady in Cadieux street. I went as quickly as possible, but the child was born before my arrival.”
“Who, then, attended the lady?”
“The nurse did, and apparently very satisfactorily indeed. I found the bandages so well arranged, and the patient’s pulse so strong and regular, that I left, perfectly satisfied that all was properly attended to till your arrival. They explained to me that the lady was your patient, but that being unexpectedly taken ill, she had ordered the carter to bring the first doctor he found at home.”
“Was Mr. Quintin at home?”
“No; he is gone to England to purchase some goods.”
“Ah! That accounts for it then.”
“Accounts for what? Really you must not catechize me any further. What is there underneath all these questions?”
I drew my chair closer to him, as I said tragically:
“Mrs. Quintin _never had a child_.”
“This rather staggered the good old doctor, who had just come from the house, where he had examined and weighed the infant. He started up from his chair, and, drawing back, exclaimed:
“What do you mean? Explain yourself.”
I then at length narrated all I knew concerning the Quintin family, and, as I proceeded with my story, the old man’s eyes opened wider and wider as he exclaimed:
“My God what a diabolical plot”!
“Yes, indeed, and I was invited to join in it.”
“Well, well. _I_ certainly would never have suspected anything of the kind.”
“Nor would anyone. The thing was well arranged, and artfully carried out.”
“I suppose they will send for _you_ now.”
“Not at all. That is only a sham to get rid of your attendance. The husband will be given to understand that you were hurriedly called in, and that, my assistance being unneeded, they did not think it worth-while troubling me.”
After consulting with Dr. P. for a considerable time and putting the case in different lights, we came to the conclusion that it would be as well now to let matters take their course. Any interference on our part would only have raised a great public scandal, and rendered both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin miserable, without benefiting anyone, so we allowed the poor man to believe that his prayers were answered, and that the beautiful girl he fondled was really his own.
Time rolled on, the baby being baptized in due course and known by the name of Edith Quintin. As she grew older, both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin became passionately fond of her, the latter being as much attached to the little girl as if she were her own daughter. When the child was about twelve years old, Mrs. Quintin, who had gradually grown more and more delicate, began to feel that she must, ere many months had passed, finally succumb to the disease which was gradually gnawing at her vitals, and the deception she had practised on her husband was a source of great discomfort and annoyance to her. She called on me in great grief, and, having informed me concerning that of which (as the reader knows) I was well aware, implored me to give her counsel and advice. She was surprised to hear that I had already learnt all from Dr. P—-; for, although she, of course, knew that _I_ was not blinded by her subterfuge, she was not aware that I knew all concerning the method adopted by her, and when she learned that both the doctor and myself had forborne to inform on her, she was visibly affected, and thanked me on her knees.
I advised her to break the matter to her husband, and not to die with such a load on her conscience, but she avowed that she had neither the strength nor the courage to do so, and importunately besought me to undertake the painful task. When Mr. Quintin learnt the truth he was of course greatly shocked, and at first was bitter in his denunciations at his deceitful wife. His better judgment, however, was soon brought to bear in the matter, and he was moved rather to pity her misfortune than to punish her for her fault. He knew that her judgment erred solely in order to retain his affection, and when he looked at her pale face and emaciated form, and thought of the agony and suffering, both mental and bodily, which the poor creature had endured, he willingly forgave her, and, though sadly disappointed and sorely smitten, did what he could to reassure her.
Edith meanwhile had developed into a beautiful girl, and had she really been, as she believed herself, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, she could not have been more beloved by them. The former enjoined me never to reveal the secret of her birth to his daughter as he called her, and so her life, at least, was not darkened in the least by the knowledge of the truth.
When Edith was about seventeen years old Mrs. Quintin finally yielded to the ravages of that dread destroyer, consumption. The poor girl wept sadly and bitterly at the loss of her mother, the only one indeed the poor child had ever known, and poor Quintin wept sadly as he thought of his wife’s brief and unhappy career. He removed with his daughter into furnished lodgings, not wishing the child to be burdened too soon with the cares of house-keeping. What he would not allow her to do for him, however, she soon became very anxious to do for another, and the days of her mourning were not long passed when she became the happy wife of a young man named Wentworth, bookkeeper in one of the leading hardware firms in Montreal. She has now children of her own, and the youngsters’ greatest delight is to gather round their grandfather’s knee while he astonishes them with stories. To them nor to no one else, however, has he told, even as I have done, the story of the frail shop-girl, who from being young and handsome, and the belle of her circle of acquaintances, became a wretched and deceitful woman, diseased both in body and mind, and finally sank into a premature grave.
Out on this heartless, brutal system, and the thoughtlessness and ignorance which permit it! I hope the narrative given above may cause some of those at least who engage in this barbarous system to pause and give the great problem of life, capital and labor, a few moments thought that they may see the error of their way, and that poor Esther Quintin may not have died in vain.
CHAPTER VIII.
The two Orphans
One evening, about a dozen years before the introduction of the present system of fire alarms into Montreal, crowds might be seen hurrying along that part of the city known as Little St. James street, towards the scene of an immense conflagration. Several fire engines were throwing strong streams of water on the burning mass, but, the evening being windy, the fire swept all before it, and soon reduced several buildings to ashes.
In one of these resided Mr. Wilson, Notary Public, and his two daughters, the eldest a beautiful girl about 9 years old, the other aged nearly 8. When the fire commenced they were seated calmly at the tea-table, partaking of their evening meal, but, so sudden was the holocaust which burst with tremendous fury around them that they had not the slightest warning till they were surrounded with dense volumes of smoke The two girls rushed forward to the window, and screamed for assistance, while the old man endeavored to gather some of his most valuable papers together and throw them into the street.
Amongst the crowd who assembled were two young men, clerks, named Wilgress and D’Alton respectively. Taking in the situation at a glance, they sought hastily for ladders, and placing them against the burning windows, mounted bravely through the flames, each seizing a girl round the waist, and carrying her in safety to the ground. Their clothes were almost completely destroyed, while their faces were grimed and scorched, still, nothing daunted, they looked up to see if anything more could be done; they espied the old man at one of the windows with a parcel in his arms. Quick as thought Dalton mounted the ladder once more, going through the flames like a salamander, and, taking the parcel from the old gentleman, tried to induce him to descend the ladder. Poor old Wilson, however, could not bear to leave so much that was valuable while a chance of saving it remained, and so, rushing wildly back into the burning building, he was soon lost to sight. A cry arose from the crowd as they saw him disappear once more, and several hardy youths sprang up the ladders, determined to bring him out by force, but, ere they could enter the naming pile, a loud shriek met their ears as the floor gave way, hurling the poor old notary into the dreadful pit of fire. All efforts to do anything further were now unavailing, and the firemen directed their energies to protecting the neighboring buildings, and preventing the fire from spreading.
The young men were at first puzzled what to do with the two girls whom they had rescued, and who were now orphans, without parents, money, or even clothes, but some Sisters of Charity, who had witnessed the heroic action, came forward and offered to take them in charge. The good sisters took the children to the convent, and provided them with both food and clothes, intending to educate them and bring them up in the Catholic faith, but some Protestant ladies, members of the congregation to which Mr. Wilson had belonged, having heard of the affair, induced the clergyman to call and obtain possession of the orphans, they undertaking to provide the cost of their maintenance, or to find them homes in Protestant families.
By the time the Rev. Mr. Flood called at the nunnery the children had dried their tears, and were beginning to feel quite at home. The Sister in charge, however, saw at once the correctness of the Clergyman’s action, and agreed to give the girls up as soon as he had made arrangements for their reception elsewhere. In a few days they were sent for, and each was adopted by a different family; Cissie, the elder, was taken in charge by a childless minister, residing in St. Albans, in the State of Vermont, while Lillie, the younger sister was adopted by a farmer from the neighborhood of Varennes.
Many years passed away and the two girls were grown up, and were both uncommonly good looking, Lillie being then just seventeen, and as handsome a girl as one could wish to see. Then circumstances, however, were not the same, for while Cissie had received a good education, and had in every way the manners of a lady, Lillie could not even read with facility, and writing was with her and utter impossibility. The people who had adopted her were Irish settlers, who, though comfortably off, knew little beyond the cultivation of potatoes and the care of pigs.
About this tame Cissie Wilson, tired of the monotony of life at St. Albans, determined to make an effort to “see the world,” as she called it, and earn her own living; and, as her adopted father remonstrated with her in rather a hasty manner, she collected her effects together, and, one day while the old man was out, started for Montreal. She left a note for him, informing him of her destination, and warning him not to attempt to stop her, as she had determined, at all hazards, to carry out her intention. Miss Wilson had been several times in Montreal, and had several acquaintances there, among them a Miss Wood, whose father had a position in the Telegraph Office. To Miss Wood’s, therefore, she repaired, and, being welcomed with the usual number of kisses, she requested the young lady to persuade her father to procure a situation as telegraph operator or something of the kind, as she was determined to earn her own living. This the young lady promised to do and succeeded so well that Miss Wilson was soon installed in a tolerably good position, earning enough money to maintain and clothe herself respectably.
Things went on smoothly enough for a time, Miss Wilson spending most of her leisure time with her friend, Miss Wood, or sitting quietly at home arranging such dresses and finery as her scanty income permitted her to indulge in. After some months, however, she began to make more friends, and being invited frequently out, and made much of because of her beauty and accomplishments, she soon became madly eager for the means of dressing herself like the rest, and making the conquests she knew she could make, were she only to have equal terms with her rivals.
