University of Virginia Library

THE STEPMOTHER.

`I do n't want to see her! I do n't wish to know
her!' were the passionate exclamations of Lucius Lloyd,
when informed that his father had just arrived, accompanied
by a second wife, and that he must prepare to
receive her.

`It is very hard, master Lucius,' said Willet, a
woman who had attended him during his infancy, and
had since been retained in the family, `cruel hard, I
know; but put a good face on it at first, to please your
papa, you can do as you like by and by.'

`I will not be a hypocrite,' replied the indignant boy;
`I can never love another mamma, and I will not pretend
to do so.'

In the midst of this contest between the generous,
though perverted sensibility of the child, and the wily
suggestions of Willet, who had herself chiefly infected
his mind with the vulgar prejudice against stepmothers,
Mr Lloyd entered. Respect for his father, combined
with those habits of decorum in which he had been
educated, restrained so far the expression of his feelings,
that, when taken by the hand to be conducted to the
parlour, Lucius did not resist, and even passed civilly,
though coldly, through an introduction to his new mother.

Mr Lloyd, an Englishman by birth, had passed, at
intervals, considerable time in America. On the death
of his wife and mother, he had removed to this country;
and having long had a commercial establishment in
one of our flourishing seaports, chose in that place his
permanent residence.

Mrs Lloyd had passed the sanguine period of youth,
which hopes everything, yet is disgusted at the least
disappointment. She had long known and esteemed
her husband; and when the sentiment of friendship
ripened into love, her heart opened to receive his child.
It was not with that romantic excess of sensibility, with
which a waning belle affects to consider the children of
the wealthy widower as so many inducements to the
connexion, but with a sincere and affectionate interest;
a fixed and religious purpose to fulfil the duties she
was about to impose on herself. Every kind feeling
was confirmed, when for the first time she beheld him.
He had just completed his tenth year. His light curls,
fair complexion, and delicate features, might have subjected
his face to the reproach of effeminacy, but for
the strong expression of his dark blue eye, and a gravity
which seldom permitted his little mouth to disclose the
dimples that lay perdu in his nicely rounded cheek.
His figure was slender and graceful, and his dress
arranged with that nice attention to propriety which
marks his native country. During the absence of his
father, his mother and grandmother had been his sole
companions; a circumstance, which, while it had tended
to mature and refine his character, had rendered him
exclusive in his sympathies, and reserved in his manners,
so that to the imagination of Mrs Lloyd, who smilingly
extended her hand and would have drawn him towards
her to receive an embrace, he presented the idea of a
miniature English gentleman.

Though Lucius forbore what he deemed a dishonest
expression of cordiality, and replied to her advances by
a polite, but distant bow, he could not but acknowledge
to himself that his father's new wife was more pleasing
than he had expected to find her.

Mrs Lloyd, who, had she possessed the vanity of
conquest, might have returned a list of killed and
wounded, far exceeding that of most of the beauties of
her day, attained the mellow age of thirty without
seeing cause to surrender her liberty. Independent in
her fortune because moderate in her desires, happy in
her connexions, a favorite in the first society in her
country, and still the object of admiration, it was not
until Mr Lloyd, from an old and established friend,
became a devoted and humble suitor, that she could be
won. Her beauty, which, in its prime, was of that
description which would have satisfied the nicest critic,
combined that playfulness and sweetness, that expression
of intelligence and goodness which is more permanent
than the bloom of youth; and which is felt by all, from
the child to the sage, alike by those, who cannot define
the charm, as by those, who, better skilled in the analysis
of the emotion of beauty, can reduce it to its elements.
Lucius was conscious that as he looked on her his
revoltings became less. But for the frequently administered
insinuations of Willet, therefore, who was discerning
enough to perceive that her influence and
importance must decline as Mrs Lloyd's increased,
the little rebel would soon have laid down his arms.
To a constancy beyond his years Lucius added a
principle of honor that disdained the idea of preferring
any new friend to his long tried, faithful Willet, and he
secretly drank in the poison of her jealousy. It must,
however, be acknowledged, that she said little more
than she herself believed, and really loved the child
whose noble nature she was thus perverting.

Mrs Lloyd was too practised an observer not to perceive
that Lucius did not love her. It grieved her the
more from the reflection, that, in a character which she
found to be one of much thought and deep feeling, she

could not expect to avail herself of those capricious
impulses, which, in most children, like the springs of a
machine in the hands of the mechanician, enable the
skilful operator to play them at will. For a time she
forebore to mention her apprehensions to her husband;
but at length hoping that he could instruct her to insinuate
herself into the only heart she had ever found
impregnable, she revealed to him her difficulties.

`Be not distressed,' said he, `I know Lucius
thoroughly, and can trust him; I can perceive, even
now, that nothing but a mistaken feeling of duty sustains
his opposition; and I will own to you, without
even fearing to pain you by the declaration, that his
conduct affects me; and that I love him the better for
his tenacious regard to his mother's memory. Continue
to treat him as you have done. Do not suffer yourself
to be repelled by his coldness; do not even appear to
observe it; you may find it a work of time and labor
to produce the impression you desire, but once made it
will be indelible.'

Mrs Lloyd loved her husband too well, not to accede
to his wishes; and besides, to tell the truth, female
pride took part with generosity, and, piqued at the resistance
she had encountered, she exclaimed, `If there is
power in woman he shall yet be mine!'

After an interval allotted to the festivities of the wedding,
Lucius returned to school. Applying himself with
more than usual diligence, sorrow necessarily yielded
in some measure to occupation; and when the vacation
occurred, and he was again at home, every one remarked
his increased cheerfulness. Painful ideas however,
returned; and Mrs Lloyd soon had proof that the conquest
was not yet effected. One morning Lucius did
not appear at the breakfast table. `Let me go to him,'
said she, preventing the servant, `perhaps he is not

well!' She entered his room softly, and found him still
asleep. Unwilling rudely to awake him, she hung over
him, observing the slight changes that occasionally
crossed his features. At length he smiled, and a tear,
seemingly of joy rather than sorrow, made its way
through his long eyelash. Involuntarily she stooped to
kiss him, but awaking at her touch, he repulsed her, at
the same time exclaiming, `Is it you? I was dreaming of
my mother. Oh! I should be willing to sleep seven years
could I always dream of her!' and turning his face to the
pillow he sobbed aloud. Mrs Lloyd, as much touched by
his emotion as mortified by her own failure, retreated.

At the close of the vacation Mr and Mrs Lloyd accompanied
Lucius on his return to school. There, a
new circumstance added to the interest with which,
spite of his coldness, he had already inspired her. On
entering the schoolroom, their attention was attracted
to the names of the pupils, arranged in a conspicuous
situation, according to their respective classes and individual
merits. There were among them several boys
the seniors of Lucius; yet his name stood unaccompanied
by any other and above the rest.

`What does this mean?' asked his father.

`It means that your son,' replied the instructer, `is
not only at the head of his class, but so much so of
the whole school, that there is not one to enter into
competition with him.'

`A distinction so invidious would give me more pain
than pleasure,' observed Mr Lloyd, `were it not for the
modesty which forbore to mention it even to me.'

Lucius pressed his father's hand, and his glowing
cheek attested that his approbation was the highest reward
that he could receive. Mr Lloyd, though a merchant,
yet, rising above the consideration of mere wealth,
had cultivated and enlarged his mind by travelling and

elegant pursuits. At the same time that he was accomplished
in whatever distinguishes the gentleman, he
never failed to secure, by the intrinsic excellence of his
character, the affections of those who were first attracted
by the charm of his manners. Although success
had crowned his enterprises, the details of trade disgusted
him; and he gladly improved the studious and
retired temper of his son, to give to his life another direction.
In conformity with this design Lucius was
soon after removed to town, the better to prepare him
for the liberal course of education to which he was
destined. Willet, although her place was nearly a sinecure,
had acted in such consistency with her prejudices
against Mrs Lloyd, as to resign her post of lady of
the bed chamber, for the more arduous, but, as she conceived,
more honorable situation, of wife to the proprietor
of a little grocery. Mr Lloyd had suspected her
mischievous influence on his son, yet was unwilling to
discard, in a foreign country, a domestic who had long
and faithfully served his family. He was therefore
heartily rejoiced, when, by her voluntary abdication,
Lucius could safely be at home. The beneficial effects
of the change were soon perceived; for though Lucius,
with his characteristic fidelity, would often visit `Willet,'
as he continued to call her, her influence gradually, but
evidently, declined, while Mrs Lloyd, with untiring patience,
availed herself of all his little relentings to get
into favor. An occurrence soon enabled her to make
rapid progress. One afternoon, as she was seated by a
window in the rear of her house, she saw Lucius coming
with a hasty step and troubled air from the extremity
of the premises. There was now no Willet at hand
with an assiduity designed to prevent assistance from
all but herself, and certain from his manner that he required
it, Mrs Lloyd hastened to offer her services.

`Oh!' said he, `you cannot help me; my poor,
dear Favorite is, I fear, dying.'

This was a dog that had belonged to his grandmother,
and, from the circumstance of being born the same
week with Lucius, had been regarded with peculiar
kindness. He and Favorite had literally passed their
infancy together; had rolled over the same carpet, had
played with the same rattle, and had even sometimes
eaten from the same porringer. As the instincts of the
dog developed themselves more rapidly than the capacities
of the child, within the first year Favorite had
been advanced from the play-mate to the protector;
and had so learned to control the mischievous propensities
of the pup, that, instead of secreting his little
master's toys, he would not permit them to be touched
by any unauthorised hand, and would regularly mount
guard by his cradle while he slept—a fidelity, which,
as the rational animal in his turn got the start in the
race, and had passed that almost indefinable barrier
which separates instinct from reason, he endeavoured
to repay by laboring to make Favorite a participator
in those privileges, which to the poor brute, by the law
of his nature, were denied. Hour after hour would
Lucius try to teach Favorite to speak, to laugh, or to
learn his letters. Once even his grandmother detected
him, much to the horror of the good lady, with Favorite
in a corner, erect on his hind legs, his forepaws hanging
reverently down, and his subdued look and pendant
ears harmonizing well with the intention, dictating to
him, with the gravity of a father confessor, a prayer
which he had himself just learned. On the death of
his mistress, Favorite had been regarded as a faithful
domestic, bequeathed to the care of her family; and,
though rather a troublesome attendant on a voyage,
neither Mr Lloyd nor his son would have consented to

leave him behind. It had been remarked for a day or
two that he looked dull. It was not, however, until
Lucius, on the morning abovementioned, found him
shivering in a retired corner of the coach-house, that
he was perceived to be sick.

`My poor dog!' repeatedly exclaimed he, `what
shall I do for him? Oh! what shall I do for him?'

`Let us go and see him,' said Mrs Lloyd; `perhaps
he is not so ill as you fear.'

When arrived at the place however, she found the
poor animal apparently in great suffering. Desirous to
improve every opportunity of rendering herself important
to Lucius, and of convincing him of her sympathy
in whatever interested him, she forbore to call a servant,
assisted in arranging the straw more comfortably, and
then returned to the house to obtain advice. Having
prepared such a dose as she was assured was proper,
she was about to administer it herself, but Favorite,
with the revoltings of a petted child, closed his teeth
against it, and even uttered some angry complainings.

`Let me try,' said Lucius, gently patting him, stroking
his head, reclining his face towards him, and soothing
him with sounds of endearment. The dog by degrees
relaxed his jaws; and though with some difficulty, Lucius
at length effected his object. Delighted with his
success, he felt confident of a cure. The next morning
he was up much before his usual time and beside the
bed of Favorite, refusing to leave him even to take
breakfast. As her husband was not at home, Mrs
Lloyd quickly despatched her solitary meal, and hastened
to join him. She soon perceived that all their efforts
had been ineffectual. The dim, half open eye of the
poor animal, his swollen and protruded tongue, indicated
approaching death. Lucius, who sat bending over
and silently contemplating him, while big tears dropped

on the head and ears of his poor dumb friend, was
evidently aware that there was no longer any hope.

`He knew me,' at length sobbed he, `when I first
came; I know he did, for he tried to lick my hand;
he will never do so again; oh! my poor dog! my dear
Favorite!'

Mrs Lloyd, distressed at the growing violence of his
sorrow, endeavoured to get him away. `You can do
him no good now, my dear boy; come, then, from a
scene that is so painful to you.'

`I will never leave him,' replied he, `while he
breathes.' Yielding to a determination she feared to
oppose, she contented herself by remaining; and putting
her arm tenderly around him, she awaited the
death of the poor animal, of which she was first aware,
by Lucius' throwing himself passionately on the straw
beside him, and exclaiming, `He is dead, he is dead!
Everything, everything dies that I love!'

Much affected by the artless and deep sorrow of the
child, Mrs Lloyd could not restrain her own emotions.
Lucius, soothed by her sympathy, at length consented
to leave the spot, and found some consolation in arranging
with her the decent interment of his poor dog.

The ground attached to the house was of greater
extent than is usual in large towns, and Mrs Lloyd's
taste and ingenuity had arranged it so as to produce
the best effect. In one corner of the portion appropriated
to grass, and under an evergreen shrub, which
very opportunely served as an emblem of his master's
undying affection, she proposed that the remains of
Favorite should be deposited. This last duty performed,
she had her own reasons for inducing Lucius to pass a
few days with some friends in the country. He was no
sooner gone, than, sending for a mechanic, she engaged
him to erect a neat, tasteful little monument of her own

design, over the place of interment, and, under their
joint efforts, the tiny fabric was soon reared, and bore
on its front these lines;—

On his return, the first place that Lucius visited was
the grave of his dog, where he saw with delight the
honors rendered to his memory.

He had never, as yet, addressed Mrs Lloyd by the
appellation of mother. Naturally taciturn, and always
respectful, the omission had been unnoticed, except by
his father and herself. Upon this occasion, however,
as if taught, by that instinct which allies delicate minds,
the most appropriate requital of her kindness, he
hastened to the parlour, and, taking her hand, with a
smiling countenance, but in a tremulous voice, exclaimed,
`Oh! mamma, how very good you have been to me!'

She comprehended all he felt, all he would have said;
and, feeling herself more than rewarded by the few
words he had uttered, she affectionately pressed his
hand and turned the conversation to his visit.

From this time confidence was established between
them. He passed nearly all his leisure hours in her
society; and, relaxing from his usual gravity, would
occasionally surprise her with sallies of playfulness, of
which she had supposed him incapable. One morning,
entering her room with a face full of some gay intent,
and approaching her, `Mamma,' cried he, `hold out
your hand.'

