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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Old Homestead," Ann S. Stephens masterfully weaves a tapestry of rural life, charting the struggles and triumphs of a family in a changing American landscape. Set against the backdrop of the 19th century, the narrative is rich in local color, showcasing her keen observation of societal norms and dynamics. Stephens employs a vivid and descriptive literary style, laden with emotional depth, effectively blending melodrama and realism. The novel not only reflects the values of the time but also offers a critique on individualism and community, making it a significant contribution to American literature of her era. Ann S. Stephens, a pioneering female novelist in the 19th century, was notable for her keen insight into the challenges faced by women and families. Her own life experiences, including her struggles for recognition in a male-dominated literary scene, fueled her commitment to portray authentic human experiences. This background lends a genuine voice to her characters, making their predicaments resonate with readers, especially in an evolving society grappling with modernity and tradition. I highly recommend "The Old Homestead" to readers yearning for a profound exploration of family, community, and the complexities of life during a transformative era. Stephens' engaging prose and poignant storytelling invite readers to connect deeply with her characters, ensuring that their journey echoes long after the final page is turned. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Old Homestead
Table of Contents
Introduction
At its core, The Old Homestead contemplates how a single dwelling—steadfast yet weathered—becomes the arena where loyalty and ambition collide, where inheritance and responsibility confront desire, and where the intimate dramas of kinship mirror wider social shifts, so that every threshold crossed and room remembered draws the characters, and the reader, into a sustained meditation on what it costs to keep faith with the past while seeking a future that is at once freer, fairer, and truer to the tangled claims of heart and conscience.
Written by Ann S. Stephens, a prominent figure in nineteenth-century American popular fiction, The Old Homestead belongs to the domestic and sentimental tradition that shaped much of the era’s reading culture. While precise details of its first appearance can be placed within Stephens’s mid-to-late nineteenth-century career, the novel’s imaginative terrain is recognizably American, grounded in a homestead whose presence organizes family life and social ties. Readers can expect a narrative that balances household scenes with moments of heightened feeling, reflecting the period’s taste for moral reflection, emotional candor, and accessible storytelling that speaks to the everyday pressures of home and community.
Without disclosing turns that the story reserves for discovery, the premise is simple and resonant: a long-held home stands at the center of intersecting hopes and obligations, drawing relatives, intimates, and outsiders into a web of decisions that test affection, duty, and identity. The novel invites readers through domestic thresholds rather than public stages, choosing quiet confrontations, private reckonings, and the slow accumulation of consequences. Its voice is earnest and attentive, tending to the textures of ordinary life while allowing for moments of melodramatic intensity. The mood is reflective rather than cynical, and the style favors clarity, steady pacing, and moral seriousness.
Thematically, the book explores how place shapes people—how rooms and routines can form a kind of memory that outlasts any single life. It considers the tension between legacy and self-determination, asking what we owe to those who came before and what we must claim for those who come after. Class expectations, gendered roles within the household, and the meanings of respectability and reputation all thread through the narrative. Yet it also acknowledges the pull of aspiration, the necessity of forgiveness, and the power of steadfast care, suggesting that the work of making and keeping a home is both practical and profoundly ethical.
Stephens develops these concerns through intimate social observation rather than spectacle, letting the homestead act as a stabilizing symbol that focuses competing desires. The structure encourages readers to weigh small choices as seriously as dramatic ones, and to see how talk, silence, kindness, and pride can alter the course of a family’s life. Her prose is direct, sympathetic, and morally attentive, qualities that typify much nineteenth-century domestic fiction while also giving this novel its unhurried gravity. Scenes unfold with patient detail, and conflicts accrue through conversation and circumstance, producing an atmosphere where ordinary acts carry lasting meaning.
For contemporary readers, the novel’s insistence that a home is never merely property feels strikingly current. It opens questions about intergenerational responsibility, the fairness of inheritance, and the burdens and blessings of staying versus leaving. The anxieties it portrays—about security, belonging, and how to translate affection into just action—speak to ongoing debates over caregiving, economic pressure, and communal bonds. The Old Homestead thus functions not only as a period piece but also as a lens through which to consider the ethics of attachment: when to preserve, when to let go, and how to honor the past without sacrificing the living.
Approached in this spirit, the book offers a reading experience that is contemplative and emotionally grounded, rewarding patience with a deepening sense of place and purpose. It invites readers to notice the moral weight of daily choices and to appreciate how private lives reflect broader social currents in nineteenth-century America. Those drawn to character-centered narratives, domestic settings, and questions of duty and desire will find its concerns enduring. By the final pages, the homestead’s meanings have multiplied, leaving a resonant portrait of home as both shelter and test—an inheritance one must continually earn through care, courage, and conscience.
Synopsis
The story opens on a rural estate that has anchored one family for generations, a place whose fields, orchard, and farmhouse embody continuity and obligation. The elders maintain customs shaped by land and season, while the younger members feel the pull of wider horizons. Early scenes introduce household routines, neighboring ties, and an unspoken awareness that change is coming. A respectful tone establishes the homestead as both a livelihood and a legacy, framing the central tension: how to honor inherited duties without stifling personal hopes. The narrative balances quiet domestic detail with hints of looming pressures beyond the farm gate.
External forces sharpen this tension. Markets shift, a note falls due, and talk of improvements collides with limited means. A visitor with city connections proposes solutions that would mortgage tradition for convenience, stirring debate over prudence and pride. Within the family, differing tempers surface—some favor caution, others risk. A marriage possibility intertwines affection with economic calculation, making choice more complex. Letters and rumors deepen uncertainty about the homestead’s future. These developments create a delicate crosscurrent: the land’s steady demands persist even as opportunity—and danger—beckon from elsewhere, setting up decisions that will define the next stage of the family’s fortunes.
One of the younger relatives leaves for the city, seeking training and income that the countryside cannot provide. Departure is practical rather than defiant, shaped by a promise to return strengthened and useful. The journey introduces unfamiliar rhythms: crowded streets, rented rooms, and workplaces where reputation can turn on a word. Early successes seem modest but encouraging. Yet the cost of progress becomes apparent—distance complicates communication, and small misunderstandings grow in the space created by absence. The homestead remains a constant reference point, its needs and memories guiding choices even as the newcomer negotiates mentors, rivals, and the conditional favor of urban patrons.
