University of Virginia Library

A NEW-YEAR'S STORY.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE BREAKFAST.

“I think we should always be cheerful on New-Year's
day,” said Mrs. Morey.

“Why on that day in particular?” inquired Mr.
Danvers.

“Indeed, I can give you no reason,” returned
Mrs. Morey. “It is one of those cases in which,
I think, feeling should predominate.”

“Perhaps you consider it ominous.”

“Perhaps I do, though your smile would proclaim
it ridiculous. But you will acknowledge
that these cheerful hopes and fancies, which we
can by our own efforts obtain, make us happier for
the day, at least.”

“It may be very well for people who have few
substantial comforts,” said Mrs. Danvers, in a very
bland tone; but there was a laughing sneer in her
eye—“Yet I confess such fanciful happiness is

not to my taste. I wish to enjoy present happiness.”

“I once heard a good man observe, that pleasure
might be in the present tense, but that happiness
was always in the future,” said Miss Lamson.

“He was an oracle, I suppose,” returned Mrs.
Danvers; “I hate oracles.”

“Well, but you would not maintain that, to those
who, for thirty-five or forty years, have constantly
moved in the round of the fashionable world, there
are any new pleasures to be found in the same circle?”
said Miss Lamson.

“No matter whether they are new, if they are
substantial pleasures,” said Mr. Danvers, replying
for his wife; who, he saw, was pale with anger. The
allusion, as she thought, to her age, had highly
offended her. She only owned to thirty-three—
(subtracting ten from Time's callendar)—and she
was horrified at the hint included in the term
“forty.”

“There are few pleasures substantial,” observed
Mr. Morey, with a sigh.

“But many, very many sources of happiness,
my dear, if we only improve the share allotted
us,” said Mrs. Morey, kindly. “Is it not a very
happy circumstance that we all meet in good health
this morning, with good appetites, and have a very
good breakfast, too; (she smiled)—but our cook,

who is a good Catholic, told me last night, that
she should do her best for the New-Year's breakfast.”

“All these are matters of course,” said Mrs.
Danvers;—“I never count a good breakfast among
my pleasures. Give me novelty. Such as we
shall enjoy to-night at the party of Mrs. A—. I
believe—(she turned towards Mrs. Morey) that
you used, formerly, to attend her parties: were
they not charming?”

“Very gay and pleasant, certainly; but I did not
enjoy so much happiness as I now do in my evenings
at home.”

“Oh, yes—domestic happiness,—you have such
fine children, no wonder you are happy.” (Louisa
Morey blushed, and the two little boys laughed
outright at this fine compliment), “but then you
have nothing new.”

“We will be happy then in the good old way,”
returned Mrs. Morey; “have a New-Year's cake,
and games, and stories. Perhaps Mr. Lassar will
join us.”

“With pleasure, madam; with all my heart”—
and Mr. Lassar's dark eye flashed with a look of
exultation, as it glanced from Mrs. Morey to Mrs.
Danvers.

Mrs. Danvers felt, she hardly knew why, greatly
offended. What should she, a rich, fashionable

lady, care about the opinion of a strange, misanthropic
man, whom nobody knew. And yet she
was angry that he seemed to rejoice at the idea of
joining Mrs. Morey's social circle.

“You can doubtless tell them some new stories,
Mr. Lassar,” said Mrs. Danvers.

“I will tell them my own,” said he.

The lady's face was red as a piony.

2. CHAPTER II.
FAMILY MATTERS.

Allow me to introduce my dramatis personæ,
severally and generally.

Mr. Morey was one of those characters, almost
peculiar to our republic, who have been every
thing by turns and nothing long, and done every
thing, and found nothing that would do.

He had been liberally educated, that is, so far as
a profuse expenditure of money in college, and a
parchment diploma when he left it, would give
him a right to the boast. He came on the stage of
the great world, in the character of a wit and an
exquisite—he soon fell in love, really, truly, worthily—so
far as the character of the lady was concerned,
and this love changed him to a poet and a
man of sentiment. He educated the young lady
he was intending to wed in the most elegant and
expensive manner. They were married, and began
life in style.

But a married man, in our country, cannot kill
time without business of some kind. Young Morey
was too rich to make business a necessary

occupation—so he declined entering any of the
learned professions; they were too laborious; but
polities was no labour—it was a short and glorious
career to immortality, and he became a politician.
In order to increase his influence, and prevent the
odium of aristocracy from attaching to him as a
merely rich man, living on the patrimony his
father had left him, Morey engaged in trade; he
furnished money, and his partner mind—at the
end of ten years the stock of both was expended.

About the same time, the political party which
Morey had assumed to lead, vanished like a shower
of shooting stars; and their light was absorbed or
lost in the rising sun of a more fortunate rival.
Morey was completely down.