Are you going to tell my fortune, or to chastise me,
Lucius? But there it is, do with it what you please.'

Taking her left hand, selecting the proper finger, and
placing on it a beautiful diamond ring, with which his
father had furnished him for the purpose, he gravely
pronounced—

“`With this ring I thee wed”—and now,' added he
with animation, `you are as much mine as papa's!'

Gratified and affected, Mrs Lloyd could only say,
`Yes, dear Lucius, “till death us do part!”'

Two years glided on, marked only by increase of
attachment, when a little stranger made its appearance,
who, Mrs Lloyd sometimes feared, might suggest uneasy
thoughts to Lucius; but herein she wronged him.
He was superior to that mean jealousy which ever
seeks the first place. His former repugnance to herself,
was from no distrust of his father's affection; it was
not that he apprehended he should be neglected, but
that he feared his mother would be forgotten. He
received his little sister, therefore, not as a rival, but as
a new tie between himself and Mrs Lloyd; and when,
at her particular request, he was desired to give her a
name, he replied, though not without a quivering lip,
`Frances!' It was the name of his mother; and by this
expression, so simple, yet so significant, he conveyed
everything of tenderness for her memory, confidence in
Mrs Lloyd, and fraternal affection for the infant. The
little girl, as soon as her spark of intellect appeared, distinguished
Lucius as her prime favorite. In administering
to her amusement, he would assume a new character.
Not even Harlequin could more successfully transform
himself to gratify an applauding pit, than Lucius would
pass through the diverting imitations of a cock, a cat, a
dog, or a horse, to catch a smile from the little Frances.
As she became more companionable, every solitary
pleasure was abandoned to draw her in her carriage
or to contrive for her new toys. When sick, no one

could soothe her like Lucius, and if irritated, the sound
of his voice could calm her. In short, he was the good
genius of the nursery, at whose approach all trouble
and vexation fled away.

Whether it is more interesting to record scenes of
happiness than of sorrow, we will not stop to discuss—
certain it is, that truth now requires us, in the language
of artists, to `put out some of the lights of our picture.'
Time, to our happy family, flew with untiring wing.
Rational pursuits and domestic endearments occupied
every hour; and Lucius and nearly attained his sixteenth
year, when one of those fearful revolutions in
trade, which sometimes deceive the calculations of the
most cautious and experienced, extended its effects to
his father. Far from apprehending the ruin which was
to follow, and which, but for an unforeseen event, might
have been averted, Mr Lloyd did not apprize his wife
and son of his difficulties; and devoting himself to his
affairs with an intensity which he could not endure,
anxiety and fatigue brought on a fever, by which, in a
few days, his life was terminated. There are sufferings
of our nature of which the description seems but a
mockery; of none more so, than the emotions of her,
who, after years of friendship, confidence, and love,
finds herself, while still in the very freshness and glow
of her affections, a widow—that sad and helpless being,
to whom, with all of disappointment and anguish that
grief can ever know, is added the aggravation of loneliness!
But Mrs Lloyd was a religious woman; and
from the depths of her affliction looked up to Him, who,
among the myriads of his creatures, could distinguish
and comfort her.

In the first overwhelming shock of Mr Lloyd's death,
every consideration but of his loss, was unthought of;
and it was not till some time after, when an investigation

of his affairs took place, that it appeared there were
large claims on the estate. Unused to business, and
dismayed at her situation, Mrs Lloyd knew not what to
do, or to whom to apply. She was emphatically alone;
not only deprived of him, who in any situation would
have been her chief delight on earth, but she was among
strangers. Her parents had been dead many years.
She had no brother, and her sisters were settled in a
distant part of the Union, where she had herself resided
previous to her marriage. During her short married
life, she had been too happy in her own little family to
seek much beyond it; and, satisfied with courteously
returning the civilities with which she had been greeted
on her arrival, she had scarcely more than a ceremonious
intercourse with the world without. In the midst
of her perplexities, a gentleman whom she slightly knew,
as a connexion by marriage of her husband, offered his
services. Considering it a kind interposition of Providence
in her behalf, she committed everything to his
guidance. Regarding him as entitled to advise, and
supposing that his intentions must be honest, no one
presumed to interfere; and thus, in a city where Mr
Lloyd was well known and highly esteemed, his wife
and children became the prey of a plausible villain.
A forced sale was effected, though the creditors did not
require it—when, on the contrary, almost without an
exception, they were desirous of testifying their confidence
in his integrity, by extending every favor to his
widow. Under false representations, the unprincipled
Whitby attained his object and erected his fortune on
the wreck of Mr Lloyd's. Not until nearly all was
gone, were his proceedings arrested; and, so specious
were the pretexts under which he had conducted them,
that no legal redress could be obtained. Mrs Lloyd,
who was utterly ignorant of the fraud practised on others
as well as herself, and who was made to believe that
the relinquishment of everything was necessary to the
discharge of the debts, could have submitted without a
murmur to her own privations for such a purpose; but
that the humane intentions of the creditors should tend
to their own injury, moved her deeply. Her little
fortune was not involved in the destruction of her husband's;
and, though a pittance compared with the condition
from which she had been thus suddenly hurled,
she determined to use it as much for the benefit of
Lucius as of Frances. `While I have a dollar,' thought
she, `that noble boy shall share it.'

Upon a calculation of her resources, though strongly
impelled to return to her native city, she deemed it best
to remain where she was, with the difference, however,
of exchanging her liberal establishment for a small
dwelling, the sole remnant of her husband's large possessions.
In confirmation of her own convictions came
the inclinations of Lucius, who revolted at the idea of
appearing as a dependant among strangers. The death
of his father had seemed, for a time, to stun him.
Retreating into the sanctuary of his grief, he sought no
sympathy; and, though more tender and respectful than
ever to his mother, he shrunk from all communion in
his sorrow even with her. It was when some person
remarked in his presence, that he had seen Mr Lloyd's
watch in the possession of Whitby, that he first found
utterance. Contempt at the meanness of the villany
practised upon them, the least among the feelings which
absorbed him, was the only one he could express.

The period appointed for their removal arrived; and
Lucius, anxious to sustain his mother, nerved himself
for the trial. The elegant decorations of the house had
long disappeared; but every room was consecrated by
associations dearer than all that wealth could give.

After a farewell look at every part of the spacious mansion,
the little library in which she had always received
her husband in the evening on his return from the
countinghouse, where he usually took what he called
his `Englishman's supper,' and the room in which she
had first heard the sound of her infant's voice were the
spots from which she found it most difficult to tear herself.
Again and again returning with her little girl in
her arms for a last glance, at length, with a hurried
step, as not daring to trust her resolution, she entered
the carriage which was to convey her to her new home.

`Where is Master Lucius?' asked she, as she
ascended.

`In the garden, Mistress,' replied the footman,
who, though no longer in her service, had begged to
be permitted to attend her to her dwelling, and to assist
in its arrangement; `in the garden, Mistress.'

Mrs Lloyd readily comprehended, that, amidst all
which he was obliged to surrender, the grave of poor
Favorite was not forgotten.

Finding herself at her humble residence, she was too
wise and too virtuous to sink into inaction or despondency.
Well aware that there is no situation in which
the good and the busy cannot find some consolation and
even happiness, and having a powerful incitement in
her children, she resolutely entered on the duties of her
new condition. Though reared with an affection which
required of her little more than to enjoy the blessings by
which she was surrounded, and most tenderly cherished
by her husband, she had, nevertheless, in her rectitude
and good sense, principles which could never be inert.
Dividing between herself and Dorothy, her only remaining
domestic, the cares of her little household, she
shrunk not from her own portion of the labor. From
her private funds she had purchased such of the simpler

articles of her late elegant furniture as were suited to
her present style of living, confining herself to what was
necessary, except that she could not forego the luxury
of furnishing the little chamber of Lucius with a few
of the choicest of those books which his father had so
lavishly bestowed on him.

Having not much indeed to adjust, she was soon
sufficiently settled to turn her thoughts to the destination
of Lucius. Her affection for him, if different in
kind from that which she felt for her own offspring, was
little short of it in degree. To the interest with which,
as her husband's child, she had at first regarded him,
was added the attachment, and even respect, which a
further developement of his character had induced; and
now that by his father's death he was cast for the
present on her assistance, and was in future to be the
natural protector of her child, he became still dearer.
Determined to fulfil, though at great personal sacrifices,
her husband's wishes, she was hesitating how to communicate
to him her designs, so as to avoid wounding
his feelings by the suggestion that there could be any
difference of interest between them, when he anticipated
her intentions, and announced his relinquishment of a
liberal education. The period of his entering college
was at hand. She knew how assiduously his father had
promoted his preparation for it, the satisfaction with
which he had himself contemplated it, and she well
understood how to estimate the sacrifice he was now
making—but in vain she urged him to revoke his decision;
she found him immoveable.

`I have now,' said he, `no right to this indulgence.
My obvious duty is to do that which will soonest enable
me to support myself. If I can, therefore, obtain a
situation with some respectable merchant, I will endeavour
so to imitate my father's integrity and industry

as to deserve success, and I will not fear that I shall
fail of it.'

Mrs Lloyd, having exhausted every argument which
she could present to induce him to abandon his project,
and having no right to control, was compelled to desist
from further opposition.

After some unsuccessful efforts to obtain a proper
place, they heard of a vacancy in a house of the first
respectability; and Mrs Lloyd resolved to prefer her
request in person. Mr Campbell, the junior partner,
received her with respect, but was evidently indisposed
to comply with her wishes. Attempting some awkward
excuses, he at last said; `Why, Madam, I believe it is
best to be frank with you; young Mr Lloyd, I imagine,
is not exactly fitted for our business. He is an only
son; was brought up, I am told, with pretty high
expectations; a little spoiled too, I understand—that, to
be sure, is very natural—though I am not a father I
can make allowances—out of the countinghouse I mean,
for, once behind the counter, all must conform—somewhat
sickly, too, I have heard.'

Mrs Lloyd, though hurt at the manner in which a boy
was repulsed, who, a few months before, would have
been an object of envy, was wise enough to perceive
that the objections, if real, were sufficient; and that
she had no right to exact of Mr Campbell the trouble
of an experiment. She attempted, however, to convince
him that he was under some misapprehension, but finding
that she was heard with an incredulous air, she
withdrew. When informed of her failure Lucius colored,
said little, but would by no means relinquish his determination;
and an accident, trifling in itself, shortly
effected that which he desired.

Calling, one day, at the shop of the tailor who had
been employed by his father and himself, the man, with

professional assiduity displayed his new goods and new
fashions. Lucius, having completed the business which
brought him there, civilly declined the articles presented,
and was about to leave the shop, when the man, producing
a piece of broadcloth, exclaimed, `Well, here
is something which you will soon want—if you do not
now,' added he, with a glance at his coat.

`It is very likely that I may,' replied Lucius; `but,
concealing under a smile the effort it cost him to allude
to his fallen fortunes, `you forget, Mr Brown, that I
must now consult something beside my inclination.'

The man was a respectable tradesman, and, from long
knowledge of Mr Lloyd and his son, had acquired towards
them a familiar manner, which, on this occasion,
was blended with a feeling of real kindness.

`Oh!' answered he, `if you mean that it is not
convenient to you to pay for it now, that need make
no difference between you and me. Your name, Mr
Lloyd, shall be as welcome to a place on my books now
as ever.'

`I am obliged to you,' replied Lucius, `but I am
not rich enough to be in debt. The poor should be
cash customers.'

He was again turning to the door when he heard
himself addressed with, `Keep to your paradox, young
man.' Looking round he perceived a gentleman, who,
occupied in the examination of some cloths at the
extremity of the room, he had not observed at his
entrance.

`Keep to your paradox,' he repeated, `and it will
keep you.'

Instinctively shrinking from such observations on the
part of a stranger, Lucius bowed coldly and left the shop.

The next morning he received a note, requesting him
to call on Messrs Steward and Campbell. On entering

the house he was conducted to a private room, adjoining
that in which the clerks were occupied, and found, to
his surprise, the same gentleman whom he had met the
preceding day.

`Ah!' said he, as Lucius appeared, `I am glad to see
you. After our unceremonious introduction yesterday,
we will to business at once. My partner, Mr Campbell,
declined receiving you when applied to by your mother,
and I should not reverse his decision but for our accidental
meeting. His opinion was formed on good
grounds; so I think is mine; and as I am the elder of
the two I shall claim the privilege of having my way;
so come here as soon as you please, and it shall be
your own fault if you dislike your place.'

Lucius thankfully availed himself of this permission,
and, in a few days, all preliminaries being settled, he
entered on his vocation.

Although always grave and reflecting beyond his age,
months of sorrow seemed to have conferred on him the
wisdom of years. Surrounded by the elegance, the
respectful attention and assiduous tenderness which had
hitherto marked his life, it would have exceeded the
resolution of a man, still more that of a youth, to resist
the love of ease and the gratification of taste even to
caprice, which indulgence nourishes. Lucius, although
he had never transgressed the bounds of virtue, had led
a life of luxury compared to the one which he was now
to pursue. He had reposed within silken curtains until
gently, and more than once, reminded that he would not
be in time for breakfast. The strictest attention to his
person had been required by his father, and rendered
easy to himself by a cheerful anticipation of his wants
and the most liberal allowance of means. His pleasures,
always pure, were never controlled. His love of reading,
which had been fostered in his childhood by his

mother, was rewarded and encouraged by the most
elegant contributions to his library. His taciturnity and
gravity had been subjects of regret to his father, who,
to correct what he deemed defects, required him to partake
of all his own social pleasures. This, without
rendering him presuming or flippant, had so far qualified
his natural reserve as to result in a tranquillity of manner,
at once manly and graceful. Confiding in his son's
rectitude and good sense, and in those smiles of fortune
which have deceived so many, Mr Lloyd never appeared
to apprehend that he might be subjected to a rougher
school. He forgot in the tenderness of a father, that,
without such discipline, his nice sensibilities and amiable
propensities might degenerate into what is but a more
refined description of selfishness.