Back at the farm, the seasons advance with their insistence. Planting, mending, and marketing require steady hands, and the household adapts to doing more with fewer people. A neighbor’s kindness offsets a merchant’s impatience; a relative’s resentment surfaces in small slights rather than open conflict. Fragments of an older family dispute—partly about land, partly about pride—reappear in remarks and recollections. The elders keep careful accounts and preserve documents, aware that papers can weigh as heavily as plows in deciding a future. Quiet scenes of work and worship deepen the sense that the homestead’s value is measured in use, memory, and mutual reliance.
City chapters expand the contrast. Opportunities arise through introductions that promise advancement at the price of convenience and compromise. The newcomer learns to read motives, manages limited funds, and fends off advice that confuses haste with ambition. Friendships form in shared effort; other connections prove calculating. News from home arrives irregularly, thick with concern yet sparing in complaint. A chance to secure a position depends on a favor that would burden the homestead indirectly, sharpening a dilemma already in motion. The city offers speed and spectacle, but it also amplifies consequences, making every choice echo back to the farm and those waiting there.
Communication falters at a critical time. An illness touches the household, and a local claim against the property—rooted in taxes, interest, or an old agreement—moves from talk to action. A community figure proposes assistance, but the terms would weaken independence. Differences within the family turn practical: whether to sell timber, lease a field, or accept conditional relief. Meanwhile, a letter mislaid or delayed breeds suspicion about motives on both sides of the distance. The homestead’s defenders look to records, witnesses, and long-standing custom to steady their case, preparing for a challenge that will test endurance as much as resources.
An urgent message brings the absent family member home, compressing distance into a sudden return. The reunion is warm but strained by timelines and unpaid balances. With a deadline looming, attention turns to evidence—receipts, a forgotten memorandum, and recollections that might prove decisive. A conversation withheld for years is finally broached, linking earlier disagreements to current vulnerabilities. The narrative tightens around choices that will either preserve or part the estate. Each figure must weigh personal gain against collective security, knowing that even a justified claim can fray kinship if pursued without care. The homestead becomes both refuge and contested ground.
The turning point gathers neighbors, officials, and family in a forum where private matters meet public procedure. Testimony clarifies obligations and rights, while gestures of fairness temper confrontation. An apparent antagonist’s interests are explained rather than caricatured, showing how competing necessities can clash without malice. A measured resolution takes shape through diligence, patience, and a willingness to face prior omissions. The outcome, while not lavish, affirms what work and restraint can secure. Relationships are recalibrated: estrangements soften, promises are renewed, and expectations reset. The homestead’s fate, bound up with these decisions, emerges from uncertainty with a realistic path forward.
In closing chapters, the narrative emphasizes continuity without denying change. The homestead endures as a practical and symbolic center, sustained by restored trust and clearer stewardship. Younger ambitions fold into responsibilities that now feel chosen rather than imposed. City skills return to the countryside as tools, not temptations. The household adapts—mending fences literally and figuratively—while a wider circle acknowledges the estate’s role in shared well-being. The book leaves its characters facing ordinary days with steadier footing, suggesting the lasting worth of diligence, temperance, and mutual regard. Its message aligns purpose with place, honoring what is kept as thoughtfully as what is gained.
Historical Context
Ann S. Stephens situates The Old Homestead in the agrarian Northeast of the United States during the early to mid-nineteenth century, when small freehold farms in New York and New England anchored local economies and kinship networks. The rural world she evokes is one of family inheritance, town meetings, and church-centered community life, yet increasingly touched by roads, canals, and markets. Seasonal labor rhythms, the authority of patriarchs under common-law coverture, and the moral oversight of Congregational and Presbyterian congregations frame daily existence. Against this backdrop, the homestead functions as both a tangible property and a moral estate, threatened by debt, speculation, and the centrifugal pull of cities and the West in the decades before the Civil War.
The Market Revolution transformed the countryside Stephens describes. The Erie Canal opened in 1825, stretching 363 miles from Buffalo to Albany and slashing freight costs from roughly $100 to $10 per ton, propelling boomtowns like Rochester and Utica. Turnpikes, then early railroads such as the Mohawk and Hudson (1831), widened access to distant markets and credit. Farm families shifted from subsistence to commercial dairying, wheat, and hops, tying them to volatile prices and lenders. The novel mirrors these pressures in its fixation on the old farm as a bulwark of identity: outward success becomes measured in cash and acreage, while intergenerational tensions rise as heirs contemplate leaving the ancestral place for urban trades or western land.
The Panic of 1837 and the prolonged depression that followed (to about 1843) exposed the fragility of rural credit. Triggered by speculative bubbles, the 1836 Specie Circular, and widespread bank suspensions starting on May 10, 1837, the crisis led to sharp price deflation and mass unemployment in cities such as New York, where estimates reached a quarter of the workforce. Country banks called in loans; sheriffs’ auctions of farms became common. Martin Van Buren’s Independent Treasury proposal signaled a new federal posture toward finance. The book’s preoccupation with mortgages, notes, and the vulnerability of the household estate reflects this environment, casting the homestead’s preservation as a moral and economic trial amid creditors and collapsing trust.
The Second Great Awakening reshaped social life in the northern countryside through revivals and reform. Charles Grandison Finney’s 1830–31 Rochester meetings radiated across upstate New York’s burned-over district, energizing church membership and a new language of individual conversion and communal duty. From this surge grew temperance organizations, notably the American Temperance Society (founded 1826), and later statutory experiments like Maine’s 1851 prohibition law. Stephens’s narrative echoes these moral campaigns in its stress on sobriety, reputation, and disciplined domesticity: characters’ fortunes hinge not only on crops and contracts but on moral standing before neighbors who conflate household stewardship with civic virtue and social trust.
Women’s legal and economic status is a crucial historical frame for the novel’s homestead conflicts. Under coverture, a married woman’s property and earnings belonged to her husband, complicating inheritance and control of family land. Reform advanced unevenly: New York’s Married Women’s Property Act (1848) secured a wife’s right to own and control separate property, strengthened by 1860 amendments that protected earnings; similar statutes passed in Pennsylvania (1848) and Connecticut (1849). The Seneca Falls Convention of 1848 issued the Declaration of Sentiments, demanding legal equality. The book reflects these transformations in scenes where maternal authority, dowries, and wills determine whether the homestead shields or imperils women. Stephens’s career in New York’s periodical press made her acutely aware of the legal levers that could stabilize or destabilize female-led households.