This passion for dress and jewellery soon became deep-seated; were she only well dressed, what could she not achieve. She had, in her anxious endeavors to make a good impression in society, deprived herself even of necessaries sin order to procure a fashionable ball-dress and outfit, and these were now no longer fit for active service. While musing over this circumstance one evening, as she walked home to supper, she chanced to meet Anna Smith, who had been the belle at the last ball, her fine dress and showy jewellery having completely eclipsed the more solid and modest beauty of the poor telegraph girl. Miss Smith inquired casually if Cissie were going to the Oddfellows’ ball, an affair which was then on the _tapis_, and when the latter answered in the negative, explaining that her small salary would not allow her to purchase the necessary finery, Miss Smith laughed and called her a silly little goose. Taking her by the arm, Anna then let her into a secret, and explained how she obtained all she required, and indeed could, out of the abundance of her stores, fit out Miss Cissie, whom she chose to consider her protegee. She urged Cissie not to miss the ball on any account, and reminded her that she had already obtained a decided advantage over Miss Williams, Miss Hunt and Miss Jones, and that with such an outfit as she would lend her the victory would be complete.
Cissie was for a moment shocked. She had been several times offered presents by gentlemen of her acquaintance, but had always resolutely declined to take them, having an instinctive feeling which warned her against their acceptance. She could not bear now to wear the dresses proffered by Miss Smith, and momentarily made up her mind not to go to the ball at all. Then again her heart failed her as her companion glibly ran over the names of those who were to attend, and Cissie thought how she would like to enter the room on Horace Gibson’s arm in the presence of Miss Williams and the rest. Horace Gibson was a clerk in the Bank of Montreal who had invited Miss Wilson to the ball, and was to receive her answer that evening. As luck would have it, that young gentleman approached just as the girls were rounding the corner of the street, and, raising his hat in salute, inquired if he was to have the pleasure of taking Miss Wilson to the ball. Cissie hung her head, and was just about to offer some excuse, when Miss Smith answered for her:
“Oh, yes, _of course_ she’ll go, and be the best dressed and best looking lady in the room too.”
“If you have taken her up, I am sure she will be at least the _second_ best as regards get up,” responded Mr. Gibson, conveying an indirect compliment to Miss Smith herself, who was celebrated for the elegance of her attire. Cissie could not utter a word. After all, she thought, there can be no harm in borrowing a dress from a young lady! It was not for her to inquire how that lady was able to purchase so many dresses; and then, as she looked at the handsome young man before her, and thought how her rivals would bite their lips with envy to see her in her elegant out-fit, the blood rushed into her temples, and with an impetuous bound she burst away from both her companions and entered the house, saying to Mr. Gibson: “Yes, I’ll go; call for me at nine to-morrow.”
Till late night Cissie sat in her rocking-chair, her hands pressed over her throbbing temples; at length wearied nature came to her relief, and compelled her to retire to bed. Being fatigued, she soon fell fast asleep, and on the morrow when she awoke, although she remembered clearly all that had passed on the previous evening, she had not the same sensitive feelings, or the same sharp prickings of conscience, and, as she walked towards the office, she began to anticipate the ball with the greatest pleasure.
As Miss Smith had said, Cissie, beautiful before, was ten times as beautiful now that she was adorned with all that art could do in the matters of dress and jewellery. Miss Williams fairly gnashed her teeth with envy, and left the hall shortly after ten o’clock, disgusted with _that thing_ from the telegraph office, while the gentlemen eagerly sought for an introduction to the acknowledged belle of the ball-room. Miss Smith was as proud of Cissie’s success as if it had been her own. With all her faults the girl possessed a good heart, and in doing as she did fancied she was doing the innocent country girl a kindness in opening to her the highway to fame and fortune, even though it were reached by the gate of dishonor.
It is needless to give in detail the particulars of Cissie Wilson’s career; suffice it to say, that the brilliant triumph at the Oddfellows’ ball was too much for her weak nature. She plunged headlong into the vortex of worldly pleasure and excitement, and, having little time or inclination for reflection, became in time quite habituated to this peculiar mode of life, always maintaining outwardly, however, a moral and respected appearance.
All this time, the reader may well ask, what had become of Lillie, the younger sister? She had been remarkably successful in her country home, having at her feet the hands and hearts of all the most eligible young men for miles round. This at one time would have gratified her utmost ambition; but her sister’s letters from Montreal made her dreadfully anxious to join her in her whirl of exciting pleasures, and, with the understanding that her sister would obtain her employment in Montreal, Lillie, at the age of eighteen, came to the city.
She was not long in her new home till her sister unbosomed to her many things of which she had previously been in ignorance, and promised to introduce her to the _creme de la creme_ of her worldly companions, urging her to endeavor to acquire these graces and accomplishments which she had failed to learn in her country home. Lillie soon became more popular even than her sister; for, although she was not so well educated, she was naturally clever and witty, and there was a vivacity and freshness about her conversation, which, added to her beautiful face and perfect figure, made her a charming and desirable companion.
One day Mr. D’Alton, one of the gentlemen who had rescued the two girls from the fire, was walking along Notre Dame street, when he observed a beautiful girl, rather showily dressed, promenading just in front of him. Something in the girl’s manner attracted his attention, and, as he passed her, he turned round, and carefully scanned her face. As he did so the girl looked up and their eyes met; he, raising his hat, blurted out an apology, saying he had mistaken her for another lady of his acquaintance named Brown. “Oh,” said she, laughing, “my name is Lillie Wilson.”
On hearing this name D’Alton started, and, having questioned her closely concerning her antecedents, asked her if she remembered the fire, and the two gentlemen who rescued herself and her sister; and, although she had altogether forgotten his appearance, she remembered the circumstance perfectly. They walked together for a little while, and then he asked her permission to visit her at her address, and was astonished to find that she objected, for some strange reason, to do so. At length, bursting into tears, she confided to him her whole history, informing him that she had been seduced and betrayed, and was at that moment _enceinte_. This disclosure, as may well be supposed, staggered D’Alton not a little, but at the same time he became more and more interested in the girl, and offered, if she would promise to give up her corrupt mode of life that he would do his best to see her through her present difficulty. Calling on me, he consulted with me as to what was best to be done under the circumstances, explaining that, although he was willing to do all in his power for the girl for the sake of old associations, yet that he did not wish to peril his own reputation. I promised to do what I could for the girl, and calling on her was informed that her paramour was an officer in the Rifle Brigade, who had returned to England, leaving her to bear the burden of their crime. Having procured suitable lodgings, I saw the girl comfortably housed, and in due time she gave birth to a fine little boy, which, as usual in these cases, was sent to the nunnery to be taken care of by the good Sisters of Charity.
Mr. D’Alton did not come to visit Miss Wilson during her convalescence but, after she was completely recovered he called frequently, taking her to theatres and concerts, and sometimes in the winter to sleigh-rides. What his intentions at first may have been I do not know; I certainly think that but for his friends he would openly have married her; be that as it may, in a short time it became apparent that they had both overstepped the bounds of ordinary friendly intercourse, and that Mrs. Rushton (as she now called herself) would soon require my services a second time. This time she gave birth to a beautiful girl, and, before many years were past, there followed another girl and boy. These children were not, as in the former case, sent to the nunnery, but were retained and brought up by their mother, she being smart enough to perceive that by doing so she would maintain a hold on their father, and secure for herself, if not a respectable, at least a comfortable position, Mr. D’Alton having been successful in business, and being at that time one of the leading brokers in Montreal.
For a time things went on this way, D’Alton visiting his mistress frequently, and becoming passionately fond of the children, whom Mrs. Rushton artfully used to influence him on all occasions. To do her justice, it must be said that she never, either in thought or action, was untrue to D’Alton, and that, whatever her past career might have been, she lived at this time a quiet life, indeed, caring only for her husband (as she called him) and her children. By the time the little boy was two years old, both mother and children had so ingratiated themselves in Mr. D’Alton’s affections, that he determined, come what might, to marry his mistress, and so make their future offspring at least legitimate.
He was weary of his irregular mode of life, and, being comparatively wealthy, longed for some place which he could call his home. His wife could hardly mix in society, even could she obtain an _entree_ to that realm of prudery and hypocrisy, but he cared for no society better than that of herself and his children, and his bachelor friends, of whom he had not a few, would, even if they did know or surmise the truth, exercise a more liberal spirit, particularly while the wine in his cellar maintained its reputation. Accordingly, he one day astonished and delighted Mrs. Rushton with the proposal that he should marry her; and that they should live together openly. As may be supposed, the lady unhesitatingly accepted the proposal, and accordingly they were married, formally and legally in St. George’s Church, which, at that time was situated in St. Joseph street, on the site now occupied by Messrs. Ligget & Hamilton’s large dry goods store. Mr. D’Alton took a house in a new portion of the city, and as they lived very quietly, receiving no calls, except from business friends of Mr. D’Alton, the neighbors did not trouble themselves much about them, or inquire concerning their antecedents.
Although her husband did not trouble himself whether his wife was or was not received into society, Mrs. D’Alton felt it very keenly. She had not, like him, drank the cup of life’s pleasures till it tasted insipid or even nauseous; on the contrary, she looked on the pomps and vanities of society as only a woman can look on them, and now that she was legally respectable, and rich enough to keep pace with even the most fashionable of her neighbors, it made her very heart ache to think that these scenes of brightness were closed to her as much as ever. She thought of what she might have been had she not in her ambitious haste gone off the right track; and, pained with bitter reflections, and with no one to speak to or converse with (for her husband spent most of his time at the club) she solaced herself, as others in her predicament have done, with the cup of forgetfulness, sinking deeper and deeper at every step, till the habit became confirmed.