Adversity, that `stern and rugged nurse,' was now
however to instruct him in her `rigid lore;' and he
evinced a docility, that, to those acquainted with his
early habits, was matter of surprise and admiration.
Never forgetting, but remembering only to refute them,
the insinuations of Mr Campbell, he was the most
assiduous of the clerks, the first and the last in the
countinghouse. It would have been difficult to recognise
in the youth, who, with a cheek purpled by the
frosts of a winter's dawn, was seen removing the ponderous
bars of the doors and windows, and then, with
the alert step of a shop-boy, sweeping the store and
kindling the fires, the same, who, a few months before,
might have been observed descending to a late breakfast;
then, surrounded by all `soft appliances,' reviewing his
lessons, taking a loitering walk, or `stretched on the
rack of a too easy chair.'

In one respect, however, the identity was preserved.
His apparel, though less costly, and not of the same
freshness as to material or fashion as formerly, exhibited

the same regard to neatness and propriety, being in
this respect even scrupulously careful, lest, with the
loss of that which is adventitious, he should also lose
what he considered as no unimportant part of the lesser
morals.

Let not the strenuous advocates of the modern doctrine
that education can do all things, conceive that we
are opposing their dogmas or have a design to subvert
their systems. It is only so far as they are dogmas and
systems contended to be of universal application, that
we oppose to them a fact within our own observation.
We bow as reverently as they to the genius of the age,
which, operating on the ductile minds of the young, has
done so much to dispel prejudice, to instil virtue, and
to increase knowledge, bringing even the high attainments
of the philosopher within the grasp of the child.
But we must still assert our belief, that there are
original qualities, which, like matter, may be made to
take new forms, but can never be annihilated. Happy
indeed is it that such is the fact! else might we look
in vain to the present and future generations for that
delightful freshness of character which is perceived in
our progenitors.

Mr Steward, pleased not to have been deceived in
the hasty opinion he had formed, distinguished Lucius
by his kindness; and Mr Campbell, after a proper time
of trial to establish the reputation of his own caution,
relinquished entirely his apprehensions. The knowledge
of the French language, then not so common an accomplishment
as now, gave Lucius an advantage; and
studiously improving every means by which he could
render himself acceptable as well as useful, he daily
increased in the good will of the whole establishment.

Grateful for relief from some portion of her anxieties,
Mrs Lloyd turned with a feeling of repose to her little

girl, her present solace, her future hope; nor was she
less a source of enjoyment to Lucius. Like him, she
was a striking resemblance of their father, a circumstance
which seemed more closely to unite them; and,
while he tenderly regarded her as all that now remained
to him of their common parent, his smile was her best
reward.

Her attachment to him was mingled, even at this
early period, with that fear which respect inspires.
In all her petty transgressions, her first petition was,
`Oh! do not tell brother!' During the week their
intercourse was limited to the time expended on a hasty
meal. When Sunday morning came, which was to
procure them his company for a whole day, the joyful
expectation, or fearful foreboding, expressed in her
countenance, was the certain indication of the testimony
given by her internal monitor. If no self-reproaches
withheld her, she would run to meet him, spring into
his lap, and twisting his curls around her slender fingers,
would beg him to tell her `stories of papa,' the frequent
theme of their discourse. But if, on the contrary, at
his entrance, she remained immoveable in her little
chair, uneasily pinching the hem of her apron, or impatiently
correcting her doll, on whom she generally
inflicted the punishment due to her own offences, he
knew all was not right within. On such occasions he
would win her to him, contrive to render herself the
informer, and, having thus obtained her confidence, and
assured of her contrition, the post of honor and happiness
was again occupied, and the Sunday stories of
brother Lucius nourished the germs of virtue which
were already expanding in her little heart.

Once, however, she successfully parried the admonition
she was conscious of deserving. The portion of
scripture which had been a part of their morning service,

was the third chapter of Genesis. Frances, though she
did not appear to listen with any great attention, had,
during the day, puzzled her mother not a little with her
polemics, and had also, by some delinquency, proved
herself a lineal descendant of the first unfortunate pair.
As she heard her brother's rap she glided behind a
cabinet which had been converted into a baby-house,
and remained snugly concealed, until Lucius's eye,
wandering round the room in quest of her, detected
her covert.

`Ah! you rogue!' said he, `are you playing bo-peep
with me?'

Spreading her little hands before her face and looking
between her fingers, she replied, with a smile which
betrayed her artifice, `I have been naughty, brother,
and I strove to hide myself like Adam and Eve.'

`Lucius,' said his mother one day, `where is your
watch? no accident has befallen it, I hope.'

He hesitated a moment, and then replied, `None,
mamma, that I am afraid to own—I have sold it.'

`How could you do so?' she exclaimed, in a reproachful
tone, `it was the gift of your father.'

`So is everything I have; but I trust he gave me
some things more valuable than any ornament, however
costly.'

`But this, to you, was more for use than ornament;
you must feel the want of it continually. What can
have induced you to part with it? You know, Lucius,
that my purse is always open to you, and if not as full
as my heart, it is just as much yours.'

`You are very kind, my dear mother. I have never
doubted your generosity; but I had an occasion for
money with which I did not think proper to burden you.
I should not mention it, even now, but to explain what
might otherwise give you uneasiness. Poor Willet has

been in great distress. Her husband is dead, and all
she had was on the point of being seized to discharge
his debts. She had been the servant of my family, was
poor, and a stranger. I do not know that I did what
was prudent, but I could not see her suffer while I had
the means of relieving her.'

`I will not diminish the satisfaction which you must
feel in an act of as much generosity as duty, by any
cold strictures on prudence; but why not let me divide
with you the pleasure and the sacrifice?'

`Because on you she had no claim whatever; while
the mistaken manner in which she evinced her fondness
for me, does not release me from my obligations; besides
which, I am more than compensated by the result. The
debts are in part paid, she is still in possession of the
shop, and-will conduct it far better than her husband,
whose mismanagement caused their embarrassments.'

The decided manner of Lucius when satisfied that he
was right, precluded all argument or entreaty. His
mother therefore suffered the subject to drop, but it sank
into her heart, and she determined, in some way, to
more than supply to him that of which he had thus
deprived himself.

By little devices of economy and self-denial, which,
subjected to the glow of woman's affection, seem, by a
sort of alchymy, to create gold, she at length amassed a
sum, sufficient as she hoped, to accomplish her design.
When she added the last mite, `There,' cried she,
`that drop has just filled my cup of joy! and now I have
a sort of secret assurance that this gift of love will be
a talisman to my boy!'

A fortunate circumstance enabled her to associate it
with a new instance of his virtuous self-denial.

Mrs Lloyd had observed that Lucius was sometimes
spiritless, not so much from the condition in which he

found himself, as from the exhaustion consequent on the
nature of his employment. Fearing the effect on such
a character, of an entire renunciation of amusement,
she urged his acceptance from her of the necessary
means to obtain occasional recreation; but he always
refused to avail himself of her liberality. Theatrical
entertainments, at that period, were comparatively rare
in our country, and, in most of the cities, a few weeks
comprehended the season of their exhibition. At such
times, every one sought a gratification, the value of
which, while it was heightened by its rarity, was for that
reason free from the apprehension of those evils attendant
on such amusements where they have obtained a
permanent establishment.

Mrs Lloyd again and again pressed Lucius to accept
a ticket, but without success. One day, however, he
said with a cheerful face, `Now, mamma, if you have
the same generous intentions as heretofore, Mr Steward
has granted me a leisure evening, and I will go to the
theatre.'

Mrs Lloyd immediately offered her purse, but, withdrawing
it a moment, said, `On one condition, however—
why have you hitherto so pertinaciously refused to gratify
me in this respect?'

`Rather than relinquish my pleasure, then, I must
comply with yours,' replied he, smiling. `The truth is,
I feared to trust myself. I have, therefore, purposely
waited for the last night of performance; and now,
however pleased, I cannot be tempted, you know, to
farther indulgence.'

After an evening of the greater enjoyment because it
was relaxation from labor, Lucius returned to discuss it
with his mother. A late hour found them still sitting
over what she called her `widow's fire.'

`Lucius, Lucius, go to bed,' she at length exclaimed,
`I shall have as much trouble as formerly to rouse you
betimes to-morrow.'

`Not so, mother; I can wake with the lark now.'

But, spite of his boasted improvement, he would have
required a jog, had there not fallen on his drowsy sense
a sound, which, mingling with his visions, caused him
to start from his pillow, almost expecting to behold the
execution of the Venetian conspirators—his dream taking
its color from the evening's occupation—whose last hour
he seemed just to have heard proclaimed.

`I could have sworn,' cried he, `that I heard the
bell of St Mark's. It sounded at my very ear,' he
continued, mechanically raising his pillow, and by so
doing disclosing a beautiful gold repeater, from which
had issued the alarm.

`My father's watch! by what wonder is it here!'

Taking it up to press it to his lips, while his eyes filled
at the associations connected with it, his attention was
caught by a paper attached to the chain, upon opening
which, he found the solution of the mystery in the
following lines;

A gush of tender, holy feeling attested how deeply
the kindness and generosity of his mother affected him.
Devoutly acknowledging that Supreme Goodness by
which he was still made to experience a parent's love, he
implored that he might be her comfort and her reward.

On his return to breakfast he met Mrs Lloyd. After
expressing to her his gratitude, `You have,' said he,
`contrived for me a most eloquent monitor; and as it
has saved me a reprimand this morning, I augur well of
its counsel for the future.'

`Dear Lucius!' replied she, `you have been so good,
so self-denied, that I am almost ashamed to lift up a
warning voice to you; but—you are human, you are
eighteen, and I am—a mother!'

Lucius had never desired many friends; not that he
was unsocial, but exclusive. His affections had expanded
with warmth and vivacity within a small circle, which
the change in his condition had induced him still more to
contract. Among his former companions was Frederick
Whitby, the son of his father's heartless relative.
Frederick was older than Lucius, but the maturity of
the latter had placed them on an equality. His good
nature, a sort of careless pleasantry, and an easy manner
which imposed neither effort nor restraint on his entertainer,
made his visits agreeable; and, although they
were as unlike as possible, the diversity seemed rather
to amuse than to repel Lucius. After the overthrow of
his fortune, in which Mr Whitby had played so base a
part, they had never met, until, one day, Frederick

entered the countinghouse, and, directing his steps to a
remote desk where Lucius was employed, he said, with
some embarrassment, but endeavouring to conceal it
under an affected ease, `Mr Lloyd—no, I will rather
say Lucius, if you will allow me—I cannot any longer
endure the interruption of our intercourse. I know that
your mother and my father have had some difficulties,
but what have we to do with that? We ought not to
forget on that account that we are old friends and
cousins. Come, let's shake hands, and agree to think
no more of what's disagreeable.'

Lucius did not reject the proffered hand. The remembrance
of former days was both sweet and painful;
and he uttered, in a gentle tone, words, which, he felt,
would sound harshly in return to Frederick's greeting.

`I entertain no resentment towards you personally,
Mr Whitby; but I cannot talk lightly of the circumstances
which have separated us, and I will not trust
myself to speak seriously of them. It is however impossible
that we should be other than strangers.'

`Now that's what I call confoundedly unreasonable,'
replied Whitby, `and if I did not like you even more
than I supposed, hang me! if I'd ever say another
word to you; but some how or another, Lucius, your
stately ways and lofty looks, always made me love you
the better, and I cannot give you up yet. Be good-natured
then, and come to see me. You need not meet
my father unless you choose. You can slip unobserved
into my room, and, when once I have you there, I
know we shall be as good friends as ever in half an
hour.'

At the bare suggestion of seeking an `unobserved'
entrance into a house, the threshold of which no consideration
would have induced him to cross, the feeling
which flowed at the sight of an old companion was chilled

at once. Coldly withdrawing himself, with the air
of one who desired no further conversation, and saying,
`You must excuse me, Sir, I am engaged,' Lucius pursued
again his occupation. Whitby bit his lips, played
with his cane, and casting a glance around to see if his
repulse had been observed, he left the house.

It had not been perceived except by Mr Steward.
He had been Mrs Lloyd's agent in negotiating with the
avaricious Whitby the redemption of the watch, and
had on that occasion seen Frederick, whom, however,
he remarked that his father dismissed from the room
before he opened his business. His air of fashion
caught Mr Steward's eye as he entered the store, and
he watched with some interest the reception which Lucius
should give him. When the interview terminated,
`Ay,' thought he, `he is true metal; he rings well to
the counter;' and, approaching him, he said,

`You have done right. I am not one of those who
would fan old feuds, but you've done right. You ought,
to be sure,' added he cautiously, `to forgive them; but
could you accept their friendship, you would deserve no
other. Besides, no blessing can rest in that house.
The old man may keep his illgotten wealth, but it will
blister his hands; and his children will fall heirs to the
curse which cleaves to it. The wise man saith, “The
treasures of wickedness profit nothing;” and, as Whitby
has been trading on that capital only, he must have
a poor head indeed, who cannot see that bankruptcy and
perdition must, sooner or later, close that concern.'

Lucius was not one of those whom `Time stands still
withal;' but, though it did not always proceed so
smoothly that by no jolt or jar its motion could be perceived,
still, the diligent hand and the willing mind gave
both ease and spirit to its movement.

The period of his clerkship had recently expired,
when the gentlemen testified their confidence in his integrity
and ability, by a proposal that he should go as
supercargo in a vessel which they were fitting out for
St Domingo. The cessation of the troubles in that
island, and the cordial invitation which the Americans,
particularly, had received from its inhabitants, induced
many to adventure in its reviving trade. Lucius, although
he saw many advantages resulting to himself from
the acceptance of such an offer, yet, aware of his importance
to his mother, referred the decision to her with
more than usual deference. Her heart fainted within
her at the thought of the dangers which appeared to
attend the enterprise in a country just emerging from
the horrors of a sanguinary revolution, and in a climate
which too faithfully avenged on European constitutions,
the wrongs of the poor Aborigines and Africans. Overcome,
however, at length, by the representations of Mr
Steward, she yielded, and Lucius prepared for his departure,
with the alacrity and fearlessness of youth.