Land tenure conflicts in New York’s Anti-Rent War (1839–1845) dramatized the shift from quasi-feudal leases to freehold ideals. On Hudson Valley manors like the Van Rensselaers’, tenants rebelled against perpetual rents and quarter-sale clauses, sometimes donning Calico Indian disguises to obstruct sheriffs. Violence at incidents such as the 1845 Andes confrontation, where Undersheriff Osman Steele was killed, revealed the stakes. The New York Constitution of 1846 banned feudal tenures and limited long leases. While Stephens’s homestead is a free farm, the novel’s anxiety over legitimate title, taxes, and the moral right to land resonates with this movement’s insistence that household independence requires secure, fee-simple ownership.
Jacksonian democracy and the free labor ethos supplied a political vocabulary for farm independence. Expanded white male suffrage in the 1820s–30s and the Preemption Act of 1841, which let settlers purchase up to 160 acres of surveyed public land, encouraged westward flights to Ohio, Michigan, and Wisconsin. The Free Soil Party (1848) popularized the slogan Free Soil, Free Speech, Free Labor, Free Men, linking antislavery to smallholder access. Agitation by figures like George Henry Evans’s National Reform Association in the 1840s anticipated the later Homestead Act of 1862. The novel channels these debates as younger characters weigh the promise of western acres against fidelity to the ancestral farm, revealing the homestead as both haven and constraint amid national mobility.
By centering a vulnerable farm, The Old Homestead functions as a social critique of antebellum capitalism, patriarchal law, and uneven reform. It exposes how speculative credit and market volatility can unravel intergenerational security, how coverture and inheritance customs jeopardize women’s economic agency, and how moral surveillance polices class and gender boundaries. The work privileges communal reciprocity over urban-display wealth, scrutinizes creditor power and sheriff’s law, and implicitly endorses reforms that safeguard household property and female stewardship. In portraying the old place as a contested moral commons, Stephens indicts a period that celebrated opportunity yet left families to negotiate debt, legal inequity, and the dislocations of a transforming republic.
The Old Homestead
CHAPTER I.
THE FATHER'S RETURN.
She kneels beside the pauper[2] bed, As seraphs[3] bow while they adore! Advance with still and reverent tread, For angels have gone in before!
"I wonder, oh, I wonder if he will come?"
The voice which uttered these words was so anxious, so pathetic with deep feeling, that you would have loved the poor child, whose heart gave them forth, plain and miserable as she was. Yet a more helpless creature, or a more desolate home could not well be imagined. She was very small, even for her age. Her little sharp features had no freshness in them; her lips were thin; her eyes not only heavy, but full of dull anguish, which gave you an idea of settled pain, both of soul and body, for no mere physical suffering ever gave that depth of expression to the eyes of a child.
But all was of a piece, the garret, and the child that inhabited it. The attic, which was more especially her home, was crowded under the low roof of a tenant house, which sloped down so far in front, that even the child could not stand upright under it, except where it was perforated with a small attic window, which overlooked the chimneys and gables of other tenement[5] buildings, hived full of poverty, and swarming with the dregs of city life.
This was the prospect on one side. On the other a door with one hinge broken, led into a low open garret, where smoke-dried rafters slanted grimly over head, like the ribs of some mammoth skeleton, and loose boards, whose nails had rusted out, creaked and groaned under foot. They made audible sounds even beneath the shadowy tread of the little girl, as she glided toward the top of a stair-case unrailed and out in the floor like the mouth of a well. Here she sat down, supporting her head with one hand, in an attitude of touching despondency.
"I wonder oh, I wonder, if he will come!" she repeated, looking mournfully downward.
It was a dreary view, those flights of broken stairs, slippery and sodden with the water daily carried over them. They led by other tenement rooms, which sent forth a confusion of mingled voices, but opened with a glimpse of pure light upon the street below.
But for this gleam of light, breaking as it were, like a smile through the repulsive vista, Mary Fuller might have given up in absolute despair, for she was an imaginative child, and glimpses of light like that came like an inspiration to her.
After all, what was it that kept the child chained for an hour to one spot, gazing so earnestly down toward the opening? Did she expect any one?
No, it could not be called expectation, but something more beautiful still—FAITH.
Most persons would call it presentiment[4]; but presentiment is not the growth of prayer, or the conviction which follows that earnest pleading when the soul is crying for help.
"Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven."
Again and again Mary Fuller had read these words, and always to creep upon her knees and ask God to let her come, for she was scarcely more than a little child.
But even upon her knees the trouble of her soul grew strong. She felt as if the air around whispered—
"But you are not a little child—they have no sins of disobedience to confess—no vengeful thoughts or unkind words to atone for as you have."
And all the evil that had yet taken growth in a soul planted among evil arose before the child, to startle her from claiming the privilege of her childhood.
But though she did not know it, those very feelings were an answer to the unrevealed want that had become clamorous in her soul; it was the promise of a bright revelation yet to come; her heart was being unfolded to the sunshine, leaf by leaf, and God's angels might have smiled benignly as they watched the development of good in that little soul, amid the depressing atmosphere that surrounded it.
From the day that her poor father left home and went up to the hospital a pauper to die there, these feelings had grown stronger and stronger within the bosom of the child. His words, unheeded at the time, came back to her with power. The passages read over so often to a careless ear from his Bible, seemed to have taken music in their remembrance, that haunted her all the time.
She did not know it, but the atmosphere of prayers, unheard save in heaven, was around her. From its pauper bed at Bellevue[1] a strong earnest soul was pleading for that child, and thus God sent his angel down to trouble the waters of life within her.
As we grow good, a sense of the beautiful always awakens within us; and this became manifest in Mary Fuller. For the first time the squalid misery of her home became a subject of self-reproach, and with a thoughtful cloud upon her brow, she set herself patiently to work drawing out all the scant elements of comfort that the place afforded. Out of this grew a longing for the presence of her father, that he too might enjoy the benefit of her exertion.
Never in her life had she so yearned for a sight of that pale face. It seemed as if the trouble and darkness in her soul must turn to light when he came. With this intense desire arose a thought that he might return home without warning. The thought grew into hope, and at last strengthened into faith.
Mary Fuller not only believed that her father would come, but she felt sure he would be with her that very night. Thus she sat upon the stairs waiting.
But time wore on, and anxiety made the child restless. She began to doubt—to wonder how she could have expected her father without one word or promise to warrant the hope. That which had been faith an hour before, grew into a sharp anxiety. She folded her arms upon her knees, and burying her face upon them, began to cry.