Although Mrs. D’Alton had taken her husband into her confidence, and told him truthfully her history, she had not sufficient strength of mind to tell him how ignorant she really was, and that she could not even read and write with accuracy. Her letters to her husband had been written by her nursery-governess, engaged ostensibly to instruct the children; but in reality to act as amanuensis for the lady of the house. The young lady thus engaged was at first rather averse to signing her mistress’ name to her letters without adding her own initials, but the present of a handsome broach and earrings soon quieted her sensitive conscience and she soon fell into the plan, not being unwilling to make use of such a powerful lever for obtaining largesses from Mrs. D’Alton. In time this young lady became so overbearing that her mistress fully made up her mind to discharge her, but a summer trip to Portland being then on the tapis, she allowed her to have her own way, as Mr. D’Alton remained in Montreal, and would naturally expect letters from his wife during her absence. She would have dismissed the governess and engaged another, trusting to her own pleadings and the powerful appeals of her purse to win her over, but the handwriting would not be the same, and she would not for worlds have allowed her husband to think she had deceived him.
The day came for their departure for Orchard Beach, where Mr. D’Alton had taken a cottage for their use. The children were in great glee as they anticipated surf bathing and digging in the sand, but Mrs. D’Alton was moody and down-hearted, the exhilarating effects of a large potion of brandy having worn off and a reaction set in; her husband, however, attributed it to sorrow at her separation from him, and was rather gratified to think she was so deeply affected.
They arrived at her destination in due course, and were comfortably ensconced in the cosy little cottage. Miss Watson, the governess, dressed herself up, and with the children departed for the promenade, and Mrs. D’Alton was left to her own reflections. The thought of her past career, of the opportunities gone for ever, and lastly of the predicament she was now in, shunned by all respectable people, and despised by her own paid servant, who felt her power, and was disposed to wield it unmercifully. The brandy-bottle, her never-failing companion, was by her side, and as she mused mopingly over her sins, she took from time to time copious draughts of the potent spirits, regardless of its power to do otherwise than to rob her of these racking memories of the past. In about two hours the promenaders returned and found her lying back speechless in her chair, the bottle and glass by her side; her eyes rolled wildly as she gazed vacantly on her children, but she was unable to utter a word.
Miss Watson became alarmed and summoned a doctor immediately, who, on entering the room, perceived at once the cause of Mrs. D’Alton’s malady, and ordered her to be conveyed to bed. In the morning she was a little better, being able to speak; but she was still very much shaken, and raved incoherently. Mr. D’Alton was telegraphed for, and came immediately; but, being merely informed that his wife had had a fit, he imagined her to be afflicted with hysteria; indeed, although he knew she was fond of a glass of wine, and often joined him in partaking of brandy and water, he had no idea that she imbibed to such an extent.
In a few days Mrs. D’Alton was able to go out again, and, as during her husband’s stay at Orchard Beach she was particularly abstemious, she was able to associate with the ladies in the hotel, and made several acquaintances, who, seeing that she had the dress and manners of a lady, interchanged calls with her and invited her to visit them in Montreal. On her return to her home, however, these ladies received her but coldly, and when she gave a large party, inviting all those whom she had met at the seaside, “they all, with one accord, began to make excuse,” and at entertainment there was present, besides herself and the family, only a sister of the governess, and one or two bachelor friends of Mr. D’Alton. Dancing was of course out of the question, so they organized two whist parties, and, with a little music, managed to drag along till supper, which was served in Joyce’s best style, and looked unnecessarily elaborate for the small number who were to partake of it.
Mrs. D’Alton was mortified; she had imagined that those people whom she met at the seaside would have judged her on her merits, and would not have taken the trouble to inquire concerning her antecedents. She did not calculate that, what may be allowable at a summer resort, would not be tolerated in Montreal society; moreover, that the tongue of slander had been busily engaged in painting her even blacker than she really was, so that these people, even if personally disposed to associate with her, _dared_ not do so lest they might lose their own insecure foothold on the ladder of social position. In moody silence she presided throughout the entire evening; she was enraged at herself and at the poor enslaved creatures who, though anxious to go and enjoy themselves yet dared not infringe the rules laid down by society; and, as she drank glass after glass of her husband’s famous Moselle, she became more and more despondent.
About midnight Amy Watson, the sister of the nursery-governess, took her departure, and Mr. D’Alton with his friends, went up to the billiard room to enjoy themselves at their favorite game. It was near daylight ere they grew tired of pocketing the ivory spheres, and left their host to close the doors, and retire to his room. When he did so what a sight met his gaze! There lay his wife in all the finery she had arrayed herself to dazzle her fashionable acquaintances, _a speechless corpse_! a brandy-bottle, nearly emptied, lay at her side, telling too plainly what had been the cause of her untimely death. Her husband’s first impulse was to ring the bell and send for a doctor, but, knowing the scandal that would surely ensue, he quietly let himself out, and went for Dr. Hickson, being determined not to give up hope till he had done all that could possibly be done. The doctor on examining the body shook his head ominously, confirming Mr. D’Alton in the belief that his wife was no more; he considerately agreed to remain in the house, and not to inform the servants for some time of the occurrence. The doctor’s presence, of course, excited some alarm, and in a short time it was known that Mrs. D’Alton was dangerously ill, the announcement of her death being reserved for a time till all the traces of the recent festivities were removed, and the house had resumed its normal condition.
When the children heard of their mother’s death they rent the air with their cries of anguish; even Miss Watson shed real tears, her occupation, like that of Othello, being gone. Poor Mr. D’Alton was almost beside himself. He had never loved another woman; and, though he was not blind to his wife’s failings and shortcomings, he nevertheless lamented the loss of one, who, whatever her faults, was true to him and a good mother to his children.
In the meantime what had become of Cissie Wilson, Mrs. D’Alton’s elder sister? She had endeavored to persuade Mrs. D’Alton to engage her as governess to her children, but the latter, once married, refused to hold any communication with her whatever. Miss Wilson then despairing of finding a road to reform in Montreal, took her departure for Toronto, taking a position as governess in one of the leading families there. On hearing of her sister’s death she wrote to Mr. D’Alton, offering to take charge of the children till he had time to make permanent arrangements for their education. To this letter she received no reply, which nettled her so much that she determined on a plot for wounding the pride of her haughty brother-in-law. “Who is he,” she would exclaim, “that he should dare to snub me?” “If I _have_ sinned, was _she_ not equally bad, and is he not guilty _himself_?” “Never mind, Mr. D’Alton, I will have my revenge some day.” She racked her brain to think of some means of repaying him for his severity to her, but could think of nothing at the time, and so resolved to wait and watch her opportunity.
It was some years before Miss Wilson had that opportunity for which her heart so yearned, but come it did, surely enough, and she dealt to Mr. D’Alton a blow so bitter that he never got over its effects.
Lillian, Mr. D’Alton’s eldest daughter had, after her mother’s death, been sent to a fashionable school in Mansfield street, presided over by the wife of one of our leading brokers. Here she made many friends, and being known only as the beautiful and accomplished daughter of a rich widower doing business in Montreal, and well known on the Exchange, she was in time introduced into society, and became at one bound the belle of the season.
At that time several British regiments occupied the Quebec Gate barracks, and the officers were eagerly sought after by the party-giving community, no ball being complete without at least two or three officers in _full uniform_. Among the latter was a certain Captain Trevelyan, the heir-apparent of an English nobleman, who was, of course _the_ eligible young gentleman of the season. Most of the ladies openly courted Captain Trevelyan and, figuratively speaking, laid themselves at his feet; but Lillian D’Alton was too little versed in such matters to know the triumph she had achieved in being sought after as a partner by the much-admired Captain, and, when he asked her to dance although she complied readily with his request, yet she carried herself with an air so natural, and altogether so different from the time-worn belles he was so accustomed to meet, that he engaged her for dance after dance, then for supper, and, before the ball was concluded, he was deeply in love with her, none the less because she was the only young lady in the room who did not covet that distinction.
Although Lillian was but eighteen years of age, she could not but perceive the marked attention paid to her by Captain Trevelyan, nor was she blind to the glances of envious hatred darted at her from all quarters. Her heart responded to the unspoken avowal of her partner, and ere they parted that night they were one in heart and in thought, each living only for and in the presence of the other.
Youthful love makes rapid progress. Ere many months had passed Lillian D’Alton was the affianced bride of Captain Trevelyan, and their approaching wedding was the one theme of conversation at balls, routes or parties.
Here then was the opportunity longed for by Miss Wilson. She would inform Captain Trevelyan and his friends concerning the D’Alton family, and warn him to break off his engagement. With a refinement of cruelty peculiar to women blinded with rage, she allowed the wedding day to be fixed before she communicated with the bridegroom, and then sent him a complete history of the family he was about to enter, informing him that the lady he was about to marry was the illegitimate child of Mr. D’Alton, and that in marrying her he would not only injure his own prospects, but alienate himself completely from his family, bringing on them both shame and discredit.
Captain Trevelyan read the letter with astonishment, but did not believe one word it contained. His Lillian a bastard! why the thing was preposterous. Her father was as well known on ‘Change as Rothschild was in London. Her mother’s funeral had been attended by the wealth and fashion of Montreal, and since that time Lillian had been the acknowledged belle of the set commonly known as “the upper ten.” The letter being written in rather extravagant terms, he imagined it to contain the incoherent ravings of a maniac, and his first impulse was to toss it aside. On the arrival of the English mail, however, he received letters from his friends, couched in terms of the deepest anxiety, urging him to sever all connection with the D’Alton family if he did not wish to alienate himself completely from all his family and friends. These letters led him to think more seriously concerning the communication from Toronto, and being determined, come what might, to know the worst at once, he started immediately for Mr. D’Alton’s residence, only to find that the gentleman in question had just that moment departed for his office.