After a prosperous voyage the beautiful island appeared,
which Columbus, in the delight and pride of
discovery, believed had revealed to him the blissful seat
of Paradise. As Lucius entered the harbor of Cape
Français, he wondered not at the illusion of the navigator.
To the east extended the magnificent plain, formerly
appropriated to the cultivation of cane; the plantations
divided only by hedges of citron and lime trees,
and equal in fertility to any spot on the earth. It was
again putting on its garments of beauty, presenting a
prospect of wealth, not, as then, to be all poured into
the lap of a master, but to be shared by him in the proportion
established by law, with the free and voluntary
laborer. Behind the city rose the eminence of Le
Morne du Cap, affording a fine relief to the city gathered

at its base, and, to the eye of the voyager, sated
with the illimitable ocean, presenting an object on which
it loved to rest. The most luxuriant vegetation burst
forth on every side, seeming to invite to the abode of
abundance, peace, and happiness. Lucius could scarcely
realize that human passions had so recently transformed
this Eden into the scene of `woe unutterable.'
As he entered the city, however, he but too plainly perceived
their traces in the mementos of the conflagration
of '93, set by the hand of the ruthless Macaya,
when the French commissioners themselves were forced
to flee from the fires their own invitations had served
to kindle. This once superb city was now but a splendid
ruin; `as if,' says a writer, `the blacks were reluctant
to rebuild the mansions of their fallen masters lest they
should create for themselves new oppressors.'

But amidst the wrecks of the late storm and the interruption
of the arts of peace, under the auspices of
the new order of things, prosperity was returning. The
government of Toussaint L'Ouverture was daily attaining
a more effective operation. Anxious to repair,
as soon as possible, the devastation and loss occasioned
by the revolutionary state in which the island had been
since 1790, he invited the return of the planters, to
whom he even restored their estates, but no property in
human flesh. The city was beginning to lift itself from
the dust. Alas! again to be enveloped in flames,
again to be the scene of guilt and suffering, again to
attest the righteous judgment of heaven, which condemned
the French, in the extremity of famine, to eat the
blood hounds they had trained to devour the negroes—
again to be deluged with blood till the streams ran red,
and the blessed air was corrupted by human putrefaction!

Lucius repaired to the Hôtel de la République, where
he found a respectable and commodious establishment;

and, although he felt strangely at beholding himself
placed at once on a level with the sang meleés by whom
he was surrounded, his revoltings were soon overcome
by the cordial politeness with which he was greeted.

The next day he entered on his business, and was
more and more surprised by the intelligence already
apparent in the emancipated islands. Coming from a
country, which, by a strange anomaly, was at once the
boast of freemen, and the prison-house of slaves, which,
though it had loudly asserted the rights of man, yet had
not relaxed its gripe on the unfortunate African, Lucius
had beheld him only in a state of subjection and debasement,
and had not rightly estimated those capacities,
which a better state of things was elsewhere developing.
Numbers of gens de couleur had received an education
in France, and this, operating, in conjunction
with the ennobling feeling of independence, on the naturally
kind temper of the negroes, spread a humanizing
influence through all classes. In addition to this, came
their instinctive love of dress and gentility, a passion,
which, however justly it may be inveighed against in its
excess, is, nevertheless, a powerful agent in the refining
process of civilization. There were, it must be admitted,
some incongruities. The exquisite finish of society
is not so soon effected as a revolution. The pillar
which is to commemorate a nation's glory is soon separated
from the quarry; but it is a work of time to give
its proportions and its polish.

Lucius, occupied with the responsibilities of his new
situation, and pleased with the novelties around him,
forgot that death could lurk amidst flowers, and fruits,
and beauty. It was after a day of great heat and considerable
fatigue, that he was constrained to admit to
himself that he was far from well. Believing that a
night's rest would restore him, he parted without apprehension

from the gentleman with whom he had been engaged
in business, and directed his course homewards.
His head ached violently, and an admonitory chill induced
him to quicken his pace. His steps soon became
unsteady, faintness came over him, and, catching hold
of a railing for support, he sunk in a few moments,
overpowered, to the ground. His last consciousness
was that of heat and weariness, pain, sickness, and
darkness, without friend or mother. Mingled with
these came dreams of strange faces, unknown voices,
consuming fever; a perpetual and fearful phantasmagoria
seemed to glide before him. When he revived he
found himself in an apartment where taste and humanity
appeared to have been emulous to contribute to his
comfort. Every refinement of decoration was combined
with the nicest attention to the feelings of an invalid,
a refreshing shade was spread over the room, a delicious
fragrance perfumed the air, and a voice in the sweetest
accents exclaimed `Dieu merci.' It was a scene of enchantment.
He put his hand to his head and tried to
think. He could remember nothing but that he had
been miserable, and he now knew only that he was
happy. Making an effort to rise that he might obtain a
more extended view of the room, he first became sensible
of his weakness, and fell powerless on the bed; at
the same moment, a female, who, till then, seemed to
have concealed herself purposely, darted forward to aid
him. He gazed at her in amazement, and it was some
minutes before he could sufficiently command himself
to beg of her an explanation.

She replied to him in good English, though with a
French accent, entreating him in the gentlest manner
not to fatigue himself by any inquiries. Finding him
importunaté, she playfully placed her fingers on her lip,
and retreated again to where his eye could not follow

her. Left, perforce, to silence, Lucius had no resource
but obedience; and resigned himself to the sweet sensations
which seemed to be breathed like a new existence
into his frame.

In a short time a slight movement was heard, and a
conversation in a suppressed voice, of which he caught
enough to know that it was French and that he was
himself the subject of it. A gentleman of a pleasing
appearance now advanced to his bed. Lucius looked
at him with that feeling of uncertainty with which we
contemplate objects when suddenly awaked from profound
repose.

`Do I dream?' exclaimed he—`I surely know that
face.'

`It is no illusion, my young friend,' replied the
stranger, `and, as I think the perplexity in which you
are, may be more injurious to you than a brief conversation,
I will tell you, in a few words, why you are here.
You may have forgotten, but Charles de Breuil never
will, the kindness and generosity received from your
father, when the horrible events in this country compelled
him to seek an asylum in the United States.'

Lucius, delighted to find himself under the roof of a
man, whom he well remembered as one of the most
unfortunate and interesting of the unhappy refugees to
whom his father's house and purse had been open,
pressed his hand in token of cordial recognition.

`You may imagine,' continued M. de Breuil, `with
what emotions I found myself in a situation to make any
return; but let me go back to that moment. I was
returning to my house in the evening, when, just as I
gained my own door, I nearly fell over a prostrate
figure. I called for lights, and beheld a stranger, and,
as I believed, an American. Could there be a stronger
claim on my benevolence! Fearing that he was wounded

we raised him, but no injury appeared. That he was
seized with the fever of the country was the next apprehension;
but this to a native is not formidable, and only
stimulated me to ascertain who he was, that he might be
conveyed to his friends. We searched for his papers;
and I soon found that Heaven had directed him to the
very man who was most bound to receive and shelter him.
What therefore in another, would have been an act of
mercy, in me became a duty. The fever, though it
did not prove to be a malignant one, was attended with
considerable delirium. It has now formed a favorable
crisis; but quiet and good nursing are still necessary.'

`Do not speak,' continued he, seeing Lucius attempting
some expression of his feelings, `do not speak;
now that I have relieved your curiosity, you will find
me an arbitrary nurse.'

`You are then my nurse?' said Lucius, casting at
the same time an inquiring glance round the room.

`My daughter has hitherto shared that office with
me; but now, that you have recovered your senses,'
replied M. de Breuil, laughing, `she will probably be
afraid of you, and consign you entirely to me. But
hush—not another word from either of us.'

His recovery was rapid; and in a short time Lucius
was well enough, as he thought, to be removed to his
lodgings. When he signified this intention, it was received
with such demonstrations of regret and dissatisfaction,
that he was compelled to relinquish it, M. de
Breuil at the same time expressing his happiness, that,
as, in consequence of some unlooked for obstructions in
the disposal of his cargo, he could not soon return, he
would therefore remain his guest longer than he had at
first dared to expect. The only escape from his custody
which he would permit, was to allow him to join the
family circle.

`Here,' said he, as he conducted him, `here is our
patient, Elise, so restive I can no longer manage him;
will you sign his discharge?'

As he spoke a young lady advanced, and gracefully
received the salutation of Lucius.

`Perhaps,' said she, `his head is not yet quite right.
I shall be very cautious how I commit myself by a
hasty opinion.'

`You will at least, Madam,' replied Lucius, `give
my case a fair examination before you remand me to
my hospital.'

He had now an opportunity of observing more accurately
the lady to whom he was introduced, than when,
like a vision, she had recently flitted around his bed.
From the commencement of his returning consciousness
he had not seen her, and he was not sorry to find confirmed
the faint recollections of that moment, which
represented her as young and handsome.

Her figure was rather above the middle height, finely
proportioned, and rounded to that precise degree of
embonpoint, in which neither want nor excess can be
remarked. Her simple white dress was confined by a
rich girdle that defined her beautiful waist, and bracelets
of the same description terminated the sleeves. A shawl
of mingled saffron and crimson enveloped her head in
a turban of a tiara form, ornamented in front with a
gem which might elsewhere have been admired, but of
which the brilliancy, in the present instance, was lost in
the rays of the finest black eyes that ever sparkled.
A mouth, arrayed in smiles, disclosed the whitest teeth
imaginable. An air of softness and kindness overspread
her countenance, and a graceful languor was perceived
in her movements—but—the truth must be told, though
Lucius was as unwilling to admit it, as we presume our
young readers will be to learn it—Elise, poor Elise! was

of the sang-meleé order—her complexion, though rich
and clear, was a thought too dark!

Lucius, though by no means such a philosopher as
to be indifferent on this subject, was too grateful and
too self-possessed to betray the momentary repugnance
this discovery excited; and after a conversation, in
which she was all kindness and frankness, and he truly
touched by the benevolent politeness with which he was
treated, they were perfectly good friends. Under other
circumstances it would indeed have required many a
weary day to have placed them on the same footing;
but the melting tones of woman's voice, giving utterance
to words of sympathy, fall so irresistibly sweet on the
susceptible nerves of a convalescent!

Another member of the family was next presented.
M. Deverin, a protégé of M. de Breuil, apparently five
or six years older than Lucius, handsome, gay, and
courteous. A short acquaintance, however, served to
show, that his politeness was the result of the obsequiousness,
which, in small minds, is the usual concomitant of
dependence. Lucius, therefore, who had secured the
good will of those who might promote his success, not
by servility, but by rendering himself useful, returned
the advances of Deverin, only so far as appeared indispensable.
This, by a sort of necessity, led him still
more to the society of Elise, and while he referred their
intercourse to causes so likely to produce it, he forgot
to take into the account that she was young, attractive,
and intelligent.

More fortunate than the woman of her country, her
fine natural powers had not been neglected. The early
death of her mother rendered her the object of more
than common tenderness, and subsequent events, distressing
in themselves, had nevertheless contributed
greatly to her advantage. The beauty and vivacity of

the little Elise had attracted the attention of a benevolent
and accomplished English lady, a resident at the
Cape; and when, in consequence of the revolution, she
was compelled to remove to Jamaica, she begged to
take her young favorite with her. M. de Breuil, uncertain
what might be his own destiny, consented. At
length, after many wanderings, returned to the enjoyment
of his estate, he had reclaimed his child, had
placed her at the head of his establishment, and, considering
the prejudices of color removed, indulged for her
expectations natural to an affectionate parent. These
expectations were confirmed by his experience of the
cultivation her rich capacities had received from her
benefactress, who, having no children, had felt for Elise
a sentiment nearly maternal, and had found, in the dispositions
and talents of her pupil, a full reward of her
generous efforts.

Elise appeared a compound of opposites. From the
influence of climate often languid and indolent, she was
yet capable of an energy of action, a dignity of sentiment
and expression by which she seemed to rise superior to
the disadvantages of her birth. Though from original
constitution gentle and confiding, yet a momentary impatience
would occasionally disturb the wonted propriety
of her deportment. Keenly susceptible of sorrow, she
could nevertheless be excited to an excess of gaiety;
and would indulge in a simple love of the ludicrous, for
which her frolic spirit would find aliment in anything.
Even the peculiarities of a race, of her affinity to which
she seemed unconscious, or proudly regardless, not unfrequently
exercised her mimetic powers. Sometimes
thrumming on the table with her flexible and taper
fingers, in imitation of the yoombay, the rustic drum of
the Jamaica slaves, she accompanied it with rude stanzas
in their uncouth but expressive phraseology. At

others, in order to represent to Lucius the festivities of
a negro Christmas, she presided over the masquerade
of Moco-Jumbo, in which Ta Imaco, an old African who
preferred dependence on M. de Breuil to the honors and
uncertain support of freedom, would submit himself to
her mirthful direction. Mounted, at the peril of his
neck, on stilts which she had mischievously ordered of
a gigantic height, he would shake his bells as merrily,
if not as gracefully, as a Morris dancer; and a liberal
reward from Elise well compensated the danger and
the exertion.

Lucius had been some weeks at Cape Française
when the expected arrival of General Toussaint, on his
return from a tour through the island, created considerable
sensation. His route had been attended by the
most flattering expressions of public respect, and the
inhabitants of that city were desirous of testifying, in
their turn, their regard for the negro chief.

A procession of all classes received him at his entrance,
conducted him to the temple erected in honor of
emancipation, where he entered amidst the acclamations
of the multitude. Lucius had mingled, at a distance, in
the crowd, but desirous of a nearer view of a man so
celebrated, repaired, for that purpose, to the Hôtel de
la République, where a splendid collation was prepared.
Here he saw him, refusing all distinctions, reject the
seat of honor, and take one which placed him on an
equality with others at the table; and more than once
observed him lean forward with an air of the kindest
attention, to persons evidently much his inferiors. His
countenance, so fearful to his enemies was mild and
courteous. His eye indicated reflection as well as
spirit; and his form, which his close dress of blue and
scarlet exhibited to advantage, was vigorous and well
proportioned.

Of this man we must not judge from the representations
of the English, who regarded him as the savage
opposer of their views; nor from those of the French,
who found in him a fidelity to the cause of his countrymen,
which, instead of obtaining the cooperation of
those professed friends of liberty, only made him the
mark of their hatred. We must take him, like every
human being, with allowances for infirmity and imperious
circumstances; and judging him by actions sufficiently
well attested, endeavour to form of him an
impartial estimate.

Reluctant to rebel, he permitted the revolt of '91
to pass without taking part in it. When no longer
allowed to remain neuter, his first care was to provide
for the flight and safety of his master, and to furnish
him resources upon which to subsist in a foreign country.
When solicited to betray the confidence of the English
general, who had committed his person to his honor, he
indignantly refused. When he had detected a plot
against himself, instead of inflicting on the conspirators
the death they expected, he caused them to be conducted
into a church, and, at that part of the service
which enjoins the forgiveness of enemies, he declared
to them their pardon. When the negroes revolted for
the purpose of fresh massacres of the whites, he spared
not his own nephew; and, finally, even the strong
yearnings of parental affection were insufficient to induce
him to betray the cause of freedom to the artful
suggestions of the French agents.