At last she arose with her eyes full of tears, and walked sadly into the attic room where she sat down looking with sorrow on all the little preparations that she had made. She crept to the window, and clinging with both hands to the sill, lifted herself up to see, by the shadows that lay among the chimneys, and the slanting gold of the sunshine which, thank God, warms the tenement house and the palace towers alike, how fast the hours wore on.
"Oh, the sun is up yet, and the long chimney's shadow is only half way to the eves," she exclaimed, hopefully, dropping down from the window, while a flush, as of joyful tears, stole around her eyes.
"Is there anything else I can do?" and she looked eagerly around the room.
It had been neatly swept. A fire burned in the little coffee-pot stove that occupied one corner, and the hum of boiling water stole out from a tea-kettle that stood upon it.
"Everything nice and warm as toast—won't he like it—clean sheets upon the bed, and—and—oh, I forgot—it always lay back of his pillow—he mustn't miss it"; and opening a worn Bible that had seen better days, she found a passage that cheered her heart like a prophecy, and read it with solemn attention as she walked slowly across the room.
She placed the Bible reverently beneath the single pillow arranged so neatly on the bed, and turned away murmuring—
"At any rate, I will have everything ready."
She opened the drawer of a pine table and looked in. Everything was in order there, and the table itself; she employed another minute in giving its spotless surface an extra polish; then arranged a fragment of carpet before the bed, and sat down to wait again.
It would not do; her poor little heart was getting restless with impatience. She went into the open garret closing the door after her, that no heat might escape, and sat down on the upper flight of stairs again. How she longed to run down—to hang about the door-step, and even go as far as the corner to meet him! But this would be disobedience. How often had he told her never to loiter in the street or about the door? So she sat, stooping downward, and looking through the gleams of light that came through the open hall over flights of steps below, thrilled from head to foot with loving expectation. Half an hour—an hour—and there poor Mary Fuller sat, her heart sinking lower and lower with each moment. At last she arose, went back to her room with a dejected air, and sat down by the stove weary with disappointment.
An old house cat that lay by the stove looked at her gravely, closed her eyes an instant as if for reflection, and leaped into her lap. Anything—the fall of a straw would have set Mary Fuller to crying then, and she burst into a passion of tears, rocking herself back and forth and moaning out—
"He will not come—it is almost dark now—he will not come. Oh, dear, how can I wait—how can I wait!"
As she moaned thus, the cat leaped from her lap and walked into the garret, stood a moment at the head of the stairs, and came back again looking at his little mistress wistfully through the door.
Mary started up. Surely, that was his step! No! there was no firmness in it. Whoever mounted those stairs, moved with a staggering, unsteady walk, like that of a drunken person.
Mary turned very pale and hardly breathed.
"Oh, if it should be mother," she thought, casting a startled look back into the little room, "staggering, too!" and trembling with affright, she stole softly to the top of the stairs and looked down.
A gush of welcome broke from her lips. She held out her arms, descending rapidly to meet him.
"Father! oh, my blessed, blessed father!"
They came up slowly, the deathly pale man leaning partly on his stick, partly on the shoulder of the child, whose frame shivered with joy beneath his pressure, and whose eyes, beaming with affection, were uplifted to his.
"Not here, don't sit down here," she cried, resisting his impulse to rest at the head of the stairs. "I have got a fire—the room is warm—just five steps more—don't stop till then!"
He moved on, attempting to smile, though his lips were blue and his emaciated limbs shivered painfully.
"There, sit down, father: I borrowed this rocking-chair of Mrs. Ford; isn't it nice? Let me put the pillow behind your head. Are you very sick, father?"
His lips quivered out, "Yes, very!"
She stooped down and kissed his forehead, then knelt by his side and kissed his hands, also, with such reverential affection.
"Oh, father, father, how sorry I am; you will stay with us—you will stay at home now—they have let you grow worse at the hospital; but I—your own little girl—see if I don't make you well. You will not go to Bellevue again, father."
"No, I shall never go back again; the doctors can do nothing for me, but I could not die without seeing you again—that wish was stronger than death."
"Oh, father, don't."
The sick man looked down upon her with his glittering eyes, and a pathetic smile stole over his lips. An ague chill seized upon him, and ran in a shiver through his limbs; but it had no power to quench that smile of ineffable affection—that solemn, sweet smile, that said more softly than words—
"Yes, my child, your father must die here in his poverty-stricken home."
"No, no!" cried Mary, in fond affright; for the look affected her more than his words; "it is only the cold, your clothes are so thin, dear father—it is only the cold; a good warm cup of tea will drive it off. Here is the kettle, boiling hot; besides, you are hungry—ah, I thought of that; here are crackers and a dear little sponge-cake, and such nice bread and butter; of course, it's only the cold and the hunger. I always feel as if I should die the next minute, when we've gone without anything to eat a day or two; nothing is so discouraging as that."
She ran on thus, striving to cheat her own aching heart, while she cheered the sick man. As if activity would drive away her fear, she bustled about, put her tea to drawing by the stove, spread the little table, and pulled it close to her father, and strove, by a thousand sweet caressing ways, to entice him into an appetite. The sick man only glanced at the food with a weary smile; but seizing upon the warm cup of tea, drank it off eagerly, asking for more.
This was some consolation to the little nurse; and she stood by, watching him wistfully through her tears, as he drained the second cup. It checked the shivering fit somewhat, and he sat upwright a moment, casting his bright eyes around the room.
"Isn't it nice and warm?" said Mary, as he leaned back.
The sick man murmured softly—
"Yes, child, it feels like home. God bless you. But your mother—did she help to do this?"
Mary's countenance fell. She shrunk away from the glance of those bright, questioning eyes.
"Mother has not been home in five or six days," she said, gently.
The sick man turned his head and closed his eyes. Directly, Mary saw two great tears press through the quivering lashes, followed by a faint gasping for breath.
"I have prayed—I have so hoped to see her before"—
He broke off; and Mary could see, by the glow upon his face, that he was praying then.
She knelt down, reverently, and leaned her forehead upon the arm of his chair.
After a little, Fuller opened his eyes, and lifting one pale hand from his knee, laid it on his child's shoulder.
"Mary!"
She looked up and smiled. There was something so loving and holy in his face, that the child could not help smiling, even through her tears.