But Morey had resources; he thought he had,
for he had often been told so, a great genius; he
would exercise it, he would now become a political
writer, an editor, and make his talents feared,
and his name respected. His enemies should feel
that neither the loss of office or wealth had power
to crush him.

In truth, they did not crush him; it was the
petty vexations of his craft, the small, but everpressing,
every-day cares of common life that
wore him out. He felt that he could, in the defence
of his family, have grappled with a lion; but
though they perished, he would not stand and be

stung by a host of mosquitos. So he soon abandoned
his editorship. He then tried several other
departments of business, but all in vain; and from
his last, that of clerk in the — Bank, he was released
by a severe pulmonary attack. He recovered;
but when, after a long year's confinement, he
was able to go abroad, he found his friends all
dead to him.

Mrs. Morey was just such a woman as Solomon
must have had in his mind when he said, “the
heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.”
She had been indebted to him for her education.
Her father had once been a great man on change,
but when the last change came to him, as he left no
money to his widow and children, no part of his
greatness descended to them. The eldest son went
out to India, where he was soon carried off by the
cholera; the second died at home of a fever, and
the poor mother, broken-hearted and discouraged,
soon followed him to the grave, leaving the beautiful
Isabel, a child of thirteen, to the mercy of a
heartless world.

It was in the deep weeds of mourning that the
lovely child first caught the eye of the gay Richard
Morey. She looked so fair, so pure, so like a new-made
star, just trembling through the clouds of
earth's foul atmosphere, that every soft and exalting
sentiment which female beauty and innocence

is capable of inspiring in the heart of a young man,
was kindled in that of Morey. Had the spirit of
chivalry dictated his course, it could not have been
more romantically refined. He adopted her as a
sister, placed her under the guardianship of his
aunt, provided for her every advantage of education,
and every enjoyment suited to her age, which
money could command. Till she was sixteen he
never hinted to her his partiality, or endeavoured
to gain her heart. But he had secured it long before;
and at seventeen she became his wife.

It was not for his wealth, station, education, appearance—not
for any or all of these, that Isabel
Erskine loved Richard Morey. It was his tenderness
and truth to her, his kindness that had
sustained the orphan, his generosity that had, by
affording her the means of an education, opened
in her mind and heart such rich sources of intellectual
and moral enjoyment; it was these recollections
which bound her soul to his, as it were,
absorbing her whole earthly being in his happiness,
and making the aim of her life to contribute
to the exaltation of his character.

How vividly she had enjoyed his prosperity, and
how deeply she felt his misfortunes, no language
could describe! Their reverses were never thought
of as affecting her own comforts—she would cheerfully
have

—if by that means her husband might have been
sustained in his place and fortune.

This sentiment it was which called forth the energies
of her character. She met, with cheerful
alacrity, every change of situation his decreasing
finances made necessary. She parted with her
splendid furniture without a sigh; gave up her
fashionable circle; even rejoiced when some of
these heartless beings affected to cut her, that she
was effectually freed from their intrusion, and had
her time to devote to domestic avocations, and to
the instruction of her young daughter, whom she
had taken from the expensive school where they
could no longer afford to keep her. When the
heart-corroding trouble of Mr. Morey had broken
his constitution, and brought on his long disease, it
was his affectionate wife that was, like a guardian
angel, about his bed. No fatigue seemed to depress,
no watching to weary her. Her gentle tones always
encouraged him to hope in the mercy of that
God who does not willingly afflict His children,
and to be resigned to His will. And when their
prayers were answered, and Mr. Morey went from
his sick chamber, a “sadder but a wiser man,” and
found the world all occupied, and no spot to call

his own, his devoted wife had provided him a
home.

It was her hardest trial to persuade and reconcile
him to the idea of her opening a boarding-house!
That his wife, his lovely and accomplished Isabel,
who had been the “cynosure of all eyes,” whose
grace and beauty had been the admiration of princes
and lords in the courts of Europe; that she should
be reduced to a mere housekeeper, a poor dependent
on the caprice of those who had money to pay
for their board—that such should sit at his table,
and subject her to the necessity of domestic cares
and toils—this was the bitterness of his lot!

“It is nothing, nothing, my dear Richard, in
comparison with what many of my sex have endured
for those they love,” said Mrs. Morey.
“Think of the trials and sufferings of Lady Russell!—O,
how trivial to her would have appeared
the mere exertion to obtain a living, if the life of
her husband might have been spared. And how
often, during your illness, in my prayers for your
recovery, did I feel that, if you might be spared, I
never could be otherwise than happy.”

3. CHAPTER III.
THE BOARDERS.

The first who engaged lodgings was Miss Mehitabel
Lamson, a moderately endowed and invalid
spinster. How came that class of females, called
old maids, to be vilified and held up to contempt!
The majority of those I have known have been
most worthy of praise; and Miss Lamson was an
example of goodness. She became acquainted with
the Moreys soon after their misfortunes, assisted
Mrs. Morey during the sickness of her husband,
and now came to give her countenance to their establishment.
She took the small parlour that opened
out of the dining-room, because she was too feeble
to walk up and down stairs.