Lillian was at home, however, and she rushed downstairs impetuously to meet her affianced husband. He received her as usual, but there was a cloud on his brow as he followed her into her boudoir, where they frequently spent hours together. He questioned her concerning her aunt and her relations generally, but Lillian knew little more than that her aunt resided in Toronto, and was generally considered to be what is called “flighty.”
This somewhat reassured Trevelyan, and he dismissed the subject for a time from his mind. He determined, however, to clear the matter up, and so in the evening he called to see Mr. D’Alton, requesting a few words with him in private. The two men entered the study, and Trevelyan led off by saying:–“I have received a strange communication from your sister-in-law, Miss Wilson; from what Lillian has told me, I am aware that she is a person of weak intellect, and her stories are not worthy of credence, but I thought it due to you, nevertheless, to bring the matter to your notice.”
At the mention of Miss Wilson’s name D’Alton turned deadly pale. He was a bold man, and capable of carrying out a deep scheme, had he felt so disposed; but this intimacy of Trevelyan with his daughter was the result of no scheme, and he had for some years lived, with the rest of his family, a blameless life, rejoicing in the fact that his neighbors either did not know, or had forgotten, or overlooked his past career, and were prepared to receive his children with open arms into society. With bated breath he ran his eyes hastily over the letter held out to him by Trevelyan, and in an instant he saw the whole situation. If he could only have had time to consider the matter, he would probably have taken the right course, come what might; but he had little time for decision, as Trevelyan stood before him, eagerly expecting a reply. Mr. D’Alton pictured to himself the state of affairs did he acknowledge the truth of the accusation, and though loath to deceive the young man (whom he already loved almost as dearly as his own son), he dared not ruin his daughter’s prospects by an avowal. Pretending to read the letter once more he gained a little time, and then, with consummate diplomacy, endeavored to find out what Trevelyan thought. Looking up coolly, he said–
“And do you believe all this, Trevelyan?”
Of course, Trevelyan _did not_ believe it, and was profuse in his apologies, for having permitted himself to doubt for a moment that the writer was bereft of reason. This confirmed Mr. D’Alton in his course and he at once denounced his sister-in-law in no measured terms, vowing to punish her for her irresponsible utterances. The news that Miss Wilson had written to Captain Trevelyan’s friends in England made D’Alton furious, and he swore a fearful oath that he would place her where her ravings would harm no one but herself. All night long he thought over schemes for getting rid of her, and at length he concocted a plan which he speedily put into execution.
As was said before, Mrs. D’Alton and her sister were orphans and they both left their adopted parents early in life, having lived under assumed names for years, and severed all connection with their former associates. During Mrs. D’Alton’s lifetime her sister was forbidden to approach the house, and on the death of the former Miss Wilson was not recognized by her brother-in-law. The children had never seen or known their aunt, and the people with whom she had last resided in Montreal (in the capacity of nursery-governess) had known her as Miss Rogers, and had lately lost all trace of her whereabouts.
Taking the early train for Toronto, Mr. D’Alton took counsel of an astute lawyer, and learned that, as events had been shapen, Miss Wilson would have now great difficulty in proving her connection with the D’Alton family, did he choose to deny it, and that the fact of her having written such letters as those received by Trevelyan and his family would be fair presumptive evidence that the woman was insane.
Carefully considering his position, D’Alton determined on his course of proceeding. He was averse to a public prosecution, as many things, now unknown or forgotten, might be brought to light, and yet he felt that the woman must be effectually silenced by some means or other. Going to her residence he boldly demanded an interview with her, and, producing the letter to Trevelyan, asked if she had written it. Miss Wilson laughed as she saw the effect of her shot, and exultantly exclaimed:–“Of course I wrote it; who else _could_ have done it?”
“And are you aware that you are liable to be prosecuted for libel?” pursued D’Alton.
“It is no libel,” retorted she, fiercely; “you know it is true, or you would not be here now.”
“Indeed! _can you prove it, then_?”
“I have no need to prove it to you. Your very facial expression acknowledges it to be true.”
“Will that satisfy the jury?”
“What jury?”
“The jury who are to try you for a malicious libel!”
At this Cissie started, but recovering herself exclaimed: “_You_ dare not sue me for libel. Your history would not stand repetition in court.”
“Who knows my history?”
“I do!”
“Indeed! WHO ARE YOU?”
The fierceness with which he said this made his sister-in-law quail. She perceived that he was terribly in earnest as he repeated his question in a tone very unusual with him, and she meekly replied:
“You know well enough who I am, your late wife’s sister.”
“My wife _had no sister_!”
The look he gave as he said this fairly frightened her. She had seen a good deal of life, and had in her time met with all kinds of men and women, but never till now did she fear either. She began to see that she had roused a desperate man, and that, legally, she had no hold on him, neither status in society; moreover that she had got entangled in the meshes of her own net, and that only the dread of exposure would prevent D’Alton from prosecuting her for libel. Not knowing what to do, she remained mute, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. At length Mr. D’Alton broke the silence: “You have evidently had an object,” he said, “in circulating these reports. If your object be to extort money out of me, you will find it more to your interest to remain silent.” With these words he drew from his pocket a roll of bank bills, and laid them on the table near his companion; but she, growing livid with rage, refused to touch them, promising to expose him and his family before all the world.
D’Alton had not calculated on this, and was for a time taken a little aback. His last card, however, was not yet played; and, summoning all his energies together, he braced himself for the enactment of that, which under other circumstances, he would have suffered much rather than become in any sense a party thereto. Addressing the lady once more he said:–“What, then, was your object in writing these letters?”
“My object was _to disclose the truth_,” she cried, vehemently, “to denounce you as a blackhearted villain, and to save an unsuspecting youth from becoming the victim of your deep-laid schemes.”
D’Alton bit his lip with passion, but restrained himself. “And you do all this solely from conscientious motives,” he said with a sneer.
“My conscience, like your own, Mr. D’Alton, is pretty well hardened. No; I have no conscientious motives to impel me to show your true character to the world; but revenge is sweet, and I have not forgotten the scorn and contempt with which both you and your fashionable wife treated me while I was in Montreal. _I_ was not good enough to touch the hem of your garments, but _she_ was dressed up and paraded in the drawing-rooms of those who did not know better than to admit her, and now her b—- daughter is to wed a scion of a noble house, while _I_ am not even recognized. No, Robert D’Alton, you will not become respectable and leave _me_ out in the cold, insulting and spurning me at every turn with your petty offers of money. I have sworn to have my revenge, and by —- now that the opportunity offers, I _will have it_, too!”
She had worked herself up to state of uncontrollable fury. Her eyes rolled wildly, and she looked like one demented. This gave the devil his opportunity, for D’Alton, who had been halting between two opinions, came to a hasty conclusion, and bringing the interview to a close, hurriedly left the house, his teeth firmly set, and a horrid glare in his eyes. He walked rapidly down Yonge street and along the east end of King street, then, hailing a cab, he directed the driver to travel towards the west end, coming to a halt opposite the Lunatic Asylum. Entering he enquired for Dr. Tuffnell, and was informed that he would likely find that gentleman at his residence on Jarvis street. On repairing thither he found the doctor at home, and, requesting a few minutes’ private conversation, was soon closeted in the consultation room. “I have long intended to see you,” Mr. D’Alton began, “about a young lady who lived in our family some years ago in the capacity of nursery-governess. She was always of a somewhat flighty disposition, which we used to humour as best we could, and when she left us (at my wife’s death) for Toronto, we fancied she had quite recovered, but it seems she has been gradually growing worse, and she now continually torments our friends and us with letters full of ridiculous flights of fancy, which, though meaningless to those who understand how she has been afflicted, might possibly cause serious trouble.”
“Has the young lady, then, no friends or relatives?”
“None, whatever. She was taken out of an orphan asylum by an aged clergyman, now deceased, who adopted her, and since his death she has supported herself by teaching. We consulted our physician about her some time ago, when she imagined herself to be my wife, and ordered her mistress down to the kitchen. He thought it would be advisable for her to take another situation away from us till her health improved, as she was continually fancying herself trampled upon by some member of the family; we accordingly procured for her a situation in a friend’s house in Montreal, but they in turn became frightened of her, and dismissed her, which dismissal, strange to say, she attributed _to me_. She now imagines herself to be my wife’s sister, and demands an entrance into my house, denouncing me in the vilest terms, and writing scandalous letters to all my acquaintances.”
“Are you sure she is insane?”
“Well, I have long tried to persuade myself that she is not, but latterly she has grown so violent that I am afraid that what I said years ago to my late wife in fun about her being demented was only painfully true. If you would kindly visit her and give me your opinion concerning her case, you would oblige me very much.”
“What does her present mistress say about her?”
“Oh she has only been there a short time and has not yet given an exhibition of her oratorical powers. Still the lady who is a clergyman’s widow, told me that she walks about her room in the middle of the night, talking wildly to herself.”
Dr. Tuffnell had not time to visit Miss Wilson that morning, but he made an appointment with Mr. D’Alton for the following day, and together they went to the unfortunate girl’s residence. Arrived at the house they rang the bell, and inquired for Mrs. Brookes, the mistress.
Mrs. Brookes was a middle-aged lady of a retiring disposition. Her husband had died at an early age, leaving her to take care of three young children. Her temporal wants however, were provided for, her husband having been possessed of a handsome income independently of his small salary. Dr. Tuffnell made inquiries concerning Miss Wilson’s habits, and was informed that her actions were at times very peculiar, that she had not gone to bed all the past night, but had stamped up and down her room, talking as if to a second party. Mrs. Brookes was shocked to hear that she had unwittingly engaged a mad woman to take charge of her children, and suddenly recollected several extraordinary episodes which, until that time, had never struck her forcibly.