"Mary, listen to me while I can speak, for in a little while I shall be gone."
"Not to the hospital again—oh, not there!"
"No, Mary, not there; but look up—be strong, my child, you know what death is!"
"Oh, yes," whispered the child with a shudder.
"Hush, Mary, hush—don't shake so—I must die, very, very soon, I feel," he added, looking at his fingers and dropping them gently back to her shoulder; "I feel now that it is very nigh, this death which makes you tremble so."
Mary broke forth into a low, wailing sob.
"Hush! stop crying, Mary; look up!"
Mary lifted her eyes, filled with touching awe, and choked back the agony of her grief.
"Father, I listen."
Oh, the holy love with which those eyes looked down into hers!
"Have you read the Bible that I left behind for you?"
"Yes, father; oh, yes, morning and night."
"Then, you know that the good meet again, after death?"
"But I—I am not good. Oh, father, father, I cannot make myself good enough to see you again; you will go, and I shall be left behind—I and mother!—I and mother!"
"Have you been patient with your mother—respectful to her?" he asked, sadly.
"There—there it is. I have tried and tried, but when she strikes me, or brings those people here, or comes home with that horrible bottle under her shawl, I cannot be respectful—I get angry and long to hide away when she comes up stairs."
"Hush, my child, hush; these are wicked words!"
"I know it, father; it seems to me as if no one ever was so wicked—try ever so much, I cannot be good. I thought when you came"—
"Well, my child."
"I thought that you would tell me how, and you talk of—. Don't, father, don't; I want you so much."
"It is God who takes me," said Fuller, gently; "He will teach you how to be good."
"Oh, but it takes so long; I have asked and asked so often."
Again that beautiful smile beamed over the dying man's face.
"He will hear you—He has heard you—I felt that you had need of me, and came; see how God has answered your want in this, my child!"
"But I can do nothing alone; when you are with me, I feel strong; but if you leave me, what can I do?"
"Pray without ceasing; and in everything give thanks," said that faint gentle voice once more.
"But I have prayed till my heart seemed full of tears."
"They were sweet tears, Mary."
"No, no; my heart grew heavy with them; and—mother, how could I give thanks when she came home so—!"
"Hush, hush, Mary—it is your mother!"
"But I can't give thanks for that, when I remember how she let you suffer—how miserable everything was—how she left you to starve, day by day, spending all the money you had laid up in drink!"
"Oh, my child, my child!" cried the dying man, sweeping the tears from his eyes with one pale hand, and dropping it heavily on her shoulder.
She cowered beneath the pressure.
"It is wrong—I know it," she said, clasping her hands and dropping them heavily before her, as if weighed down by a sense of her utter unworthiness. "But oh, father, what shall I do! what shall I do!"
"Honor your mother!"
"How can I honor her, when she degrades and abuses us all!"
"God does not make you the judge of your parents, but commands you unconditionally to honor them."
Mary dropped her eyes and stooped more humble downward. She saw now why the darkness had hung so long over her prayers. Filled with unforgiving bitterness against her mother she had asked God to forgive her, scarcely deeming her fault one to be repented of. A brief struggle against the memory of bitter ill-usage and fierce wrong inflicted by her mother, and Mary drew a deep free breath. Her eyes filled, and meekly folding her hands she held them toward her father.
"What shall I do, father?"
He drew her toward him, and a look of holy faith lay upon his face.
"Listen to me, Mary; God may yet help you to save this woman, your mother and my wife; for next to God I always loved her."
"But what can I do? She hates me because I am so small and ugly. She will never let me love her, and without that what can a poor little thing like me do?"
"My child, there is no human being so weak or so humble that it is incapable of doing good, of being happy, and of making others happy also. The power of doing good does not rest so much in what we possess, as in what we are. Gentle words, kind acts are more precious than gold. These are the wealth of the poor; more precious than worldly wealth, because it is never exhausted. The more you give, the more you possess."
A strange beautiful light came into Mary's eyes, as she listened.
"Go on, father, say more."
She drew a deep breath.
"Then the good are never poor!"
"Never, my child."
"And never unhappy?"
"Never utterly miserable, as the wicked are—never without hope.[1q]"
"Oh, father, tell me more; ask God to help me—He will listen to you."
He laid his pale hands upon her head, and as a flower folds itself beneath the night shadow, Mary sunk to her knees. She clasped her little hands, and dropping them upon her father's knee, buried her face there; then the lips of that dying man parted, and the last pulses of his life glowed out in a prayer so fervent, so powerful in its faith, that the very angels of heaven must have veiled their faces as they listened to that blending of eternal faith and human sorrow.
Mary listened at first tremblingly, and with strange awe; then the burning words began to thrill her, heart and limb, and yielding to the might of a spirit which his prayer had drawn down from heaven. She also broke forth with a cry of the same holy anguish; and the voice of father and child rose and swelled together up to the throne of God.
As he prayed, the face of the sick man grew sublime in its paleness, and the death sweat rolled over it like rain, while that of the child grew strangely luminous. Gradually mouth, eyes and forehead kindled with glorious joy, and instead of that heart-rending petition that broke from her at first, her voice mellowed into soft throes and murmurs of praise.
The sick man hushed his soul and listened; his exhausted voice broke into sighs, and thus, after a little time, they both sunk into silence—the child filled with strange ecstasy—the father bowing with calm joy beneath the hand of death.
"Let me lie down. I am very, very weak," he said, attempting to rise.
Mary stood up and helped him. She had grown marvellously strong within the last hour, and her soul, better than that slight form, supported the dying man.
He lay down. She placed the pillow under his head and knelt again. It seemed as if her heart could give forth its silent gratitude to God best in that position.
He laid his hand upon her head. It was growing cold.
"And you are willing now that I should die?"
"Yes, my father, only—-," and here a human throb broke in her voice, "if I could but go with you!"
"No, my child, it is but a little time, at most. For her sake be content to wait."
"Father, I am content."
"And happy?"
"Very, very happy, father!"
The dying man closed his eyes, and a faint murmur rose to his lips.
"Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation."
His hand was still upon her head, and there it rested till the purple shadows died off into cold grey tints, and upon his still face there rose a smile pure as moonlight, luminous as waters that gush from the throne of heaven.
The same holy spirit must have touched the living and the dead, for when the little girl lifted her face, the pale, pinched features were radiant as those of an angel. She had gone close to the gate of heaven with her father, soul and body. She was bathed in the holy light that had gushed through the portals.