The whole of the second floor was taken by Mr.
Danvers. He broke up his expensive establishment,
as his wife said, purposely, out of friendship
for Mr. Morey; he wished to encourage this effort
at independence. They offered a high price for
the suit of rooms, more than the Moreys had intended
to ask. Mr. Morey would have refused it

and them, if his gentle wife had not plead, almost
with tears, that the sacrifice might be made.

“They only come to insult us,” said Mr. Morey,
speaking through his set teeth. “There has been
a time when Danvers would have thought himself
honoured for life by the privilege of sitting at my
table—and now he talks of encouraging me!”

Mr. Morey wronged him. Danvers had no wish
either to insult or encourage the fallen man. The
plan of the boarding was entirely managed by Mrs.
Danvers. She had in her youth cherished a feeling
of love, or admiration rather, for the dashing Richard
Morey,—she had manœuvred to gain his attention,
and hoped to win him, when the fair orphan
destroyed all her plans. Mrs. Danvers had hated
Isabel Erskine—she had envied Mrs. Morey, and
now the opportunity of exultation over her fallen
rival promised her most exquisite gratification.

The third floor was, at first, occupied by two
young gentlemen, friends of the Danvers';—one
soon after sailed for Europe, and the very day of
his departure, Mr. Lassar presented himself. He
was a stranger, but of what country he did not say.
He brought a letter of recommendation from the
Portuguese consul at Washington, and he had a
Portuguese servant; these appearances seemed to
warrant him of that country. Then his appearance

was decidedly foreign. His dark eye, sallow complexion,
and huge mustachios, were a never-exhausted
topic of comment for Mrs. Danvers. She
admired poetry and the picturesque. How could
she avoid admiring a man whose appearance was so
beautifully Byronian? He was a walking edition
of the Corsair and Giaour. She never saw him appear
without a thrill of awe and curiosity.

Who was Mr. Lassar? Nobody could tell. He
evidently had plenty of money.

A few weeks after his arrival, the young gentleman
who occupied the contiguous chamber, gave
Mrs. Morey warning that he should leave her. He
said that he must board nearer his store. The truth
was, the young shopkeeper felt annoyed by the
presence of the dark stranger, who, he had ascertained,
kept his percussion pistols always loaded.

Mrs. Morey told her husband that Mr. — was
going, and the vacant apartment might be let.

“I will take it,” said Mr. Lassar. “How much
did Mr. — pay?” She told him.

“My servant will settle for a quarter's rent in
advance,” said Lassar.

“How very odd!” said Mrs. Danvers. “What
can he want of two such apartments? Who is he?”

4. CHAPTER IV.
CONVERSATION.

“'Tis a lovely face,” said Mr. Lassar. He was
leaning against the mantel-piece, and fixedly contemplating
an engraving of Lady Russell.

Mrs. Morey started—she did not know that he
had lingered after the breakfast-things were removed.
She had not yet risen, but as her custom
was, remained to wash the cups, and take note that
every thing was arranged in its proper place.

“Mr. Morey calls that picture my guardian
saint,” said she, faintly smiling. “Indeed, the
feelings which it often awakens in my heart are
comforting and elevating. It reminds me of the
strength of mind affection may impart—of the fortitude
with which feeble woman may support the
deepest afflictions. I never look at it without feeling
a conviction of the wonderful moral influence
with which my sex are endowed, and of the responsibility
which that endowment imposes. Is it
not strange, Mr. Lassar, that we should be such
triflers?”

“No, I think not, while so much importance is

attached to trifles. Your sex are, excuse me,
madam, for the plainness of my remark, very fond
of influence—power, some call it; and while the
chief object of their education is to qualify them
for display, and the voice of society makes that
display the standard of rank and fashion, the majority
will be triflers.”

“How can this be corrected?”

“There are two methods. The most speedy
and noble one might be effected by the rich and
talented. If they would lend their aid only to objects
of real importance, and always sustain persons
of real worth of character, whatever might be their
worldly circumstances, they could soon make the
standard of fashion that of elevated moral goodness
and mental acquirements. The other method is,
that the people, the great mass, shall give the tone
to public opinion, and proscribe every thing which
is not useful in itself, and equally accessible to all.
The first method has for its object the improvement
of the poor; the other, that of putting down the
rich.”

“You do not think the last likely to prevail!”