It was arranged that the Doctor should see Miss Wilson and satisfy himself concerning her affliction before any further steps were taken. Accordingly Mrs. Brookes rang the bell and told the servant to summon the governess.
Miss Wilson had not slept all night, and her eyes had a wild expression, which heightened when she beheld Mr. D’Alton. The doctor, having previously taken all that was told him for granted, made up his mind at once that she was insane, and never reflected for a moment on the possibility of some scheme being on foot to injure her. On entering the room she laughed wildly and said–“So you have come back with your bag of gold. I tell you it’s _trash_, sordid trash, not half so sweet as REVENGE!”
Now as the doctor had heard nothing from either D’Alton or Mrs. Brookes which he could in any way connect with this wild utterance; moreover, as the young lady looked like a tigress, and walked fiercely up and down the room, he became more than ever convinced that he had got a bad case in hand and acted accordingly. Looking at D’Alton he shook his head, which Mrs. Brookes perceiving, she shook her head in turn, and, taking out her handkerchief, wept copiously. Dr. Tuffnell tried to soothe the patient with gentle words, but she (mistaking him for a pettifogging lawyer, whom D’Alton had engaged to bind her over to keep the peace) cried out:
“Ah, yes! you want to quiet me, but _you can’t_ quiet me. I am like the surging cataract, which, suppressed in one place bursts out again with more fury in another. I have suffered too much to be tamed down by soft and gilded promises. No, Robert D’Alton, you have started the mighty avalanche and it is too late now to stop its progress.”
The doctor began to feel he had a desperate case in hand and tried to quiet her, but the more he did so the worse she got till at last all persons began to talk to her, receiving from the poor girl replies altogether removed from the point at issue coupled with threats and oaths and furious gesticulations. At length the doctor suggested, in a whisper, the propriety of their departure, when they might consider what was best to be done, but, on Mrs. Brookes protesting that she was afraid to stay alone in the house with the maniac, Dr. Tuffnell dispatched a note to the asylum, and in a short time two keepers arrived, and proceeded to take Miss Wilson into their care till she should become possessed of a sound mind.
There is no time at which a sane person looks so much like a maniac as when trying to convince people of his sanity. The real lunatic will cunningly hide his affliction from the most watchful, and is frequently able to deceive those unaccustomed to deal with persons of unsound mind, but the victim of persecution becomes wild with honest indignation, and generally manages to convince even those who might be inclined to believe him to be sane.
When the truth of her position began to dawn on Miss Wilson, she became more frantic than ever. She raved at D’Alton and the doctor, tore with her hands at the keepers, and abused Mrs. Brookes for standing tamely by to see one of her own sex so ill-used. She roared so that two policemen came rushing up to the steps to inquire what was the matter, but, seeing Dr. Tuffnell, with whom they were well acquainted, they saluted him respectfully and withdrew.
Miss Wilson was accordingly driven to the asylum and incarcerated till she should come to her senses, and Mr. D’Alton, having made arrangements for her safe-keeping returned to Montreal.
Shortly after her father’s return Lillian D’Alton was married to Captain Trevelyan in Christ Church Cathedral. The wealth, beauty and fashion of Montreal attended the wedding, and the costliest presents were displayed on her father’s sideboard. The young couple departed for England immediately, Trevelyan’s regiment having been ordered home, and the bride was received into the first London circles.
Mr. D’Alton remained in Montreal where he still lives and moves in the best society. What his private feelings are I cannot tell, but outwardly all is serene, the only one besides myself who knows his family history having long since passed away in solitary confinement.
CHAPTER IX.
A Tale of Two Cities
Among the many friends we made during our stay in Montreal, none were so thoroughly beloved by myself and family as the Sinclairs. Mr. Sinclair was an English artist who had settled in Canada some time previous to our arrival, and, being generally well informed, as well as a shining light in his own profession, he was made much of by the English residents here, and had as pupils many of the wives and daughters of the officers of the garrison, besides some of the more cultivated Canadians. Mrs. Sinclair was a refined English lady of good family, and had several children, mostly girls, who were greatly admired not only for their beauty, but also for their many and various accomplishments. The Sinclair girls were frequently at our house, being, in fact, looked upon as members of our family, and no social gathering of ours was considered complete without them.
In time Mr. Sinclair became tired of Montreal. Many of his patrons left with their regiments for England, and he became weary of the dull routine and scanty income which he saw was all he could ever look forward to in Canada, so, breaking up his household, he departed for the United States, and, having lived for a time in various cities, finally settled in Boston, where he became quite successful, and soon obtained an enviable reputation as a portrait painter.
Lulu Sinclair, the eldest of the girls, was a sprightly blonde of about sixteen when her father left Montreal, and the family had not been long in Boston before she became engaged as a teacher at one of the conservatories, and a mutual attachment sprang up between the pair. Miss Sinclair had already made her _debut_ in Boston Music Hall as a vocalist, and the pair were frequently engaged at the same concerts and entertainments, so that the natural sequence was that they in time became engaged, and afterwards–_married_!
“Nothing very mysterious in that,” I think I hear my fair reader say, a little disappointed that I have not prepared a spicy bit of scandal for her delectation; but as Balaam the Prophet could only speak as he was impelled by the spirit, so likewise must I confine myself to _the realities_ of the case, and I therefore make no apology for this commonplace bit of history, but proceed with my story.
One evening Lulu made her appearance at our house, in Montreal, accompanied by Mr. Hill, her husband. It seems that they were on a concert tour, and were to give two concerts in Saint Patrick’s Hall, which at that time stood on the corner of Craig street and Victoria square, and, as we had often invited them to do so, they promised to avail themselves of our hospitality during their stay, as their engagement terminated with these concerts and they were anxious to take a little rest before returning to Boston.
The children were delighted to have Mr. and Mrs. Hill in the house with them; they had never met a _real live prima donna_ in private life before, and they flaunted “Professor Hill” and “Mademoiselle Lulu Sinclair” in the faces of their juvenile acquaintances, as if they had been entertaining the Emperor of all the Russias and Her Imperial Majesty the Empress.
Since the Sinclairs had left Montreal, the principal playmates of our children had been the Bennetts, who lived in the adjoining street. Mr. Bennett was a French-Canadian, with (as usual) a large family, and was in comfortable circumstances, having a large retail grocery on Notre Dame street. One evening, shortly after the arrival of Mr. Hill and his wife, the former drew me aside and asked me if I knew a family in Montreal named Bennett. I told him that I knew them intimately, that they lived close at hand, and taking him to the window (it was late in the spring) I showed him the children walking opposite hand in hand with our own. He then intimated that he had something to tell me, and, taking me aside into the adjoining room, he told me something which astonished me as much as it will doubtless astonish the reader of these pages.
It seems that Mr. Bennett’s father was an American, who, in early life, being settled in Montreal, became enamoured of a Canadian girl named Beauchamp. Miss Beauchamp was young, pretty, and a Catholic. The first two of these qualifications rather suited Mr. Bennett, and the third did not in any way annoy him, he being (although a Protestant) a liberal-minded man, and having the idea that thoughts and opinions could not be forced, like sheep, to go in a particular track, but that every one should be free to hold what convictions his reason dictated, untrammelled by conventionality or creed of any kind. Miss Beauchamp professed to be of a like mind, and agreed to allow him to educate the boys (if any), while she would look after the female issue of their marriage. With this ridiculous understanding they got married, and for a time things went pleasantly along, Mrs. Bennett attending L’Eglise St. Jacques regularly, not only without opposition from her husband but sometimes even accompanied by him. He did not believe in the efficacy of the service to save his soul, but he had sufficient common sense to know that it could not harm him, or turn him one whit aside from what his reason dictated; and neither did it, for at the end of two years he was as greatly opposed to what he considered the errors of the Church of Rome as ever he was, and though he attended L’Eglise St. Jacques almost as regularly as St. George’s Church, of which he was a member, he went there simply because he liked the society of his wife, and she believed it to be necessary for her salvation.
In the course of time Mrs. Bennett gave birth to a boy, then two girls, and afterwards another boy, all of whom, as children will, made enquiries concerning whence they were and whither they were going, etc. Mr. Bennett now began to see the folly he had been guilty of in making the agreement mentioned above. If the Catholic religion were the true and only faith, all his sons were on the high road to perdition; if, as he was inclined to think, the Protestant religion were nearer the mark, then what was to become of the girls? What a pleasant prospect was there before him! His family torn and divided by the most bitter of all dissentions, religious disputes (or rather _irreligious_ disputes about matters of doctrine), and his life and those of all his family rendered miserable. This was certainly bad enough in its way, but something more annoying was in store for him. He one day discovered that not only were the girls baptized in the Romish faith, but that the _boys also_ were surreptitiously baptized by the parish priest, so that he alone of all the family remained a Protestant, and a poor one at that. Every day things got more and more complicated, and his wife at last openly avowed that _all_ the children were to be Roman Catholics, and advised him also to flee from the wrath to come and take refuge in the arms of the true church.
Bennett was not exactly a bigot, but, if not a Protestant, he was certainly not going to become a Roman Catholic. Cursing himself bitterly for his folly, he sought to make matters better; but that, so far as changing the religion or creed of his family went, was altogether beyond his power. He had his choice between living an alien and a heretic, despised by his own family; and joining a church whose teachings he considered puerile and inefficacious, and the atmosphere of which was now exceedingly disagreeable to him. His wife showed herself so much more devoted to the church than to her husband, that his love for her soon faded away, and he made a fearful resolve to leave Montreal, and never see his wife or children more. Accordingly one evening, instead of returning as usual from his store, he left for parts unknown, leaving his wife and children almost penniless behind.