CHAPTER II.
THE MAYOR AND THE POLICEMAN.
When the strong man turns, with a haughty lip, On poverty, stern and grim, When he seizes the fiend with a ruthless grip, Ye need not fear for him. But when poverty comes to a little child, Freezing its bloom away— When its cheeks are thin and its eyes are wild, Give pity its gentle sway.
It was a bitter cold night—a myriad of stars hung in the sky, clear and glittering, as if burnished by the frost. The moon sent down a pale, freezing brilliancy that whitened all the ground, as if a sprinkling of snow had fallen, but there was not a flake on the earth or in the air. Little wind was abroad, but that little pierced through mufflers and overcoats, like a swarm of invisible needles, sharp and stinging. It was rather late in the evening, and in such weather few persons were tempted abroad. Those who had comfortable hearths remained at home, and even the street beggars crept within their alleys and cellars; many of them driven to seek shelter in their rags, without hope of fire or food.
But there was one man in New York city, who could neither seek rest nor shelter till a given time, however inclement the weather might be. With a thick pilot cloth overcoat buttoned to the chin, and his glittering police star catching the moonbeams as they fell upon his breast, he strode to and fro on his beat, occasionally pausing, with his eyes lifted towards the stars, to ponder over some thought in his mind, but speedily urged to motion again by the sharp tingling of his feet and hands.
A feeling and thoughtful man was this policeman; he possessed much originality of mind, which had received no small share of cultivation. He had been connected with a mercantile house till symptoms of a pulmonary disease drove him from his desk; then, by the kind aid of a politician, who had not entirely lost all human feelings in the council chamber, he was enrolled in the city police. To a mind less nobly constructed, this minor position might have been a cause of depression and annoyance, but John Chester, though not yet thirty-two, had learned to think for himself. He felt that no occupation could degrade an honorable man, and that gentlemanly habits, integrity and intelligence were certain to shine out with greater lustre when found in the humbler spheres of life.
Chester possessed both education and refinement, but having no better means of support, accepted that which Providence presented, not with grumbling condescension, but with that grateful alacrity which was a sure proof that his duties would be faithfully performed; and that, though capable of higher things, he was not one to neglect the most humble, when they became duties.
To a man like Chester, the solitude of his night watches was at times a luxury. When the great city lay slumbering around him, his mind found subjects of deep thought in itself and in surrounding things. Even on the night when we present him to the reader, the cold air, while it chilled his body, seemed only to invigorate his mind. Instead of brooding gloomily over his own position, certainly very inferior to what it had been, he had many a compassionate thought for those poorer than himself, without one envious feeling for the thousands and thousands who would have deemed his small income of ten dollars a week absolute poverty.
The ward in which he was stationed exhibited in a striking degree the two great extremes of social life. Blocks of palatial buildings loomed imposingly along the broad streets. Each dwelling, with its spacious rooms and luxurious accommodations, was occupied by a single family, sometimes of not more than two or three persons. Here plate glass, silver mounted doors, and rich traceries in bronze and iron, gave brilliant evidence of wealth; while many small gardens thrown together, rich with shrubbery and vines in their season of verdure, threw a fresh glow of nature around the rich man's dwelling. Resources of enjoyment were around him on every hand. Each passing cloud seemed to turn its silver lining upon these dwellings, as it rolled across the heavens.
You had but to turn a corner, and lo! the very earth seemed vital and teeming with human beings. Poor men and the children of poor men, disputed possession of every brick upon the sidewalks. Every hole in those dilapidated buildings swarmed with a family; every corner of the leaky garrets and damp cellars was full of poverty-stricken life. Here were no green trees, no leaf-clad vines climbing upon the walls; empty casks, old brooms, and battered wash-tubs littered the back yards, which the sweet fresh grass should have carpeted. Ash pans and tubs of kitchen offal choked up the areas. The very light, as it struggled through those dingy windows, seemed pinched and smoky.
All this contrast of poverty and wealth lay in the policeman's beat. Now he was with the rich, almost warmed by the light that came like a flood of wine through some tall window muffled in crimson damask. The smooth pavements under his feet glowed with brilliant gas-light. The next moment, and a few smoky street lamps failed to reveal the broken flagging on which he trod. Now and then the gleam of a coarse tallow candle swaling gloomily away by some sick bed, threw its murky light across his path. Still, but for the cold moonlight, Chester would have found much difficulty in making his rounds in the poor man's district. Yet here he remained longest; here his step always grew heavy and his brow thoughtful. Surrounded by suffering, shut out from his eyes only by those irregular walls, and clouded, as it were, with the slumbering sorrow around him, this dark place always cast him into painful thought. That cold night he was more than usually affected by the suffering which he knew was close to him, and only invisible to the eye.
The night before, he had entered one of those dismal houses and had taken from thence a woman who, squalid and degraded as she was, had evidently once been in the higher walks of life. As he passed her dwelling, the remembrance of this woman sent a thrill of mingled pity and disgust through his heart. The miserable destitution of her home, the glimpses of refinement that broke through her outbursts of passion, the state of revolting intoxication in which she was plunged—all arose vividly to his mind. He paused before the house with a feeling of vague interest. The night before, a scene of perfect riot greeted him as he approached the door. Now the inmates seemed numbed, silent and torpid with cold.
As Chester stood gazing on the house, he saw that the door was open, and fancied that some object was moving in the hall. It seemed at first like a lame animal creeping down the steps. As it came forth into the moonlight, Chester saw that it was a child with a singular, crouching appearance, muffled in an old red cloak that had belonged to some grown person. With a slow and painful effort the child dragged itself along the pavement, its face bent down, and stooping, as if it had some burden to conceal. The old cloak brushed Chester's garments, yet the child seemed quite unconscious of his presence, but moved on, breathing hard and shuddering with the cold, till he could hear her teeth knock together. Chester did not speak, but softly followed the child.
The Mayor of New York at that time lived within Chester's beat, and toward his dwelling the little wanderer bent her way. As she drew near the steps, the child lifted her face for the first time, and reaching forth a little wan hand, held herself up by the railing. She was not seeking that particular house, but there her strength gave way, and she clung to the cold iron, faint and trembling, with her eyes lifted wildly towards the drawing-room windows.