This is not the conduct of a bloodthirsty wretch as
he is reputed by some, or the cold hearted hypocrite
as he is called by others. However motives of policy
may have occasionally mingled with his forbearance
or softened his manners, we cannot refuse praise to
actions, any one of which would be deemed an extenuation

of the crimes of men, who, with moral and intellectual
advantages far exceeding his, had no part of his
provocation.

While some of these thoughts were passing through
the mind of Lucius, the repast ended, and military music
called the multitude to the parade ground, occupying a
portion of the beautiful plain of the Cape. Lucius
followed with the rest, and soon found that the etiquette
and distinction, which Toussaint appeared elsewhere to
contemn, were here an object worthy all his attention.
The most perfect subordination and the strictest regard
to rank prevailed, and the quickness, dexterity, and good
order of their movements astonished him. The review
over, Toussaint departed for his country-seat, and Lucius
was bending his course homewards when Deverin
overtook him, and, taking his arm, said; `Well, Mr
Lloyd, what think you of our negro general?'

`If you mean his appearance,' replied Lucius, `it is
certainly soldier-like and imposing; but if, as I suppose,
you refer to his character, I am a little puzzled with the
contradictory opinions expressed of it. While some
hail him as a deliverer, others seem disposed to denounce
him as a tyrant. While some assert that he has never
broken his word, others, with equal warmth, aver that
he has never kept it.'

`For my part,' rejoined Deverin, `I think it safest
to observe the peace with the powers that be, and had
no intention to touch on what might prove such dangerous
ground as the subject of his merits. Between
ourselves, however, I will venture to say, that he who
governs the multitude, like him who leads the blind, in
the words of the Spanish proverb, “Un punto ha de saber
mas que el diablo.” My inquiry though, was directed,
in all simplicity, to the impression which his appearance
made upon you—in short,' continued he, with a significant

curl of his lip, `is he not too much of a nègre for
your taste?'

`Really,' replied Lucius, `such important interests
are at stake, on the issue of the prssent state of things
among you, that I have not permitted myself to consider
it as a question of taste.'

`You have then, I see, made some progress in the
system of fraternizing; and you would not, perhaps,
object to a pretty woman for such a trifle as a few drops
of black blood?'

`I should undoubtedly regret it,' replied Lucius with
a smile, `notwithstanding the philosophy ascribed to me.'

`Oh! that is but a mild form of objection, such as I
imagine our host's fair daughter might easily overcome.
Now, seriously, do you not suppose that you might be
induced to wave so slight an inconvenience in favor of
a marriage with such a lady?'

He spoke with such an uneasy importunity of manner,
that Lucius, surprised, turned towards him, and
for the pleasure of teazing a rising feeling of rivalry,
which, for the first time, he suspected, replied drily,
`Indeed, Monsieur Deverin, I cannot so far commit
myself as to make a confidant on that subject.'

Deverin bit his lip, made an apologetic bow, and the
conversation turned on other subjects until they reached
M. de Breuil's door. As they entered the parlour, Elise
was playing on her guitar, but her hand rested on the
strings, and she looked smilingly over her shoulder at
Lucius as he approached; when, seeing that Deverin
followed, a cloud of disappointment settled on her truth-telling
face, and running her fingers impatiently over
the instrument, she again appeared absorbed in it.
Not a word was spoken; but Deverin, at no loss to
interpret the action, became moody and abstracted,
while Lucius listened with a pleased and interested air,
simply because he loved music.

A few evenings subsequently, as he was engaged in
a game of piquet with M. de Breuil, of which Elise was
watching the progress and keeping the account, he was
requested to speak in private with a person, who refused
to communicate his business to any but himself. Going
to the door, he found there a boy, who, presenting a
note, awaited in silence his answer. The paper contained
these few lines, written in a hand scarcely legible;

`If your character is not entirely changed, you will
not refuse to follow the bearer, to the relief of a distressed
countryman. The strictest secrecy is expected
from your delicacy and discretion.'

Lucius could not resist such an appeal. He returned
therefore to the parlour to apologize to M. de Breuil for
thus abruptly relinquishing his game. The consciousness
of the secrecy enjoined, gave an air of constraint
to his manner which caused a circumstance unimportant
in itself to be remarked; and Deverin, on Lucius requesting
him to supply his place, exclaimed in such a
tone as to excite farther attention, `I hope nothing has
occurred, Mr Lloyd, to give you uneasiness?' Making
some reply evidently evasive, Lucius left the room.

He followed the boy through many devious ways
until they arrived at a spacious house, amid ruin and
desolation, which might once have been the abode of
wealthier inhabitants than its present appearance indicated
it now to be. He was conducted by a private
entrance, and with an appearance of much circumspection,
to a chamber in which he distinguished by an imperfect
light, an old woman, and in an obscure corner
which the feeble lamp but partially illuminated, a bed,
pointing to which the boy said, `There is the gentleman.'

Lucius approached gently, and not without a vague
apprehension stealing over him—but every feeling was

lost in surprise and concern when he recognised in the
words, `I have not then been mistaken in you,' the voice
of Frederick Whitby! He had seen or heard but little
of this young man since their abrupt parting on the occasion
already mentioned.

`Do not be afraid of me,' said he, as Lucius started
back in astonishment, `I have no infectious disease; if
I had, I hope I should not have been so selfish as to
expose you to it. Sit down by me, and let me, as well
as I am able, tell you my story.'

The attendants at a sign withdrew, and Frederick,
whom weakness and hesitation rendered a prolix narrator,
gave an account which in substance was as follows—

His extravagance had found small toleration with an
avaricious and niggardly father. Reproach had been
succeeded by abuse, and, parting in mutual disgust, he
had determined to seek his fortune abroad. Accident
led him to St Domingo. There, as he had been trained
for merchandise, he had obtained the employment of a
clerk. A facility in adapting himself to new situations
had, for a time, enabled him to satisfy his employer;
but his propensities to pleasure again overcame him,
his master was displeased, and he was dismissed. Impelled
with an accelerated velocity to his ruin, he had
associated himself with a set of vicious young men to
whom his convivial qualities had first attracted him.
Having contracted debts without any ability to repay
them, he found, when too late, that they scrupled not to
sustain themselves by every species of fraud. He protested
again and again that he had not, himself, practised
any direct dishonesty; but it was too evident that,
hopeless of other support, he had, if not by his actual
cooperations, at least, by his tacit compliance, abetted
their villanies. At length in a quarrel, brought on in

a fit of intoxication, he had by a violent contest ruptured
a blood-vessel, and was now fast approaching the termination
of his life and his follies.

Nor was this all. There was a fearful account to be
adjusted. The miserable man with whom his rencontre
took place, had died of an injury received in the struggle.
Though Whitby averred, with every appearance
of truth, that he had no consciousness of the act and
did not believe that his hand inflicted the blow, he well
knew, that in a country where justice was administered
according to the summary proceedings of military law,
a nice discrimination of degrees in guilt was not to be
expected. Concealment, therefore, was his only refuge
until able to escape from the island; but exhausted in
strength, and utterly destitute, he saw no way of effecting
this. At length, overcoming his lingering sense of
shame, he cast himself on the compassion of his former
friend.

The heart of Lucius sickened at this accumulation
of woes—disgrace, sickness, and approaching death!
As he gazed on the once handsome, happy face of his
youthful companion, now reduced to almost the last degree
of emaciation, his cheek no longer colored but
with fever or shame, his feeble limbs nerved only by the
agony of his spirit, he doubted for a moment his identity.

`Do not look at me so, Lucius!' exclaimed the unfortunate
young man, in a tone of mingled impatience
and sadness; `Do not look at me so! I thought you
would comfort me.'

`Comfort you!' thought Lucius, but exerting himself
to speak; `and so I will to the extent of my ability,'
he replied; `tomorrow I will return with a physician,
and—'

`A physician! would you expose me to certain detection?'

Lucius, to whom it was evident that his disorder was
past the power of medicine, and who had only suggested
it as generally acceptable to the sick, replied in a soothing
tone, `Then, by the promise of reward we will secure
the best services of your attendants. There may,
too, be mitigations of your sufferings, as effectual as any
that a physician could prescribe, and whatever you wish
shall be obtained.'

`Am I then to die in the hands of these ignorant
wretches?' interrupted the poor creature, alternately
the prey of his dread of detection, and his horror of
death; and it was evident to his compassionate friend,
that amidst the stings of an accusing conscience, and
the irritability of disease, there was little left of the
once imperturbable good nature of Frederick.

But the humanity of Lucius was not of a kind to be
easily disgusted. Considering the unfortunate being as
dependent solely on his mercy, recollecting how lately
he had himself experienced the blessedness of human
sympathy, and actuated too by a noble desire to return
good to a quarter whence he had received so much evil,
he did not dwell on vice as an excuse for `withholding
himself from the good he found it in his hand to do.'
Patiently sitting by the bed, on which the miserable
Frederick tossed from side to side his attenuated limbs,
as if he would thus combat the accusing spirit within,
Lucius endeavoured by gentle assiduities, to which his
friend had been long a stranger, to sooth his feverish
impatience.

`You are very good,' at last said Frederick, `very
good indeed—too good!' added he, emphatically—`to
such a wretch! Oh! Lucius who would have thought
that I should come to this!' and wringing his hands in
the very extremity and hopelessness of his misery, he
burst into tears. They were the first he had shed; and

though Lucius could not restrain his own at the sight,
he rejoiced in the natural and salutary relief they afforded
to the intensity of his agony.

Having in some degree effected his benevolent purpose,
promising to see him as often and as secretly as
possible, and recommending him to the humanity of his
attendants, Lucius at length left him. When he returned
home the traces of a scene so painful were yet visible
on his countenance, and though his friends politely
forebore any inquiries, their looks indicated some curiosity.

At first the situation in which he was placed by the
affairs of Whitby gave Lucius no concern; but he soon
found that his private communications from him, the
mystery attending his visits to him, generally paid in
the evening, extending to a late hour, and sometimes at
the urgent importunity of the poor wretch, who hung
imploringly on the face of his only friend, occupying
nearly the whole night, subjected him to an inquisitorial
observation which was embarrassing. He fancied, too,
sometimes, that M. de Breuil looked grave; and more
than once thought that Deverin officiously attracted attention
to his movements. Scrupulous, however, in the
observance of his word passed to Whitby, proud in the
consciousness of acting rightly, though thereby subjected
to suspicion, and constitutionally reserved in whatever
related to himself, he forebore all explanations.

By degrees even the bright face of Elise seemed to
wane, or rather an expression of anxious curiosity would
cloud the wonted cordiality of her manner. She was
just leaving home on a short visit to a friend in the
country, when, as Lucius handed her into the carriage,
he thought she looked wistfully at him, as if something
more than a careless adieu were on her lips. Leaning
on the door, he waited to receive it while her countenance

exhibited an uneasy hesitation, as if doubtful of
the propriety of what she wished to say. At last,
taking refuge in an affected vivacity, she held up her
hand in a warning attitude, and, in an admonitory tone,
while her smile but ill accorded with the earnest meaning
of her eye—

`Beware!' said she, `there is Obi set for you.'

`And is it then consistent with your benevolence,'
replied he, `to withdraw your friendly skill at so critical
a moment?'

Intent on her purpose, and gaining courage as she
proceeded, she added with more seriousness—

`There is a sorcery more potent than that which
withers and consumes the body. Vice sheds her deadly
blight on the spirit; and weaves her spell in darkness
and secrecy, while truth and virtue love the light.'

`Your assertions are as incontrovertible as axioms,'
answered Lucius, laughing; `but am I to admire them
as aphorisms, or to make a personal application of
them?'

She was about to reply, but Deverin, who had observed
the short colloquy from the window, lost no time in
interrupting it; and Elise, at his approach, with a vexed
and disappointed look, ordered the coachman to proceed.

The thoughts of Lucius for a few moments dwelt on
her words, which he partly understood as a commentary
on his own conduct; and he forgave the suspicion
they implied, in consideration of the kindness which inspired
them. Her warning, however, was not of such
easy interpretation; but referring it to some causeless
solicitude, he soon dismissed it from his mind. He began,
nevertheless, to be impatient for his departure, of
which he saw no immediate prospect. The gentleman
on whom especially his business depended, entreated a
little more time, and as an earnest of a favorable completion

of the negotiation, made one payment to a considerable
amount.

This transaction took place near the close of the day.
Lucius having brought home the money, and deposited
it in a secretary, had just seated himself to write a letter
of business, when the boy who had acted as Whitby's
messenger, came with the information that he was
dying, and that if his friend would see him living, he
must come immediately. Shocked at intelligence,
which, however much expected, is always appalling,
Lucius hesitated not to go; and, securing his papers,
followed the boy.

He found Whitby evidently in the last conflict, but
still in the possession of his senses; and, though
speaking feebly, yet capable of distinct articulation.
Hitherto, the poor creature had clung to life with that
tenacity which sometimes resists sickness, shame, and
poverty; notwithstanding that Lucius, with a fidelity
which appeared almost cruel, even to himself, had solemnly
warned him of his danger. As the tide of life
receded, the love of it seemed in some degree to subside;
yet still he would talk of expected relief, and, as
he had often done, promise future amendment, when it
was but too evident that the future which he contemplated
was fast dwindling to a point.

`This room is close, Lucius,' said he; `I can scarcely
breathe; and yet my flesh is numb and cold. Oh! how
I shall enjoy the blessed air of health and liberty!'

In vain his friend endeavoured to lead his thoughts in
the gentlest manner to his real condition and its appropriate
duties. With his usual facility, he would seem
to admit the truth of whatever was said, yet would still
revert to life as if his hold could not be entirely relaxed.
Once, indeed, he said, `If I should not recover,
bear my forgiveness to my father. We have both been

in fault. Should I live, I trust we shall treat each other
better.' And again, after an interval of silence, looking
long and fixedly at his friend, he said with emphasis,
`Lucius Lloyd, the blessing of him ready to perish rests
upon you!'