Mrs. Bennett, though acting as she did, loved her husband dearly. It was this very love for him which made her so anxious for him to leave what she considered the false religion of the Church of England for the pure and unadulterated system of the Church of Rome. She cried after him as if her heart would break, and sent after him in all directions. All her efforts, however, were in vain, no trace of her husband being found. The children were left at school till they were in time old enough to be apprenticed to a trade or business, Mrs. Bennett struggling bravely, as only a woman can do, to keep their heads above water. When William, the eldest boy, was about fourteen, he was placed in the well-known house of Messrs. Mockridge & Co., dry goods merchants, and in course of time became thoroughly conversant with the business. He had not only been able to help his mother to maintain the family, but had put by sufficient to start a small business for himself. Before deciding on the latter, however, he determined to visit Boston, to get a few ideas connected with the business, and, while there, came across his father, who had married again under the name of Hill, his wife being a young American of good family, and the mother of the gentleman from whom I learnt this story.
William Bennett reproached his father with his misconduct, and insisted on his leaving his American wife. Bennett the elder was very much averse to doing so, but his son would leave him no alternative, threatening him with exposure and criminal action should he decline. The old man tried to temporize, and persuaded William to visit and dine with his family, introducing him as a business friend from Montreal.
Whatever Anti-Spiritualists may say to the contrary, there are undoubtedly influences other than material which affect us at times, and give us mysterious intimations of events happening or about to happen. Both Mrs. Hill and her children had a presentiment of some impending calamity, and, although they had not the faintest suspicion of the real state of affairs, they did not look on William Bennett as they would have done on any other person casually introduced into their household. A damper seemed to have been placed on all their spirits, and the flow of conversation was sluggish and dull.
After dinner they endeavored to organize an impromptu card-party, but that, also, was a failure; and, although, as a rule, they had a little music after dinner, on this particular evening each one seemed indisposed to break the monotony.
About ten o’clock William left for his hotel, having first made an appointment with his father for the following morning. When they met William returned to the subject of their previous discourse, and insisted on his father returning with him to Montreal. The old man vowed that, come what might, he would never go back to his “priest-ridden family” as he chose to designate his wife and children. The battle waxed fast and furious, till at last William exclaimed with an oath: “By —- you shall leave your Yankee mistress, then; _she_ shall suffer what _my mother_ suffered;” and with oaths and threatenings he hounded his father out of Boston, determined that Mrs. Hill should not (innocent though she was) enjoy the happy home which was denied to his mother.
When Mrs. Hill learned the truth (which she did from a letter sent her from Montreal) she nearly lost her reason. Her case was even worse than that of Bennett’s first wife; because, whereas the latter could at least seek her husband, and live in the hope of one day finding him again, the former could not, even did she discover him, claim him as her own.
Mr. Hill’s visit to Montreal, then, though ostensibly made for professional pursuits was, in reality to find out something concerning his father’s whereabouts, and other matters connected with his quasi-relations. It was strange that he should have come to me for information without being at all aware of our intimacy with the Bennett family, indeed, while he was relating his story Amelia Bennett, his brother’s eldest child, came running in for something or another, and I at once saw a resemblance between the two, not only in personal appearance, but also in manners and actions.
The next day Mr. Hill, leaving his wife to the care of our family (who had undertaken to show her “the lions”) went forth on his expedition in search of his father. He had obtained from me his brother’s business address, and going to the office unannounced was immediately recognized by him, although they had only met once before, and that a considerable time previously. On explaining the object of his visit, Hall was very coldly received and informed that Bennett the elder had left Montreal for New York some years previously and had not since been heard of. Mr. Hill pretended to believe the story, but secretly determined to keep a watch on his half-brother as he felt certain that the latter was still in communication with his father. He accordingly made arrangements to stay at my house, and as the Bennetts were constantly coming and going he was sure that in a short time he would learn more concerning him of whom he was in search.
One afternoon we were seated round the parlor fire, discussing the usual after-dinner topics, when Mrs. William Bennett dropped in to have a friendly chat. She disclosed the fact that her husband was going to visit a superannuated employee in the nunnery, which he usually did on the first of each month, and that she did not see what reason her husband had to support forever all his broken-down employees. At the first word, Hill listened breathlessly, and when Mrs. Bennett said that she had just left her husband dressing, he quickly, but quietly, left the room. In an instant he was opposite Bennett’s house, and as soon as he noticed the bedroom light extinguished (for it was already dark), he drew back into a shadowed corner till he saw Bennett emerge from the doorway and walk rapidly down the street. Hill followed at a safe distance, but soon he saw his brother hail a passing sleigh, and, entering it, order the driver to take him somewhere; the name of the street, however, he failed to hear, and he felt chagrined to see the neighboring cab-stand completely deserted. “Now or never,” he thought, “am I to attain the object of my visit,” and he dashed madly along the street after the vehicle which was travelling at the rate of ten miles an hour; several times he passed a cab-stand and would fain have taken a fresh horse in pursuit, but he was afraid that while doing so he might lose sight of the sleigh he had followed so far; or confound it with another vehicle, for they were now passing through the centre of the city towards the west end of St. Antoine street.
Past terrace after terrace they flew, till Mr. Hill was nearly faint and breathless, when a sudden turn to the right brought them to the foot of a hill, now Guy street, up which the carter walked his horse, and gave the half dead pedestrian time to recover his breath. When they had proceeded about a quarter of a mile up the hill, the carter drew up at the Nunnery on the left side of the road, and Mr. Bennett, alighting, rang the bell. A sliding panel was immediately pushed aside, and a hooded sister held a few moments conversation with the visitor, on which the door was opened, and he was admitted. Hill, who had been standing in the shadow of the porch, entered unnoticed at his brother’s heels, the janitor being under the impression that they had come in the sleigh together. Walking along a dark corridor they came to a stairway, down which their guide preceded them into the basement; here Hill took a favorable opportunity to turn aside, still keeping his eye on the others till they arrived at the end of the passage and entered a large room where several old men were congregated, some chatting in groups, others smoking or reading lazily. In one of these, with emotions which cannot be described, Hill recognized his father from whom he had so long been separated. His first impulse was to rush boldly in and make himself known, but, the first transport over, his American caution prevailed, and he slipped down another passage which commanded a view of the staircase, and watched from his point of vantage the many persons returning from visiting their friends. He felt relieved when he saw Bennett take his departure, and with one bound he rushed into the middle of the room where the old man was, and, throwing himself round his father’s neck, wept like a child. The old man did not recognize him at first, but when he did he went into hysterics, so great was the shock to his nervous system. Never was there such a commotion in the quiet Nunnery, and the inmates gathered round in excited groups to listen to Hill’s story. He told them that his father had left Boston some years before, and, becoming unable to support himself, had been placed by a heartless elder brother in the cold confines of the Nunnery, although the younger members of the family were both willing and anxious to support their aged parent. There being no reason why the old man should not leave the institution if so inclined, the Superior allowed him, after some hesitation, to take his departure, first receiving the grateful thanks both of himself and of his son for her kind and fostering care. Hill left a letter for his brother, informing him that, his father being willing, he had taken him away from the Nunnery, and that as they evidently did not want to keep him with their families, he was about to take him to live with _his_.
Bennett was furious when he received the letter, but, as Mrs. Hill was now no more, and no threats or exposures of any kind could induce young Hill and his father to separate, he allowed them to go their way in peace.
A few years after these occurrences Mr. Hill received an appointment in Montreal.
Bennett and he sometimes meet in the street, but give no signs of recognition. The old man is still living, seldom going beyond the portals of his son’s house and passing most of his time in moody meditation on the past. Let us hope that a heartfelt repentance may in some measure atone for his past weaknesses.
CHAPTER X.
A Blighted Life.
Amongst the many orthodox business men of Montreal, none were more highly esteemed than Mr. Rogers, Manager of the —- Bank. He was what is generally considered a shrewd business man, methodical and precise in all his relations, whether commercial, domestic or ecclesiastical. I say ecclesiastical, because the worthy gentleman was one of the pillars of the church, having held the office of Elder for several years. Mr. Rogers had several children, most of whom he trained in the way in which they should go, but Jack, his eldest son, was incorrigible, and resisted all attempts to keep him under control. On Sunday mornings the family were usually marshalled in the dining-room, and marched off to church, but Master Jack frequently put in an excuse,–he had a bad cold, or a sprained ankle, or some other ailment which precluded the possibility of his attending. No sooner were the family outside the garden gate, however, than the poor boy with the sprained ankle would perform a _pas seul_ on the hearthrug, or, in spite of a cold which prevented his going out of doors, would shout “The old log cabin” with an excellent tone and remarkable vigor of lung; then, returning to his room, he would take a French novel from its hiding place under his pillow, and, lighting a fragrant Havana, would devote the morning to “the improvement of his mind,” as he called it.
Mrs. Rogers employed three servants besides a coachman: a cook, a housemaid, and a tablemaid. The latter was a young and attractive-looking girl from Glengarry, Ontario, named Ellen MacNee, who was about seventeen years old, and had never before been in service. For this damsel Jack Rogers conceived an attachment, and although at first the girl withstood his attentions, ere long she gave way to his importunities, and for months they lived on terms of the closest intimacy. Jack of course promised (as all men do) to marry her, and to do him justice I must say that he fully intended to do so, but his income as a bank clerk was only twenty dollars a month, and he knew he had no hope of receiving any assistance from his father. So things went on till Ellen felt she could keep her secret no longer from those around her, and she told her mistress she was going home to visit a sick aunt, and did not know whether she would return or not. Mrs. Rogers was very sorry indeed to part with her (for she had ingratiated herself with all the family, although not to the same extent), and told her if she would undertake to return she would only fill her place temporarily with another girl. With this understanding Ellen left her place and entered the Female Home, where shortly afterwards her baby (a girl) was born; she had the child baptized almost immediately, calling it Beatrice, after her young mistress, to whom she had been much attached, although it is doubtful if the young lady in question would, had she known it have appreciated the honor conferred upon her.