The plate glass was all in a blaze from a chandelier that hung within, and the genial glow fell upon that little frost-bitten face, lighting it up with intense lustre. The face was not beautiful—those features were too pale—the eyes large and hollow, while black lashes of unusual length gave them a wild depth of color that was absolutely fearful. Still there was something in the expression of those wan features indescribably touching—a look of meek suffering and of moral strength unnatural in its development. It was the face of a child, suffering, feeble, with the expression of a holy spirit breaking through, holy but tortured.
The child clung to the railing, waving to and fro, but holding on with a desperate grasp. She seemed struggling to lift herself to an upright position, but without sufficient strength. Chester advanced a step to help her, but drew back, for, without perceiving him, she was creeping feebly up the steps, with her face shrouded in darkness again. She reached the bell with difficulty, and drew the silver knob.
Scarcely had the child taken her hand from the cold metal, when the shadow of a man crossed the drawing-room window, and his measured step sounded along the oilcloth in the hall. The door was unfastened, and the Mayor himself stood in the opening. The child lifted her eyes, and saw standing before, or rather above her, a tall man with light hair turning grey, and a cast of features remarkable only for an absence of all generous expression. He fixed his cold eyes on the little wanderer with a look that chilled her worse than the frost. As he prepared to speak, she could see the corners of his mouth curve haughtily downward, and when his voice fell upon her ear, though not particularly loud, it was cold and repelling.
"Well, what are you doing here? What do you want?" said the great man, keeping his eyes immovably on the shivering child, enraged at himself for having opened the door for a miserable beggar like that.
He was in the habit of extending these little condescensions to the voters of his ward; it had a touch of republicanism in it that looked well; but from that wretched little thing what was to be gained? Still the child might have a father, and that father might be a citizen, one of the sovereign people, possessed of that inestimable privilege—a vote. So the Mayor was cautious, as usual, about exhibiting any positive traces of the ill-humor that possessed him. He had not groped and grovelled his way to the Mayoralty, without knowing how and when to exhibit the evil feelings of his heart. Those that were not evil he very prudently left to themselves, knowing that they could never obtain strength enough in his barren nature to become in the slightest degree troublesome.
Had kindly feelings still lived in his bosom, they must have been aroused by the sweet, humble voice that answered him.
"They have turned me out of doors. I am hungry, sir. I am very cold."
"Turned you out of doors! Where is your father? Can't he take care of you?"
"I have no father—he is dead."
No father, no vote! The little beggar had not the most indirect claim for sympathy or forbearance from the Mayor of New York. He could afford to be angry with her; nay, better, to seem angry also, and that was an uncommon luxury with him.
"Well, why didn't you go to the basement?"
"It was dark there—and through that window everything looked so warm—I could not help it!"
"Could not help it, indeed! Go away! I never encourage street beggars. It would be doing a wrong to the people who look up to me for an example. Go away this minute—how dare you come up to this door? You are a bad little girl, I dare say!"
"No sir—no—no, I am not bad! Please not to say that. It hurts me worse than the cold!" said the child, raising her sweet voice and clasping her little wan hands, while over her features many a wounded feeling trembled, though she gave no signs of weeping.
What a contrast there was between the heartless face of that man, and the meek, truthful look of the child! How cold and harsh seemed his voice after the troubled melody of hers!
"I tell you, there is no use in attempting to deceive me. Station houses are built on purpose for little thieves that prowl about at night!" and the cold-hearted man half closed the door, adding, "go away—go away! Some policeman will take you to a station house, though I dare be sworn you know how to find one without help."
The door was closed with these words, shutting the desolate child into the cold night again. She neither complained nor wept; but sinking on the stone, gathered her frail limbs in a heap and buried her face in the old cloak.
Chester heard the whole conversation; he saw the expression of meek despair which fell upon the child as the door closed against her, and with a swelling heart mounted the steps.
"My little girl," he said very gently, touching the crouching form with his hand, "my poor, little girl!"
The child looked up wildly, for the very benevolence of his voice frightened her, she was so unused to anything of the kind; but the instant her eyes fell upon his bosom, where the silver star glittered in the moonlight, she uttered a faint shriek.
"Oh, do not—do not take me—I am not a thief—I am not wicked!" and she shrunk back into a corner of the iron railing shuddering, and with her wild eyes bent upon him like some little wounded animal hunted down by fierce dogs.
"Don't be frightened—I will take care of you—I"—
"They took her—the policemen, I mean. Where is she? What have you done with her?"
"But I wish to be kind," said Chester, greatly distressed; she interrupted him, pointing to his star with her finger.
"Kind? see—see. I tell you I am not a thief!"
"I know, I am sure you are not," was the compassionate answer.
"Then why take me up if I am not a thief?"
"But you will perish with the cold!"
"No—no; it's not so very cold here since the gentleman went away!" cried the child in a faint voice, muffling the old cloak close around her, and trying to smile. "Only—only"—
Her voice grew fainter. She had just strength to draw up her knees, clasp the little thin hands over them, and in attempting to rock herself upon the cold stone to prove how comfortable she was, fell forward dizzy and insensible.
"Great Heavens! this is terrible," cried Chester, gathering up the child in his arms.
Agitated beyond all self-control, he gave the bell-knob a jerk that made the Mayor start from his seat with a violence that threw one of his well-trodden slippers half across the hearth-rug.
"Who is coming now?" muttered the great man, thrusting his foot into the truant slipper with a peevish jerk, for he had taken supper at the City Hall that evening, and after a temperance movement of that kind, the luxurious depth of his easy-chair was always inviting.
"Will that bell never have done? These gas-lights—I verily believe they entice beggars to the door; besides, that great Irish girl has lighted double the number I ordered," and, with a keen regard to the economy of his household, the Chief Magistrate of New York mounted a chair and turned off four of the six burners that had been lighted in the chandelier. Another sharp ring brought him to the carpet, and to the street-door again. There he found Chester with the little beggar girl in his arms, her eyes shut and her face pale as death, save where a faint violet color lay about the mouth.
"Sir, this child, you have driven her from your door—she is dying!" said Chester, passing with his burden into the hall and moving towards the drawing-room, from which the light of an anthracite fire glowed warm; and ruddily "she needs warmth. I believe in my soul she is starving!"
"Well, sir, why do you bring her here—who are you? Is there no station-house? I do not receive beggars in my drawing-room!" said the Mayor, following the policeman.