Determined to remain with him until the last moment,
Lucius retained his seat by the bedside, wiped the
damps of death which gathered on his brow, moistened
from time to time his dry and husky mouth, and kindly
pressed the emaciated hand, which still faintly returned
the pressure. Thus the evening and the night passed
on, interrupted by no sounds but those which proceeded
from the bed of death, and the voice of a neighbouring
clock, which numbered, from hour to hour, the brief
space of time yet allowed to the dying man. But
though his strength was nearly spent, and the laborious
breathing, the fatal hiccough, and the glazed eye, indicated
that the mortal strife was almost over, still it
seemed to Lucius that his consciousness had not forsaken
him. Once, even, he thought he said, as he bent
to catch the feeble accents, `Pray for me!' but the
next moment was heard the last gurgling sound with
which the struggling breath escapes forever—and the
spirit was gone!

If Lucius could not contemplate the miserable wreck
of beauty, health and vivacity, but with the truest
compassion, still more deeply did he deplore the perversion
of naturally kind and amiable dispositions, and
the waste of more than ordinary capacities. Life had
seemed, in his keeping, like the toy in the hands of a
reckless child, ever to be turned from its true purpose,
and to exercise his ingenuity only in its destruction.
Extending his care to all that now remained of him,
Lucius arranged the interment; and, promising the old
woman to see the last duty performed, he left the house.

The night was far spent when he reached his home.
Exhausted by the scene he had witnessed, he slept till
a late hour the next morning, and when he entered the
breakfast room, M. de Breuil received his salutation
coldly. He attempted no apology for his absence, for,
reluctant to enter, unasked, on a full explanation, he
was glad, after a slight refreshment, to escape to his
room. He immediately directed his attention to the
occupation in which he had been interrupted the previous
day, and, having finished his letter, proceeded to
take the money from the place of deposit; but, to his
surprise and alarm, though he found the secretary locked
indeed with all safety, the treasure was gone!

Obeying his first impulse he hastened to relate his
misfortune to M. de Breuil, whose reception of the
information only increased his perplexity. With a cold
and offended air he directed M. Deverin to be summoned;
and then, followed by the young men, proceeded
to the apartment of Lucius. There was no
appearance of violence on the desk, and, from the
situation of the room, it was impossible that the robbery
should have been committed from without.

`The thief is then within,' said M. de Breuil, and,
with great formality, he proceeded to a thorough search
of the house and of every individual. Nothing was
discovered. Then, as if no longer able to command
himself, turning to Lucius, `Young man,' said he, `it
is as difficult for me to express as to restrain my feelings
at this moment. You are the son of a man to whom I
owed much—I have endeavoured to repay it, and your
own conduct, until lately, has inspired me with respect;
but when,' he continued, with increasing warmth, `you
seek to shelter your own imprudence and folly, to use
no harsher terms, under the pretext of a robbery committed
upon you within the sanctuary of my house, I

can no longer keep silence. Yet even now, your youth,
and the claims of your family, induce me to urge you
to consider what you are doing; and to beg you, while
you have not as yet irretrievably exposed yourself, to
adopt a course more manly and more safe.'

Lucius, utterly confounded, could scarcely avail himself
of the pause, which M. de Breuil was compelled
by his own vehemence to make, to ask an explanation.
At length, by implication, inuendo, and passionate
exclamations, he learned that he was believed to have
lost the money himself in vicious excesses. He had
been seen to frequent a house known to be the resort
of the vilest people, and under suspicious appearances.
His late hours, his mysterious silence, his embarrassed
manner, circumstances the most trivial, were remembered
and brought in evidence against him with the
impetuosity of a Creole and the indignation of insulted
hospitality. Lucius could only oppose to them a narration
of those facts, which the death of Whitby now left
him at liberty to reveal, requesting M. de Breuil to
accompany him instantly to the spot, to take the attestation
of the woman and boy. He assented, and with
feelings easily imagined Lucius directed him to the
house. They entered it. It was silent as the grave.
They proceeded to the chamber of the dead, which he
naturally supposed would afford a testimony that none
could gainsay or resist. No human being was to be
seen; even the lifeless body was no longer there!

Lucius, in amazement and consternation, could only
reply to the incredulous looks of M. de Breuil, by
asseverations of his truth, which he felt humbled to the
dust to be compelled to make.

After a fruitless search, `Let us,' said M. de Breuil,
`examine further into this mysterious abode, from which
even the dead escape!' and, proceeding to a distant

room which Lucius had never entered, they plainly
perceived marks of recent occupancy and of vulgar
debauch.

The confusion of Lucius at this discovery had all the
appearance of detected guilt. While the uncertain and
distracted thoughts which pressed on him at one moment
impelled him to rush from the presence of M. de Breuil
forever, the next he was deterred by the reflection that
this course was open alike to the guilty and the innocent,
and would in itself have no tendency to remove
the suspicious under which he labored. In addition to
this, fidelity to the interests of his employers demanded
of him the sacrifice of his personal resentment. The
place where the robbery was committed was most likely
to afford some clue to its detection. When, therefore,
M. de Breuil turned to leave the house, Lucius continued
to accompany him. They proceeded in silence,
each absorbed in his own reflections. The situation
of Lucius was indeed one of difficulty and embarrassment.
In a land of strangers, the friend on whom he
could chiefly rely prejudiced against him, his integrity
liable to the most injurious suspicions both there and at
home, the sensibilities of a virtuous, ingenuous youth,
to whatever could touch his fair fame, his dearest, almost
sole possession, were all alive; while his distress was
increased by the consciousness, that the tumult of his
mind, as exhibited in his flushed cheek and perplexed
countenance, might serve to confirm every suspicion
against him.

`Gracious heaven!' thought he, `by what fatality
am I, the innocent and the injured, made to appear the
guilty! What causes me to blush and to tremble as if I
were indeed a scoundrel? It seems as if the mere imputation
of such baseness had unmanned me, and that
I begin to feel myself the very wretch I am supposed.'

M. de Breuil perceived his emotion, and, naturally
compassionate, amidst all his suspicions felt some relentings
which inclined him to guide the unfortunate youth,
if possible, out of the labyrinth in which he believed
him to have involved himself. When, therefore, as
they entered the house, they encountered Deverin,
`Come hither, Etienne,' said he to him, `I have occasion
for you.'

Deverin looked as if he desired to avoid his eye and
his command, but the latter was repeated, and he was
compelled to obey. Leading the way, therefore, into
a retired room, and closing the door, `I have,' said he,
`such a reliance on your honor and delicacy, Deverin,
that, for myself, I could scarcely enjoin on your secrecy
in regard to the events of this morning; but, for the
assurance of Mr Lloyd, it is proper, that, in his presence,
you should pledge yourself to every observance necessary
to his reputation.'

Stung beyond endurance at the suggestion that his
reputation could be supposed to depend on such a contingency,
Lucius, whose conflicting emotions had served
hitherto to control each other, but who was now no
longer able to command himself, exclaimed with passionate
earnestness, `You insult me! cruelly insult me,
M. de Breuil! Why have you saved my life thus wantonly
to destroy what I value beyond ten thousand lives?
I am a stranger—you may suppose a helpless one—but
difficult as I may find it immediately to dispel the false
colors with which your absurd prejudices have invested
me, the Spirit of Truth and Justice is everywhere! and
by means apparently the most insignificant, can lead to
the detection of a villain.'

As Lucius uttered these words, Deverin, whose restless
glance at the door indicated a desire to be released
from a disagreeable conference, was about to give

M. de Breuil the promise he had required, when the
sound of a repeater was distinctly heard, and, darting
forward with the rapidity and the grasp of an eagle, the
hand of Lucius was on the collar of Deverin.

`It is the voice of Heaven!' he exclaimed, while the
wretch, detected without the possibility of escape, unresistingly
permitted him to take the watch from the
pocket in which he had concealed it, and, falling on his
knees, entreated for pardon. M. de Breuil, with his
usual impetuosity, struck the imploring Deverin to the
ground, and, seizing the hand of Lucius, `I have
wronged you! I have wronged you!' he repeated,
`Oh! how basely! forgive me! and let my vengeance
on him who has thus abused my confidence atone for
my offence.'

Lucius, escaped from the snare that had been spread
for him, was too happy not to be generous. He did
not therefore reject the proffered acknowledgments of
his repentant friend; but declared that all the satisfaction
he required, was a knowledge of the means by which he
had been thus practised against.

Deverin, trusting, by a frank avowal, to recommend
himself to mercy, made a full disclosure of his guilt.
It appeared that his propensity to gambling, though indulged
with such care and secrecy as to elude the observation
of his too confiding patrons, had long existed,
producing its usual consequences, hardness of heart,
and an abandonment of all rectitude.

With the keen scent of a beast of prey, he had not
failed to perceive, that, as Lucius must occasionally
have large sums in his possession, or at his command,
he would be a convenient victim. An infidel in the
virtue of which he felt himself incapable, he dared to
suppose that Lucius would not scruple to violate the
trust reposed in him. With this view he strove to

ingratiate himself in his favor; but, to his mortification,
discovered that he was impracticable under the ordinary
mode of operation. Afraid of committing himself so
far as to risk a discovery to M. de Breuil, he was
obliged to lay a deeper plot, which accident favored, and
to which a feeling of personal dislike also instigated
him. He had aspired to the richly portioned daughter
of his friend, nor did he feel doubtful of his consent
could he win that of Elise. Her rejection of his suit,
which occurred soon after her acquaintance with Lucius,
he had attributed, perhaps not without cause, to that
circumstance. The manner of Lucius also had led him
to believe that the prize which he had himself found so
tempting, would overcome the pride and prejudice of
the young American. To destroy his reputation, became
now, therefore, even more the object of his desire
than to obtain his money, believing, that, his influence
removed, Elise would permit a renewal of his addresses.

Although not personally known to Whitby, he was
no stranger to the practices of his associates, the pursuits
of his own companions not unfrequently preparing
for them a descent to that more abandoned class. Jealousy
quickened a mind naturally addicted to low cunning.
By watching and dogging, having traced Lucius
in his secret visits, and having secured the cooperation
of the woman and boy, he determined to turn his discovery
to his own purposes. The timidity of Whitby
rendered him the unconscious abetter, by concealing
from his friend that the place in which he received him,
was still the rendezvous of the gang; a concealment
which the size and interior arrangement of the house
favored. At the same time that Deverin insinuated
suspicion into the mind of M. de Breuil, he as artfully
contrived to divert him from the generous intention he
more than once declared, of remonstrating with his

guest. This he was the more easily induced to relinquish
from the manner of Lucius himself, repelling rather than
inviting such frankness. The gentle and imperfectly
understood admonition of Elise, therefore, was the only
obstacle which opposed itself to his designs, and this we
have seen failed of its purpose.

Perceiving that his suggestions worked as he wished,
he would perhaps have been satisfied had he failed of
that which was his primary object; but, ever on the
alert, he had discovered that the money was in the
possession of Lucius. This, together with his opportune
absence, could not be resisted. He had no difficulty
in securing the booty by means of false keys,
without leaving marks of violence. Apprized by his
coadjutors of the death of Whitby, he converted a circumstance,
at first startling, into greater security. If
Lucius was thereby released from his promise, he
triumphantly reflected that, at least, all evidence in support
of his assertions, was removed; and that `dead men
might indeed tell no tales,' he immediately concerted
the removal of the body.

Everything had gone as he wished; and the failure
of the offered proof must have ended in the entire condemnation
of Lucius. Thus argued Deverin, when, in
passing the open door of Lucius's chamber, during his
absence with M. de Breuil, he saw his watch lying on
the table, where it had been placed in the morning, and
forgotten in the confusion of subsequent occurrences.
Deverin was alone—no one had seen him enter—no
assertion of Lucius would now be believed—suspicion of
himself was impossible. Stimulated by success, and urged
on by the fatal impulse by which the villain is sometimes
forced to a step so absurd as to appear the very mockery
of the Evil Spirit himself, he laid his hand on the bait,

and was retreating from the house, when he was met by
M. de Breuil. The sequel has been already told.

The robbery being so recent, the recovery of the
money was not difficult. As for Deverin, frightened
into the nearest approach to virtue of which he was
capable, a dread of the punishment of vice, he so well
played his part, that M. de Breuil, unwilling to punish
him to the extent that he deserved, instead of casting
him off forever, banished him to a distant part of the
country, there to await a trial of his reformation.
Leaving him, therefore, with whom we have nothing
more to do, let us return to the main body of our story.
M. de Breuil, truly grieved by the injustice of which he
had been guilty, and desirous to remove every remembrance
of it from the mind of his guest, was so importunate,
that Lucius was constrained to abandon his
intention of leaving his house. The return of Elise
soon restored the complacency and vivacity which these
occurrences had disturbed; and, equally desirous to
repair the injury he had sustained, she was even more
kind and charming than ever.

At length his tedious negociation was brought to a
close, and Lucius announced to M. de Breuil that in
two days he should leave the island. He received the
intelligence with the most flattering expressions of regret,
and directed the conversation to the expectations
which his young friend had in his own country. After
ascertaining that these amounted to little more than
what might result from the confidence and regard of his
present employers, M. de Breuil, in the kindest and
most unequivocal terms, offered him his daughter's hand,
with a portion large enough to place him at once in a
situation not only of independence but affluence. This
offer was accompanied by the embarrassing intimation
that no objection need be apprehended on the part of

the lady. Poor Lucius was thunderstruck! Such were
his simplicity and directness, that it never occurred to
him that a motive of which he was himself unconscious
could be assigned to his actions; and he hardly knew
how to meet the evident misconstruction of them which
was implied in the manner of this offer. Stammering
and blushing, he at length expressed, in the least offensive
terms he could command, that it was impossible for
him to avail himself of the generous dispositions manifested
towards him. M. de Breuil colored, but, as if
afraid to trust himself with further conversation, left the
room; and Lucius, glad to avoid a meeting again on
that day, contrived to occupy it on board his vessel, in
preparations for his departure.

Here, as he paced the deck, giving occasional attention
to the arrangement of the cargo, many painful
feelings assailed him. He felt not, as some might have
done, a sensation of gratified vanity in a conquest over
the affections of a young and beautiful girl; on the
contrary, he severely rebuked himself, that, by not sufficiently
guarding his actions, he had inflicted suffering
on an innocent heart. That thoughtlessness, which to
others would have furnished their excuse, in the view
of his upright spirit was an offence.

`I am inexcusable,' he exclaimed, `not to have
foreseen this danger;' and, though he could not think
without a pang of being cast out with resentment from
the affectionate remembrance of Elise, he fervently
desired, that, even by that stern proceeding, her tranquillity
might be restored.