Ellen was scarcely recovered from her illness when her brother, a country farmer, who had by some means got wind of the state of affairs, came to Montreal, and had his misgivings confirmed. When he learnt the truth he was furious, and would, he vowed, shoot both her and her betrayer; but fraternal affection was so strong within him that he gradually became more calm, and exerted himself to make the best he could of a bad business. He requested me to take the child and place it in a nunnery in spite of the earnest protestations of its mother, and persuaded the latter to return to her home in Glengarry, promising to hide her shame from her mother and friends if she would bid farewell forever to the child and her betrayer. He persistently refused even to look at the baby, but, rough and uncultivated as he was, I could see a tear glisten in his eye as his manly heart quivered with emotion.
Home the poor broken-hearted girl went, and the baby was left in my keeping till the morrow, when, according to agreement, I was to hand it over to the good sisters. It was destined to be otherwise, however. That evening a gentleman called at my house; he was a bachelor, well to do in the world, and hearing the story, which it was necessary to tell him, in order to explain the child’s presence, he asked me with pardonable curiosity to let him see the baby. When he took her in his arms she smiled so sweetly upon him, and crowed so joyously, that his heart was touched, and he could not bear to think that the poor helpless babe should be made to suffer for the sins of its parents; he asked me to let _him_ have the child, promising that he would adopt her, and do for her as if she were his own.
I suggested to him the scandal such a measure would give rise to, and urged him not to place himself in such an unenviable position, but he insisted that he was willing to let society have its fling, and that if I would consent to the child’s adoption, he would take the responsibility attached to it.
What was I to do? The man was well off, and had conceived a fancy for the child. As for the world’s sneers, if he could afford to laugh at them why should I refuse him the gratification of performing a noble action? I handed the child over to his care, having first procured from him written papers of adoption, and little Beatrice was installed in her new home. A nurse was procured for her, and everything that money could procure was provided for her comfort. The gossips sneered and wagged their heads as they spoke of the “adopted” child, insinuating that there were stronger ties than those of mere philanthropy to bind Mr. Richards and the child together, but he, quite unconcerned, paid no attention to their hints and innuendoes, and tried so far as lay in his power to make the child comfortable and happy. When she attained the age of five years he procured a governess for her, and had her instructed thoroughly in all that go to make up a modern education as she grew older.
But a cloud soon appeared on the horizon of the child’s career. Mr. Richards became ill, and was ordered by his medical adviser to a Southerly climate. He was obliged to sell his estate and place little Beatrice in Mrs. Thompson’s boarding school, where she continued for a few years till the return of her adopted father. He came, it is true, but the seeds of a fatal disease had been implanted in his system, and had taken a deadly hold; in a few months he was no more, and as nearly all his money had been eaten up in paying travelling and medical expenses, poor Beatrice was left once more not only without a friend but without a penny in the world. Mr. Richards had paid her school fees annually in advance, and as at the time of his demise several months of the term paid for were unexpired, Beatrice had a comfortable home secured for her at least during that period; for the future she would either have to perform menial services at the school, or go out in the cold world without a friend or protector. The former was considered by the poor girl preferable to going she knew not where, and so she accepted the offer of a situation as housemaid, kindly proffered to her by Mrs. Thompson _out of pure charity_ at two dollars per month less than the previous occupant of the situation.
Poor Beatrice had a hard time of it as housemaid. Her former companions took a fiendish delight in ordering her about till her life became perfectly unbearable. She had but one friend to whom she could unreservedly pour forth her troubles, her Sunday-School teacher, Miss Flint. To this lady she gave an account of her history, so far as she was able, and asked her for advice and assistance. Miss Flint, being both sensible and charitably disposed, advised her to leave her present position, having first procured a suitable one elsewhere, and she promised to exert herself to this end.
Among the numerous acquaintances of Miss Flint was Mrs. De Beaumont, a Southern lady of means, whose husband held a high official position in New Orleans. Mrs. De Beaumont had, in order to avoid the yellow fever epidemic, taken up her residence temporarily in Montreal, and was now with her two daughters about to return to her Southern home. The education of the latter young ladies had been somewhat neglected, and Mrs. De Beaumont was anxious to procure as governess and travelling companion a young lady of moderate means and unlimited ability.
Here, then, was an opening for Beatrice. On the recommendation of Miss Flint, coupled with certificates from the various professors at Mrs. Thompson’s school, the poor girl was duly installed in an easy and, to her, lucrative position. She was not long settled in her new home when Mr. Hartley, brother of Mrs. De Beaumont, fell violently in love with her, and, contrary to the wishes of his relations, insisted on paying her open attention. The poor girl had been so long accustomed to being buffeted and slighted in every way that her heart fairly gave way before his passionate wooing, and, although Mrs. De Beaumont frowned on her angrily, and the rest of the family snubbed her grievously, yet Beatrice felt so happy in having some one in whom she could confide that she bore all their petty annoyances with the utmost forbearance, and refused steadily to take the slightest notice of them.
Mr. Hartley was a planter of considerable wealth. He had long lived a bachelor’s life; so long, indeed, that his friends never thought he would marry, and each one often unconsciously counted how much of the property would eventually become his. Mrs. De Beaumont was particularly displeased when she heard his open avowal of his attachment for her governess, for, though Hartley was not an old man, he being at that time only about forty-six years old, yet she had hoped that her daughter would have inherited a portion of his vast wealth, which was now about to be transferred to a stranger, without friends, fortune or name. In spite of this secret antipathy to the match, Mrs. De Beaumont openly pretended the greatest friendship for Beatrice, for, being a woman of the world, she saw clearly how matters would stand in a few years, and she could not afford to break either with her brother or his intended wife.
The wedding came off with all the aristocratic splendor of an F. F. V. ceremonial. The dusky coachmen and footmen were resplendent with gorgeous liveries and wedding favors, their white teeth glistening in the sun as they grinned from ear to ear, perfectly happy and contented. After the ceremony the newly-married pair went for a brief tour through the Eastern States and Canada, returning to Mr. Hartley’s plantation, where Mrs. Hartley was called upon by all the leading families in the vicinity, and took her place with as much grace as though she had been “to the manner born.” Mrs. De Beaumont greeted her sister-in-law affectionately (at least to all outward appearances), and invited her to visit her old home frequently; in fact all those who were aware (and who was not) that Mr. Hartley had settled every penny of his fortune on his wife and her prospective offspring were lavish of their attentions to their beautiful, and now immensely wealthy, neighbor.
When her first baby, a little girl, was born, Mrs. Hartley wept bitterly and refused (like Rachel) to be comforted. Her husband could not understand it at all, and was greatly grieved that she should be so down-hearted when they had both every reason, to be happy. Beatrice besought him to forgive her weakness, and explained that it was only now that she was a mother that she fully realized the anguish her own mother must have suffered at parting with her, and she implored him as he loved her to exert himself to find her mother and make her happy. Had his wife told him to lie down whilst she drove a carriage-wheel across his neck, Mr. Hartley would have unhesitatingly obeyed her; how readily, then, he set about finding what most men are so glad to be without, viz., a mother-in-law, can easily be imagined. He promised his wife that so soon as business permitted him he would take steps to discover her mother’s whereabouts, but that night he was awakened out of a deep sleep by cries of terror from his wife; she had had a dream, she said, that her mother hung over a precipice, looking up to her for help, which, while she hastened to give, she saw her mother sink into the yawning abyss, uttering shrieks of agony. Hartley was beside himself with fright; he thought his wife would lose her reason, and so he quieted her by assuring her that he would write the next day to get information, acting on which he would set out immediately on his search. In the morning he despatched a letter to Mr. F—- in Montreal, instructing him to obtain what information he could respecting a girl called Ellen MacNee who had lived in former years with Mrs. Rogers; in reply he was informed that the girl left the city, no trace being procurable. He then inserted advertisements in several Canadian newspapers, informing the public that if Ellen MacNee would correspond with X. Y. Z. she would hear of something to her advantage. But in vain did the fond husband seek the mother of his blue-eyed darling, now grown pale with deferred hope and anxious care, and when the latter proposed that they should personally go to Montreal in search of their missing relative he readily acquiesced, feeling assured that, even if they were unsuccessful, the excitement of travel and occupation would restore the bloom to his wife’s cheeks and preserve that health which, was now apparently on the wane.
In a few days they had made preparations for an extended tour, and ere a week had passed they were snugly quartered in the St. Lawrence Hall, Montreal. The day after their arrival they called on me to know if I could assist them in their search, bidding me spare no expense in order to effect the desired object. I promised them every assistance in my power, and at once placed myself in communication with all those whom I had known to have any dealings with Beatrice’s unfortunate mother. It was truly painful to see the anxious face of the young woman as she came daily to me to enquire if I had heard any news, and when I showed her a letter from Mr. MacNee, her mother’s eldest brother, stating that his sister had gone to New York as nurse, she immediately persuaded her husband to give chase. Their efforts were in vain, however. The girl, it was true, had taken service in New York, but had subsequently left there for her home in Glengarry, and had never been seen since either there or in New York. Detectives having again been employed to assist in tracing her movements, it was discovered that she had returned by rail to Montreal _en route_ to Glengarry, but here all traces vanished, and the supposition was either that she had committed suicide, or met with some accidental death. Beatrice would have it, however, that she was still alive, and would leave no stone unturned to find her. It was suggested that New York should again be visited, as the probability was that she returned there after her trip to Montreal; various other plans were thought of, and some of them, doubtless, would have been acted upon, had not a new light shone in upon the scene.