Chester, heedless of his remonstrance, strode across the carpet and laid the wretched child tenderly into the great crimson chair which "his honor" had just so reluctantly abandoned. Wheeling the chair close to the fire, he knelt on the rug and began to chafe those thin purple hands between his own.
"I could not take her anywhere else—she was dying with cold—a minute was life or death to her," said Chester, lifting his fine eyes to the sullen countenance of the Mayor, and speaking in a tone of apology.
The Mayor bent his eyes on that manly face, so warm and eloquent with benevolent feeling; then, just turned his glance over the deathly form of the child.
"You will oblige me by moving that bundle of rags from my chair!" he said.
"But she is dying!" cried the policeman, trembling all over with generous indignation; "she may be dead now!"
"Very well, this is no place for a coroner's inquest," was the terse reply.
The policeman half started up, and in his indignation almost crushed one of the little hands that he had been chafing.
"Sir, this is inhuman—it is shameful."
"Do you know where you are?—whom you are speaking to?" said the great man, growing pale about the mouth, but subduing his passion with wonderful firmness.
"Yes, I know well enough. This is your house, and you are the Mayor of New York!"
"And you—may I have the honor of knowing who it is that favors my poor dwelling, and with company like that!" said the Mayor, pointing to the child, while his upper lip contracted and the corners of his mouth drooped into a cold sneer.
"Yes, sir, you can know: I am a policeman of this ward, appointed by your predecessor—a just and good man; my name is John Chester. Taking pity on this forlorn little creature, I followed her from a house whence she had crept out into the cold, hoping to be of some use; she came up here, and rang at your door. I heard what passed between you. As a citizen, I should have been ashamed, had I unfortunately been among those who placed you in power; I must say it—your conduct to this poor starved thing, shocked me beyond utterance. I thank God that no vote of mine aided to lift you where you are."
"And so you are a policeman of this ward. Very well," said the Mayor; and the sneer upon his face died away while he began to pace the room, the soft fall of his slippers upon the carpet giving a cat-like stillness to his movements.
He felt that a man who could thus fearlessly speak out his just indignation, was not the kind of person to persecute openly. Besides, it was not in this man's nature to do anything openly. Like a mole, he burrowed out his plans under ground, and when forced to brave the daylight, always cunningly allowed some pliant tool to remove the earth that was unavoidably cast up in his passage. His genius lay in that low cunning and prudent management, with which small men of little intellect and no heart sometimes deceive the world. He had long outlived all feelings sufficiently strong to render him impetuous, and was utterly devoid of that generous self-respect which prompts a man to repel an attack fearlessly and at once. In short, he was one of those who lie still and wait, like the crafty pointer dogs that creep along the grass, hunting out game for others to shoot down for them, and devouring the spoil with a keener relish than the noble hound that makes the forest ring as he plunges upon his prey.
True to his character and his system, the Mayor paused in his walk, and, bending over the child, said coldly, but still with some appearance of feeling—
"She seems to be getting better—probably it will be nothing serious!"
Chester looked up, and a smile illuminated his face. Always willing to look on the bright side of human nature, his generous heart smote him for having perhaps judged too harshly. The little hand which he was chafing began to warm with life; this relieved him of the terrible excitement which the moment before had rendered his words, if just, more than imprudent.
"Thank you, sir, she is better," he said, with an expression of frank gratitude beaming over every feature, "I think she will live now, so we will only trouble you a few minutes longer."
"My family are in bed—and these street beggars are so little to be relied upon," observed the Mayor, evidently wishing to offer some excuse for his former harshness, without doing so directly; "but this seems a case of real distress."
Chester was subdued by this speech. More and more he regretted the excitement of his former language. He longed to make some reparation to a man who, after all, might be only prudent, not unfeeling.
"If," said he, looking at the child, whose features began to quiver in the glowing fire-light, "if I had a drop of wine now."
"Oh, we are temperance people here, you know," replied the Mayor, coldly.
"Or anything warm," persisted Chester, as the child opened her eyes with a famished look.
"You can get wine at the station-house. My girls are in bed."
"I am afraid she will have small hopes of help at the station-house. The Common Council make no provision for medical aid where the sick or starving are brought in at night. It is a great omission, sir."
"The Common Council cannot do everything," replied the Mayor, becoming impatient, but still subduing himself.
"I know sir, but its first duty is to the poor."
"Oh, yes, no one denies that;" replied the Mayor, observing with satisfaction that Chester was preparing to remove the little intruder. "You will not have a very long walk," he added. "The station-house is not more than eight or ten blocks off. She will be strong enough, I fancy, to get so far."
"Don't, don't take me there! I am not a thief!" murmured the child, and two great tears rolled over her cheek slowly, as if the fire-light had with difficulty thawed them out from her heart.
They were answered—God bless the policeman—they were answered by a whole gush of tears that sprang into his fine eyes, and sparkled there like so many diamonds.
"No," he said, taking off his overcoat, and wrapping it around the child, his hands and arms shaking with eager pity as he lifted her from the chair. "She shall go home with me for one night at least. I will say to my wife, 'Here is a little hungry thing whom God has sent you from the street.' She will be welcome, sir. I am sure she will be as welcome as if I were to carry home a casket of gold in my bosom. Will you go home with me, little girl?"
The child turned her large eyes upon him; a smile of ineffable sweetness floated over her face, and drawing a deep breath, she said:
"Oh, yes, I will go!"
"You will excuse the trouble," said Chester, turning with his burden toward the Mayor as he went out, "the case seemed so urgent!"
"Oh, it is all excused," replied his honor, bowing stiffly as he walked towards the door, "but I shall remember—never doubt that!" he muttered with a smile, in which all the inward duplicity of his nature shone out.
That instant a carriage drove up to the door, and after some bustle a lady entered, followed by a young lad, who paused a moment on the upper step and gave some orders to the coachman in a clear, cheerful voice, that seemed out of place in that house.
"Why don't you come in?" cried the lady, folding her rose-colored opera-cloak closely around her, "you fill the whole house with cold."
"In a moment—in a moment," cried the boy, breaking into a snatch of opera music as if haunted by some melody; "but pray send Tim out a glass of wine, or he will freeze on the box this Greenland night."
"Nonsense! come in!" cried the mother, entering the drawing-room and approaching the fire. Here she threw back her opera-cloak, revealing a rich brocade dress underneath, lighted up with jewels and covered as with a mist of fine lace! "he'll do well enough—come to the fire!" she continued, holding out her hands in their snowy gloves for warmth.