The next day, the last he could spend with his hospitable
friends, he sought occasions of meeting them.
Elise did not appear, but M. de Breuil had recovered
his usual courteous manner, and avoided all allusion to
the painful subject of their late interview.

The day wore away, and still Elise did not join them.

`Am I not to see Mademoiselle de Breuil?' at length
inquired Lucius; `we sail to-morrow morning.'

`My daughter has requested to see you this evening,'
replied M. de Breuil; `and, if you will walk in the
balcony, I will let her know that you await her there.'

Lucius bowed and directed his steps to the place.
It was on that side of the house which overlooked
the garden. Never was night more beautiful. The
heavens were of that clear, deep blue, which, to the
eye intently fixed on them, seems to disclose all space;
the atmosphere was of that delicious temperature and
purity in which the bare sense of existence is in itself
happiness, and the moon, arrayed in a refulgence never
seen in more northern latitudes, poured forth her beams
on the broad ocean, soothed to repose in the light of
her lovely countenance. On one side extended, almost
without limit, plantations of cane; on the other, rose in
the distance, yet distinctly perceived, majestic palmettos,
whose far spreading foliage, sustained by lofty columns,
seemed like a temple, reared by nature for her own
worship. From the garden beneath came up, as incense,
the perfume of the orange, and the odors of a
thousand flowers—and all was still, save the unquiet
spirit of man.

Lucius, as will easily be believed, was not in that
imaginative mood which drinks in ecstasy from the
external world; and he heard the light step of Elise
with a secret wish that he were amid the snows of
Siberia, rather than in that paradise of beauty, light,
and fragrance. As she entered the balcony he approached
her. The traces of disorder and weeping
were still on her countenance. Taking her hand, and
leading her to a seat, `I was unwilling,' said he,
`Mademoiselle de Breuil, to leave you without expressing

in person my farewell acknowledgments for all your
kindness, and begging that—'

`Stop,' said she, with an energy of manner that made
him start, and over which she seemed herself to have
no control, `stop! I have not sought this interview to
waste in idle courtesy the few moments I have allotted
to it. I know my father's communication to you; I
know—how it was received. With the tenderness of a
parent he felt some natural risings of resentment at the
rejection of his child; but I have extinguished them.
There are other feelings I cannot so easily quiet,'
continued she, but with a faltering voice, and for a few
moments she remained silent.

Her agitation was contagious, and in accents as
tremulous as her own, Lucius attempted to say—`I can
never cease to regret the pain I have caused you,'—
but, interrupting him with a proud yet noble air, she
exclaimed, `Do not suppose that I seek to obtain from
your compassion what I could not from your love. No!
worlds would not tempt me now to receive you as a
husband, and it is because I feel this assurance so
strong within me that I can thus speak to you; but I
must learn from your own lips, and by that honor which
you value above all things, if you have, knowingly and
deliberately, trifled with a heart that trusted you?'

She paused as if for an answer, and Lucius, in a tone
of deep seriousness, replied, `With the same solemnity
with which you have interrogated me, I can aver that
I have not.'

`Then,' said she, `I am satisfied. I can now tell
you that the wound you have inflicted does not rankle.
You have a generous soul—let it not be pained at the
remembrance of Elise. She may have been deceived
for a time, but she imputes not to you the intention to
deceive. You were happy and grateful, and for a brief

space she believed you loved her. The illusion is over;
but there remains to her the consolation of your integrity,
and one other reflection which she will not relinquish.
Think you, that amidst all her reckless gaiety, and
though she felt the stirrings of a noble spirit, a sympathy
with all that was good and great, a power of loving and
of intensely suffering for those she loved—think you, she
could long forget the poison that lurked in her veins?
She was not so simple—so ignorant that the prejudices of
society have proscribed her. These, and not you, have
injured her. You have pitied her, and but for them
might perhaps have loved her. It is not, then, original,
irremediable inferiority of nature which separates us.
Oh! no. It is,' said she, covering her animated face
with her beautiful hands, `it is only this unfortunate
complexion!'

For some moments she sat thus, while Lucius, unable
to speak, could only gaze on her in pity and admiration;
when, rising and taking his hand, `Regard me, then,'
said she, `not as a mortified and resentful woman, but
as an unhappy being, who knows, nevertheless, how to
support the destiny allotted to her'—and with a gentle
pressure of his hand she disappeared from the balcony
so quickly, that Lucius, overwhelmed, had no power to
arrest her.

When sufficiently recovered he longed to follow her,
to say how tenderly he would cherish her remembrance,
how much he prized her friendship and desired her happiness;
but, dreading further conference, her fleet steps
had carried her beyond his pursuit.

At an early hour the next morning he parted from
M. de Breuil, who, at that moment, seemed to feel only
the pain of losing him, and the vessel stood out to sea
under a clear sky and a favoring breeze. Lucius, after
contemplating the receding island with mingled emotions

of thankfulness and regret until it melted away in the
blue distance, bent his eyes and thoughts towards home
and the dear objects it contained; and to these it is
proper that we should now return.

Mrs Lloyd had not heard of her son's illness until he
was convalescent; and, though ignorant of his subsequent
difficulties, her anxiety suggested many apprehensions.
To quiet these, it was not sufficient that
some kind friend should say, `You surely can have
nothing to fear for your son. He at least is safe.'
Her experience of life, while it had enlarged her indulgence
for the young, had also increased her fears.
When she reflected on their ignorance, and that their
knowledge of good and evil was too often purchased,
like that of our first parents, at the expense of the paradise
of innocence, she trembled for them. Sustained,
however, by her habitual reliance on that care which
exceeded even her sense of its necessity, and occupied
with her daughter, the months glided by in tolerable
cheerfulness.

One evening, as Mrs Lloyd sat sewing beside her
little work-table, on which Frances leaned, with a lesson
open, indeed, before her, but discoursing on matters
entirely irrelevant, the arms of Lucius encircled them
both before any intimation of his approach had been
given. The tumultuous joy created by his safe return
had hardly subsided into a quiet assurance, when a new
circumstance called forth their gratitude, intelligence
of which was thus communicated by their friend Mr
Steward.

`My dear Madam,' said he, `you have faithfully discharged
your duty to your husband and his child; and
I have great pleasure in assuring you, of what I know
you will not regard with indifference, our entire approbation
of your son. He has more than equalled our

expectations by the good sense and patience with which
he has managed a concern much more intricate and
arduous than we supposed it would be when we committed
it to so young a man. I have also the further
gratification of informing you, that he is henceforth a
partner of our house. His character is the best capital.'

It would be superfluous to describe the satisfaction
of Mrs Lloyd. `The widow's heart did, indeed, sing
for joy.'

Lucius, thus promoted to a situation of more independence,
was enabled to realize some of the wishes he
had formed for his mother's comfort. He would even
have placed her in a more desirable residence, but,
careful of his interests, she refused.

`Delay these magnificent projects, dear Lucius, a
while,' said she; `when you think it necessary to have
a wife we will have a larger house. We need not enlarge
our casket, until we have jewels to fill it.'

The little Frances, who, though she may have been
forgotten, was not, in her own estimation at least, so
unimportant a person, daily became more interesting,
and was the light and joy of their secluded abode; but
it must be confessed that she sometimes cast a shade of
anxiety over it, by a fault, which, as it was her only
one, will perhaps find toleration. She tenderly loved
her mother, but, when she had diligently gone through
the prescribed lessons, had assisted Dorothy the cook
till she cried `Mercy!' had watered her little garden,
and, impatient of the tedious process of germination,
had taken up one day, the seeds planted the preceding,
she had nothing more to do. Her doll had long
since disgusted her by her immobility, and though she
found a substitute in a favorite kitten, yet she could not
always play ball with Mitty, or find interminable amusement
in seeing her run round after her own tail. At

such times, she would throw herself into her chair, and
despondingly exclaim, `Mother, what shall I do?'

Let not the modern young lady of seven or eight
years of age, for whose entertainment Miss Edgeworth
and other kindred minds have been caterers—let not
such contemn our poor little Frances. There were not
then, as now, inexhaustible stores of intellectual amusement;
and after reading `Robinson Crusoe' over and
over until it was a matter of indifference to her whether
the Caribees ate him and Friday or not, weeping over
`Nancy and her Canary bird,' execrating `Blue-Beard,'
longing to awake the `Sleeping Beauty' and admiring
the expeditious transportation of the `Seven-league-boots,'
as much as the friends of internal improvements,
now-a-days, do canals and rail-roads, her stock was
spent and her `occupation gone.' Her mother had
indeed tried to instruct her in the mysteries of knitting
and sewing; but her tears dropped as fast as her
stiches, and, for some reason or another, her needle had
as many dips and variations, as that of the compass.

In the listless, unoccupied moments that remained,
she had acquired a habit of playing truant, thus enlarging
her acquaintance much to the anoyance of her
mother. Finding Frances, whose obedience was not
proof against her love of society and the seductions of
popularity, incorrigible under the mild system of government,
Mrs Lloyd determined that a French boy, whom
she had recently taken into her family, should attend
Miss Frances whenever she went out. At first, Frances
was quite pleased with this arrangement, and would
look over her shoulder with great complacency at her
little footman. She soon found, however, as others
have found before her, that grandeur was accompanied
by a restraint which more than counterbalanced its advantages,
and that her wings were completely clipped.

In vain she endeavoured to elude, or to coax her guard;
in vain, for her, some well known haunt opened to the
right or to the left; Antoine, like a sign-post, pointed
immoveably straight forward. On one occasion, she
was roused to an open rupture. Mrs Lloyd was in the
habit of telling Antoine to what places Frances was
permitted to go. One morning, after having given him
her instructions, at Frances's urgent request her bounds
were enlarged, but her mother forgot to communicate
the same to the little valet de place. Out they sallied,
and Frances, having gone the rounds, which, according
to the apprehension of Antoine, comprehended the extent
of her limits, was, with a light step and happy face,
tripping off in another direction, when in an authoritative
tone he exclaimed,'

`Non, Non, Mademoiselle, en avant! en avant!'

In vain she attempted to explain. Antoine understood
no English, and, only suspecting her usual centrifugal
tendencies, shook his head and with all the vehemence
and gesture of an infant Talma, cried, `Marche!
Marche!'

Unable to command herself at this gross violation of
her rights, Frances resorted to the usual impotent expressions
of female resentment.

`I will not “marche,” I say, you naughty French
boy, I will not “marche!”'

Just at this juncture a young lady came from a shop,
and, crossing the pavement near the angry disputants,
was attracted by the scene and stopped to inquire the
cause. Antoine began in French, but the appearance
of Frances, who was not slow in telling her own story,
interested the inquirer so much, that he was unheeded.
So well, indeed, did she state her wrongs, that the lady
invited her to enter the carriage, saying she should go
where she pleased, and that afterwards she would set

her down at her own door. The delighted Frances accepted
the invitation eagerly, and Antoine, in utter ignorance
of all that had been said, saw her ascend the
steps with as much amazement, but not as much veneration,
as if a fiery chariot had descended to receive
her. He looked after her a few moments, then proceeded
homewards, shrugging his shoulders, and saying,
`Eh bien! Madame sa mère la grondera bien, de cette
démarche.'

Frances however had no such fears. Engrossed in
her new acquaintance, she forgot the object so strenuously
contended with Antoine, and directed at once to
the street in which her mother resided. When they
arrived within a few doors of the house, the coachman
was ordered to stop.

`I must beg you to alight here, my dear,' said the
lady.

Frances entreated that she would accompany her
home, with an assurance that her mother would be delighted
to see her; but her importunities were of no
avail.

`Will you not, then,' said Frances, with some embarrassment,
`will you not tell me your name and let me
come and see you, since you cannot come to my
mamma's?'

`Even this I must refuse, my sweet child; but,'
added she, hesitatingly, `if you do not wish to forget
me, you may call me “l'Inconnue.”'

Compelled to acquiesce in this arrangement, her
chagrin somewhat appeased by the attractive form of
mystery in which the adventure was enveloped, Frances
bade the stranger farewell, and hurried to communicate
the occurrence to her mother.

`Can you not describe this wonderful unknown?'
asked Mrs Lloyd.

`No,' replied Frances; `I can only say that her eye
made me think of a queen, and her mouth of an angel;
but I should know her again in any part of the wide
world.'

The idea of her incognita became now, to Frances,
the absorbing interest. She could think of nothing
else, and regularly directed her walk to that part of the
city where she hoped again to meet her. Week after
week however elapsed, and no trace of her appeared.

One afternoon that Lucius was walking with his
mother and sister, Frances, after expressing her admiration
of some shells with which a friend had just presented
her, inquired, `Do these beautiful shells come
from the West Indies to which you went some time
ago, brother?'

`The same,' replied Lucius.

`And you say there are a great many handsome
things there besides?' continued she.

`There are indeed,' answered he.

`What makes you look so grave?' asked Frances
with an inquisitive look. `It seems to me you are
always sorrowful when you talk of the West Indies.
I should not suppose that a country full of flowers and
fruits and birds and all sorts of beautiful things, could
be unpleasant to think of.'

Lucius was at this moment following with his eye a
female on the opposite side of the street, whose face,
concealed in the folds of a veil, he could not distinguish,
but whose figure awakened a train of thought which
aptly blended with the images that Frances was thus
calling up.

As the lady passed on, a little chubby boy had occupied
the walk with his kite and line, which he was
laboring to disentangle She stopped for an instant that
he might have time to remove them; then, as if fearing

to embarrass him further, stepped lightly over, and, by
so doing, disclosed the prettiest little feet that ever
sustained a flying nymph.

`I know but one woman who has such!' thought
Lucius.

At this instant Frances suddenly ceased her prattle
and sprung from his side, exclaiming, `'T is she! 't is
she! I know her veil!'

Before they could attempt to arrest her progress, she
was nearly across the street. Mrs Lloyd and Lucius,
from a natural curiosity, followed, and arrived at the
spot in the same moment that Frances triumphantly
exclaimed, `I have found you at last! I have found
you at last!'

At these words the lady, turning quickly round, disarranged
the close covering which had concealed her
face, and, like the sun bursting from a cloud, the bright
eyes of Elise de Breuil met the astonished gaze of
Lucius!

`Elise! Elise!' exclaimed Lucius, starting as if
electrified, `is it indeed you!'

With an unsuccessful effort to control her emotion,
she replied, `It is indeed my very self; but I doubt if
your ingenuity would have made the discovery, had it
not been for my little friend here.'