At the outset of the proceedings I had communicated with the principals of the various Houses of Refuge in this city, and, although the authorities had done their utmost to facilitate our search, so far we had failed to advance in any way. At this time, however, I received a communication from the Bishop, informing me that he thought he could help us, and when I called on him, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, he told us that he had been visited by a hardened creature, whose name did not concern us, and who, in anticipation of a reward which she had heard was offered for the recovery of the recluse, disclosed the fact that she had, under an assumed name, become a sister of charity, and was at present an inmate in a convent in —- street, where we would, doubtless, be able to recognize her.
Beatrice became quite excited at the news, and insisted on rushing off at once, but her strength failed her, and she fell fainting on a sofa. By great persuasion she allowed us to drive her home on the promise that she would be allowed to accompany us on the morrow. The next day we entered a carriage and drove to the Convent; we agreed that Beatrice should go alone to meet her mother while we remained downstairs. Running into the room where her mother was, the poor girl fell on her neck and covered her with kisses. But no responsive greeting met the impetuous child, the woman stared at her with a wild hazy stare as if to inquire, Who are you? What do you mean by these extravagant caresses?
But if she failed to recognize her child she did not fail to recognize me, and by some strange association of ideas she seemed to wander in thought back to her past life, and the hot blood mounted to her temples. When she became calmer I explained to her how we had come there, and the object of our visit. She was touched at the proofs of her daughter’s affection, and the hot tears rolled rapidly down her furrowed cheek, but she steadily refused to leave the institution. In vain the poor girl pleaded, and Mr. Hartley and myself joined in our entreaties that she would accompany her daughter and her husband. Finding all our arguments of no avail I advised Mr. Hartley to let the poor creature have her way till the reality of the situation had come home to her, recommending him to allow his wife to call frequently at the Convent to see her mother. This advice the indulgent husband acted upon, and day after day Beatrice would go and sit for hours conversing with her parent, sometimes obtaining permission to take her for a walk or a drive, and secretly longing, though never expressing it in words, that her mother would accompany her back to her home in the South.
So far the excitement had kept Mrs. Hartley up, but after a time a reaction set in which culminated in a wasting fever, and prostrated the poor creature on a bed of sickness. This, though apparently disastrous, ended happily for all. Beatrice’s mother, so long as _she_ was the object of pity, shrank from all communication with her rich relatives, but now that her child was in need of assistance, she flew to her with a mother’s impetuosity, and anxiously watched by her couch day and night, while the poor thing tossed and raved in delirious paroxysms. Mr. Hartley summoned Dr. Hickson to his wife’s bedside, but that astute practitioner wisely foretold that the magnetic influence of her mother’s presence would do more for his patient than any drugs or medicines, and, accordingly, he contented himself by prescribing a sleeping-draught, leaving other agencies to do their work.
In a couple of weeks Mrs. Hartley rallied, and ere long she became convalescent, and even cheerful. She used to chat with her mother for hours together, and the fourth week after the latter’s arrival she was able to go out for a drive accompanied by her and the baby, who had accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Hartley in all their travels. The little girl and her grandmother soon became great friends, and when, Beatrice being strong enough, her mother would have returned to her convent life, the baby’s smiling face did what all persuasion had failed to do, and bursting into tears, the aged penitent folded the darling to her breast and declared that she would never part from it again. Beatrice’s joy knew no bounds; and as for Mr. Hartley, he was perfectly satisfied to know that his wife was happy. In a few days they made preparations for a journey to the South, and ere long Mrs. Hartley had the satisfaction of seeing her mother snugly ensconced at her own fireside, living as it were over again, and enjoying in the care of her daughter’s child, the maternal pleasure which had hitherto been denied her. Ere leaving Montreal Mr. Hartley, at his wife’s request, erected a handsome monument in Mount Royal Cemetery to the memory of the humane man, who, regardless of the jeers and scoffing of gossiping scandal mongers, had braved public opinion, and saved to the world a good wife, an affectionate daughter and a loving and tenderhearted mother.
During all this time, it may be asked, what had become of Jack Rogers, one of the principals in my narrative?
Jack was fairly wild at the thought of his sweetheart going into an institution. He would have married her on the spot and braved all his father’s anger. But the girl showed equal self-denial, and was much more sensible; she saw that, by consenting to marry a penniless gentleman, she would certainly injure him, without in any way benefiting herself. She knew his father sufficiently well to feel sure that, were he aware of his son’s relations with her, not one but _both of them_, would be ignominiously turned out of doors. So, consoling her paramour with this questionable bit of comfort, she tore herself away, saying coolly that he would soon forget and marry some one in his own station in life. But, though she nerved herself to speak in this strain before him, when alone she broke down entirely, and sobbed till her heart nearly broke, for the poor girl loved him dearly, and, poor though he was, would have married him and worked for him, if necessary. She saw, however, that his prospects would be utterly blasted were he to disclose his position to his father; and she unselfishly took on herself _the whole_ of the punishment for a sin of which she was scarcely guilty, or, at any rate, less highly culpable than he.
Jack would fain have put a pistol ball through his head, and doubtless would have done so had the pistol been handy; but his pistols, like everything else he possessed, were out of order, and were at the moment in Mr. Costen’s hands, where they lay in a disintegrated condition till the young gentleman’s blood had got some degrees cooler. Still, he could not help thinking how his folly and thoughtlessness had ruined the hopes of a poor innocent girl, and he longed for some opportunity for going abroad, or participating in some excitement to enable him to muse less moodily on the past.
The American civil war was at this time in full blast, and large bounties were offered for volunteers. An American agent, meeting Jack Rogers in a saloon, which the latter frequented, offered him two hundred dollars and an outfit if he would go as a substitute for a young gentleman in New York. This offer Jack readily accepted, and within a short time found himself _en route_ to Richmond to join the Federal Army. He was not long in the service when his superior intelligence and daring exploits made him conspicuous among his fellows, and he was promoted from one grade to another till he was placed in command of his company. This was a position Jack was eminently fitted for, and his reckless bravery was talked of far and wide throughout the army.
For a long time, in spite of his foolhardiness, Jack remained without a scratch, save a slight wound from a rifle ball at Gettysburg, where he made himself particularly conspicuous. Just before the close of the great struggle, however, he was sent in command of a foraging party consisting of about forty-five rank and file and the usual complement of officers. Their path lay through a deed ravine in which high wooded cliffs looked down on each side. These cliffs were in possession of a Louisiana regiment, who were stationed there in the hope of cutting off supplies from the Northerners, and, just as Captain Rogers with his handful of men, entered the ravine a murderous fire was opened on them from both sides. Rogers ordered his men to reply, but, as the ravine afforded little or no cover, they were finally obliged to make their way as quickly as possible to the end of the pass and fight their way through. They found their way completely blocked by a force of two or three hundred rebels, but, as to return would have proved equally disastrous, there was nothing for it but to surrender, or cut a path for themselves through, the enemy. Bracing themselves for a terrible struggle, Rogers and his little band advanced to within a few yards of the open, where their foes, with rifles loaded and bayonets fixed, stood demanding their surrender. Captain Jack ordered his men to fire at a given signal, and then to advance; and, firing his own pistols by way of signal, he dashed through the smoke, followed by his daring band, cutting and slashing right and left.
But courage will not enable men to do impossibilities. Out of the handful who entered the ravine but three managed to cut their way through the opposing forces, and these were all more or less injured by rifle balls or sabre cuts. Poor Rogers fought like a lion; but, being the centre of attraction on account of his uniform, he had his hands more than full, and though he pistoled two men and knocked an officer who would have seized him senseless with the butt-end of his empty revolver, he was finally brought off his horse with a pistol shot, and captured, more dead than alive, by the enemy.
The officer in charge was so struck with the bravery of the poor fellow that he had endeavored to take him prisoner, and had stayed some of his men who had essayed to run the fiery captain through with their bayonets; his impetuous charge, however, led them in self defence to disable him, and the young lieutenant who shot him had no alternative except to be brained by a blow from Jack’s pistol. The excitement over, however, the colonel of the victorious corps sent a detachment in search of the wounded of both sides, and ordered a litter to be prepared for Captain Rogers’ removal to his own quarters. Poor Jack was severely injured. The ball had entered his left arm close to the shoulder, and was not necessarily fatal; but his horse had fallen on him and bruised him so that he could scarcely breathe. The march to the camp was about two miles, and, although the men moved as gently as possible, yet Captain Rogers suffered agony as he felt every motion. Arrived at Colonel De Beaumont’s quarters (for the brave commander was the husband of Mrs. De Beaumont) a surgeon was sent for and the invalid’s wounds were attended to. Although a prisoner of war Captain Rogers’ received every attention from Colonel De Beaumont and the officers under his command, and when, the regiment being ordered to head-quarters, the Colonel was obliged to send Rogers to prison with the rest of his captured force, the parting was more like that of two brothers than that of a victor and his fallen foe.
After the close of the war, which, event took place shortly after these occurrences, Colonel De Beaumont, disgusted and sick at heart, returned to New Orleans. He was obliged to bow to fortune, and to swear allegiance once more to what he considered the oppressor. Almost his first thought after his return was to enquire concerning the Federal troops who had been captured by his men, especially the gallant Rogers, for whom he had formed a more than passing attachment. He learned that of those who had been placed in confinement, some had died of their wounds, others, as soon as the proclamation of Northern supremacy gave them their liberty, had returned to their homes, but that the Captain, having contracted a dangerous fever, had been unable to accompany them. De Beaumont lost no time in seeking out the poor soldier’s quarters, and was grieved to find him barely alive, 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.