Frances looked from one to the other for an explanation,
but in vain. Too much occupied in his own
inquiries, Lucius could not attend to hers; and Elise,
embarrassed and distressed, found one querist more
than she could satisfy. Mrs Lloyd, the only composed
individual of the party, at length found an opportunity
to solicit an introduction to Mademoiselle de Breuil;
and, while they are proceeding to her lodgings, we will
make a retrograde movement and be in readiness to
meet them on their arrival.

Lucius had not long left St Domingo before the
promising aspect of affairs there changed. The French
despatched forces under Le Clerc and Rochambeau, to
reduce the island to its former condition. They met
however with a resistance, which, though honorable to
the cause of freedom, renewed all the horrors of the
late revolution. Toussaint himself was in a distant part
of the country, and Christophe had the command at the
Cape. In answer to a summons to surrender, he replied
in these characteristic words; `You shall not enter
Cape Town till it be reduced to ashes; nay, even in
the ruins I will renew the combat.'

This threat he fulfilled. M. de Breuil's elegant
establishment was involved in the common destruction.
Hurrying with what he could save of his personal
property, he sought refuge for himself and daughter
on board an American vessel, just at the moment to
secure his passage. It was no time for fastidious scruples,
yet Elise could not find herself destined to the
only port where Lucius resided, without an alarm to her
female pride at the inference that might be drawn from
her thus following him to his own country. In the
mortification and distress that this occasioned, she obtained
from her father a promise, that on their arrival
she might be permitted to remain in strict seclusion—a
promise he readily gave, as he trusted soon to reembark
for Europe.

Having reached their destined port, Elise rigorously
adhered to her determination, remaining almost constantly
in her own room, and, when she did venture out,
always having recourse to the protection of a carriage,
or wrapping herself up in an impervious veil. Supported
by the energy of her spirit, she sunk not under the
agitating feelings which such a situation would naturally
produce, but devoted herself with a tender assiduity to

cheer and comfort her father. Her rencontre with
Frances had nearly subverted her resolution. The attractive
manners of the child, her striking resemblance
to her brother, the simple but earnest request that she
would make herself known, almost subdued her; but,
reflecting that if she could now with propriety present
herself, she could not with safety, she determined to
persevere in a seclusion, which, if it were not happiness,
was, at least, tranquillity. Thus passed the interval
until the accidental discovery we have related.

As Elise entered their little parlour she said with
animation, `I have brought you a cordial, my father,
which will cure your head, by being applied to your
heart.'

Lucius advanced with an eager salutation, and M. de
Breuil received him into his extended arms, exclaiming,
`Ah my friend! how delighted I am to see you! I have
been nearly the victim of a punctilio. It has been more
difficult to endure this system of non-intercourse than
the loss of houses and lands.'

Turning then to Mrs Lloyd, he expressed, with all
the courtesy and vivacity of his nation, his pleasure at
again seeing her; but the transient exhilaration subsided,
and Lucius perceived, that, though he tried to be
gay, he was not happy. He observed, too, when sufficiently
composed to speculate on inanimate objects, that
their lodgings presented a painful contrast to their late
elegant abode, though there were still traces of taste
and refinement. On a table, against which Elise had
leaned her guitar, lay her drawing materials, and a half-finished
Belle de Nuit, which, shunning the garish light
of day, seemed a fit emblem of herself, blooming in the
night of poverty and obscurity. A little stand was
placed beside M. de Breuil, on which were a bonbonière,

a bottle inscribed `Vinaigré Balsamique,' a jar of flowers,
and a book in which he had been reading.

Mrs Lloyd was making similar observations, and lost
no time in urging their friends to accept every accommodation
that she could offer. This request, though
enforced by the entreaty of Lucius, was unavailing,
and they could only obtain a promise, readily given by
M. de Breuil, to cultivate with all cordiality their renewed
acquaintance.

Though M. de Breuil faithfully performed his part of
this engagement, Elise, with a true feeling of propriety,
avoided, as much as possible, an intercourse which she
foresaw could only tend to misery.

Mrs Lloyd had not been an undiscerning spectator
of the interview of Lucius and Elise. With his usual
delicacy he had preserved the strictest secrecy on the
subject of her attachment and the offer of her father.
Mrs Lloyd, however, perceived, in the unguarded moment
of their meeting, an interest of no common character,
and the idea once entertained, her observations
were too keen not to find continual confirmation. The
beauty of Elise had made scarcely less impression on her
than on Frances. As she contemplated her symmetrical
form, her dignified movement, her intellectual eye, the
witchery of her smile, the graceful contour of her face,
the expression of truth and purity which gave its highest
charm, she felt rebuked for the lurking prejudices of
which she was conscious, and could not suppress the
reflection of the Assyrians in regard to the no less
contemned Jewess; `Who would despise this people,
that have among them such women!' Early prepossessions
however prevailed, and, though she did ample
justice to the endowments of Elise, disclosed in their
further intercourse, she watched with unceasing solicitude
to avert the apprehended evil.

Lucius himself was still less at ease. The sight of
Elise had renewed a subject of most painful reflection.
It is a proverbial observation, therefore we could not,
perhaps, if we would, disprove it, that `love begets love.'
In the present instance, however, if the selfish principle
were at work, it was so secretly as not to be suspected
by Lucius himself. The last sad scene at St Domingo
had manifested that character in Elise most in unison
with his own. Her kind construction of his conduct,
her generous consideration for his feelings at such a
moment, her self-sustaining spirit, were the evidences of
moral qualities, to which his own nature responded.
When these, together with the consciousness of the
suffering he had caused, were superadded to the sentiment
previously excited by her beauty and the charm
of her society, it is not strange that he should be a prey
to `sweet and bitter fancy.' His early English education
had preserved him from the excess of those prejudices,
which, in this country particularly, attach to the
injured and unfortunate race whence Elise remotely
sprung. These feelings are easily imbibed, however,
in a society where everything tends to implant, and
nothing to counteract them; but it was not without violence
to his sense of justice that Lucius had admitted
the belief of an insuperable obstacle to such a union.

These had been the reflections of Lucius during their
separation. Elise was now presented in a view, that,
to a generous mind, was even more interesting—an
impoverished exile, dependent for protection on the precarious
life of a parent who might not long endure the
reverse to which he was subjected. Besides, if his
delicacy had revolted from the connexion when mercenary
motives might have been supposed to render him
less fastidious, he was proportionally attracted now,
when, bringing no dowry but her virtues, his conduct

could not thus be perverted. He did not seek counsel
from his mother, because, assured that no objection existed
on her part, except that by which he was himself
embarrassed, he also considered it a question involved
by circumstances which rendered him alone the responsible
and adequate judge.

In this conflict of opposing feelings, he might probably
have pursued that course which the conduct of
Elise rendered easy; but M. de Breuil, as if to indemnify
himself for his long privation would submit to no
farther restraint. Lucius could not withhold those attentions
which cheered his unfortunate friend, who,
though he manfully struggled with his calamity, could
not maintain the contest with the same success as formerly.
His beloved Elise was not then, as now, exposed
to the danger of becoming a solitary and indigent
outcast in a foreign land. His apprehensions on the
score of his finances, too, continually increased. The
failure of a house in England in possession of funds
upon which he had relied for his subsistence in that
country, had at once prevented his leaving America
and diminished his means of support.

Lucius, convinced that there must be some pecuniary
anxieties, commissioned his mother to relieve them, for
obvious reasons not choosing to do it personally. She
willingly undertook the office, but Elise, though she
received her offers gratefully, assured her that they had
no present difficulties of that kind. `Nor,' added she,
`have I any great fears for the future. If my father be
saved from the suffering of poverty, I have no solicitude
as to myself.'

This Mrs Lloyd was afterwards better able to understand,
when she accidentally discovered that Elise had
contrived to augment their little store, without her
father's knowledge, by the sale of ornamental needlework

in which she excelled, and by which she trusted
to obtain a permanent support, should other resources
fail. This virtuous effort, so quietly and delicately
made, could not but affect Mrs Lloyd. She sighed, as
she exclaimed, `What a pity such a being should be
proscribed! and that, too, for a tinge of complexion which
is disregarded in a Spaniard or an Italian!' A secret
remonstrance inquired, `And how dare I thus contemn
one, to whom our common parent has allied me by all
that I regard as most excellent in my own nature?'

The visits of Frances were the only indulgence Elise
allowed herself. The little creature would sit hours
beside her, as if spell bound, while she sung their native
songs, bent over her tambour frame, or sketched
from memory the beautiful scenes of her own lovely
land. When her tears fell, as, under her creating pencil
some well known object rose to view, Frances, drawing
still nearer, would put her arm softly around her,
and say, `Dear Mademoiselle! do not weep—it makes
me cry too, and I do not like to.'

`I once did not like to cry, either, my sweet Frances,'
replied Elise, `but now I love tears better than smiles—
except yours,' added she; `your smiles are always
welcome, for they neither hide nor mock a wounded
spirit.'

The expression of such feelings, however, was rare,
and Elise always appeared to reproach herself for them
by increased efforts at self-command, but they touched
deeply the sensitive nature of Frances. One day she
came home, and, throwing herself into a chair with a
dispirited look, she was silent a few minutes—an event
of too rare occurrence not to excite attention.

`What is the matter, my love?' said her mother; `are
you not well? or are you fatigued? How far have you

walked?' `Only to Mademoiselle de Breuil's,' replied
she, and was again silent. After some moments, in
which she seemed lost in reflection, `I would do anything,'
exclaimed she, `to make her happy. She is so
good! so sweet! Sometimes she can be lively, too,
but she is always sadder than ever afterwards.' Again
she paused—then suddenly addressing herself to Lucius,
she said, `Brother, do you know nothing that would
make her happier?'

Lucius had taken up a book till the dinner should
enter, and endeavoured by intense attention, to escape
the necessity of a reply. The stratagem was more
successful with Frances than her mother, who observed
with uneasy thoughts the kindling cheek of Lucius.

Mrs Lloyd was too skilled in the pathology of the
gentle passions, not to perceive that the disease was
making progress. Her uncertainty in regard to her
son's decision, was attended with more anxiety from the
conviction, that, whatever it might be, he would not
lightly abandon it. She dared not attempt to influence
him directly, distrusting the only argument she could
use. She even feared, that, under the excitement of
a strong interest, the very obstacle she would suggest,
might, by appealing to his compassion, induce the step
she wished to prevent. The only resource was one
which she had some time meditated, but from which she
had naturally shrunk. This was an application to Elise
herself. Improving, therefore, the first favorable opportunity
afforded by the absence of M. de Breuil, with
a heart sickened at the thought of the pain she was
compelled to give the interesting girl, she unfolded her
wishes, leaving it to the magnanimity of Elise to determine
whether she would consent to a union with a
young man under circumstances, which, though involving

no guilt, yet, in an artificial state of society, must
be injurious to him.

Elise listened in silence, while Mrs Lloyd with averted
looks, cautiously proceeded. When she had concluded
she turned for a reply.

Elise sat with her arm resting on the table, her hand
supporting her head, and her eyes firmly closed, as if
to conceal her emotion, which was nevertheless betrayed
by the convulsive movement of her face. Mrs Lloyd,
though alarmed for her success, yet, moved by her appearance,
took her hand.

`I have grieved, perhaps offended you, Miss de
Breuil,' said she; `could you know with what reluctance,
I am sure you would pardon me.'

`I might, indeed' replied Elise, at length, `I might
indeed have been spared this superfluous trial. Know,
Madam, that your wishes have been anticipated. Your
son has within a few hours received the answer you
would prescribe. Although chiefly moved to it by a
resolution not to abuse his generous attachment to his
own disadvantage, I was not insensible to what I easily
divined were your feelings. However pained, be assured
that I am incapable of cherishing resentment;
but had you better understood me, you would have
saved me from the double mortification of a rejection
from the mother as well as the son.'

`The son!' exclaimed Mrs Lloyd in astonishment.
This led to a frank communication of the circumstance
alluded to.

Mrs Lloyd was subdued and humbled. The voluntary
self-devotion of Elise, after so much suffering,
when assured that the offer of Lucius was the dictate
of that sentiment which alone could satisfy her, rose in
bright contrast to her own timid and calculating conduct.

`You shall not,' she exclaimed, while a glow of enthusiasm
suffused her face, `you shall not, noble girl!
be the sacrifice of a cruel prejudice.'

As she uttered these words, the door opened, and
Lucius entered.

`You are opportunely come,' said his mother, `to assist
me in repairing a wrong I blush to have committed.
I will no longer be accessary to the separation of two
beings formed for each other.'

Lucius was in an instant at the side of Elise, pouring
forth the language of entreaty and affection.

`Oh!' cried she, her upcast eye imploring strength
and guidance, `this is, indeed, the sorest temptation
that has yet beset me! Shall I at last descend from
that high purpose, which has sustained me—shall I degenerate
into a weak, selfish girl, willing to accept happiness,
even to the injury of him I love!'

Should any fastidious reader perchance waste his
time on our unpretending tale, we advise him here to
close the book, and imagine a termination in accordance
with his own feelings. He may, if he please, suppose
that Elise persisted in her resolution, but that,
sinking under the misery it occasioned, her life was
sacrificed to a distinction, unsanctioned either by Nature
or Religion. To another class of readers, if such we
are so fortunate as to have, we will venture to disclose
the whole truth, but in few words and a subdued tone,
well aware that we `tread untrodden ground;' and must
be careful, lest we rouse that spirit which guards, so
scrupulously, `established forms and precedents.' It
will do for those who are sure of sympathy to bring off
their heroes and heroines with flying colors; and in the
words of the old song,

They may, even, in the manner of Richardson, set
forth a whole country in coaches, liveries, and escutcheons,
to do honor to the happy pair. For us, however,
we must conduct our young people in the quiet and unobtrusive
way in which they were content to be happy,
to the reward of their distinguished attachment.

Elise, unable to resist the united entreaties of Lucius,
Mrs Lloyd, and her father, yielded; but not without a
sigh to that generous renunciation to which she had
condemned herself. In the continually developing
vigor of her character, her gentle virtues and devoted
love, Lucius found increasing cause to bless his destiny,
and for the indulgence of an honest pride that he should
have discerned and appropriated a treasure, which others
would ignorantly have contemned.

To Mrs Lloyd Elise became at once the delightful
companion and friend, the respectful and affectionate
daughter; and M. de Breuil, in the happiness of his
child, found a compensation for all his troubles.