“Judging from present appearances, it may;
though I cannot give up my darling hope, that the
rich will be instructed by the signs of the times,
and use their advantages more wisely. And yet,
how can I hope, when I have daily before my eyes

their abuse of power. What has shut the door of
Mrs. A— against you, madam, but the want of
wealth, or its appearance? What has opened it to
Mrs. Danvers but the appearance of wealth? Had
Mrs. A— acted on Christian principles, her attentions
would have increased with your misfortunes.
Had she acted on rational principles, she
would not have abandoned you under a reverse to
which the richest are liable, and which, when sustained
with patience, magnanimity, and self-exertion,
entitles the sufferer to added respect and consideration.”

“I should not have attended her party, had I
been invited,” observed Mrs. Morey, calmly; “because
I could not have afforded the expense of time
and dress.”

“Very well, madam; I presume you would not.
But then you would have made your own election,
and in deciding that now, the duties of life, rather
than its amusements, were the most proper pursuit,
you would have felt a pleasure in their performance,
which, while the contempt of the fashionable
world is thus poured upon them, no woman's feelings
can fully appreciate.”

“Oh! it is not for myself that I ever regard a
slight,” said Mrs. Morey, tears rushing to her
eyes. “But my poor husband, he is so distressed
when he sees that his loss of property has subjected

me to these insults, that he is quite unmanned. If
I could only persuade him to regard it as lightly
as I do, I should be perfectly contented and
happy.”

“You devote yourself entirely to your husband,
I see,” returned Mr. Lassar, approaching her. “I
have often read in novels this disinterestedness of
the female heart, but never before saw it exemplified.”

“He deserves it—my husband deserves it all.
You cannot judge by his present appearance what
he was, when he adopted me, a poor, friendless
orphan, as his sister. You smile; well—perhaps
he intended I should be more. But he was father,
brother, guardian to me then, and he has since
been all. The world may say he has been unwise
—but he has always been just to others and to me.
Oh! I shall never overpay his kindnesses.”

“I can sympathize in your desolate feelings,
arising from want of kindred,” observed Mr. Lassar,
tenderly. “I have for many, many years,
been a desolate being, separated from my country
and friends; even my native language was a strange
sound to my ears.”

Mr. Lassar seemed fairly launched into his own
history, and how far he might have forestalled his
promised evening communication, it is impossible
to say. He was cut short by the appearance of

Mrs. Danvers; she stared most inquisitively on the
tête-à-tête—then returning, with stately politeness,
Mr. Lassar's cold bow, as he passed out of
the apartment, she informed Mrs. Morey that she
came to tell her, Mr. Danvers and lady had an
invitation to take a New-Year's dinner with the
Hon. Judge P—. “And,” continued she, “we
shall go, though the time is short; no fault of Mrs.
P—. She sent the card a week since, but it
was lost. The servant deserves a prison.”

“Pardon my troubling you, Mrs. Morey. I
just wished to have your opinion respecting my
jewellery. Which shall I wear, the topaz, or these
emeralds set in pearls?” said Mrs. Danvers.

“The emeralds and pearls would be my choice.
They are beautiful.”

“Mr. Danvers insisted that I should have a set
of diamonds—but I thought them too extravagant.
He said so much, that I was obliged to take this
ring. Do you not think the stone a rich one?”

“Very. Yes, it is a real diamond, and elegantly
set.”

“I am glad it suits your taste, because Mr. Danvers
thinks so highly of your judgment. He says,
that when you wore ornaments, they were always
superb. I should think you would sometimes
wear them now.”

“I sold my ornaments during my husband's
long illness,” said Mrs. Morey, in a quiet tone.

“Dear me—I forgot. Well, you are so good
that you do not need such flimsy things. But my
husband is never happy unless I make a show.
And really, this dinner party is a formidable affair;
and then we must attend the soirée at Mrs. A—'s.
It is too much. I am half inclined not to go this
evening; you must know I have a penchant to
learn who Mr. Lassar is; and this evening he promised
his history, or perhaps he told it you this
morning?”

Mrs. Morey had so long and strictly governed
her own feelings, that neither the evident intention
of mortifying and vexing her, exhibited by Mrs.
Danvers, while displaying her jewellery, nor the
last ill-bred remark, had any effect on her mild
face, except that of raising a half smile.

“Well,” continued Mrs. Danvers, “who is
he?”

“He has not yet told me; I expect that pleasure
this evening.”

“It will be a pleasure. Why, he must be some
nobleman. And he cannot be an exile, for they
are always poor. And you know he has always
dressed like a lord; and then, his rooms are so
richly furnished. He must be either a baron or a
bandit, as I often tell my husband; and so fond as

he is of your children—I should have thought you
would have found out who he was six months ago.
How I wish I knew!”

“I have never felt any solicitude on the subject.
He came highly recommended! he has ever sustained
the character given him; and more—he has
been a friend as well as a boarder.”

“Do you know he is soon going away?”

“I had no thought of the kind. When?
Where?”

“I was told to-day—it is a great secret—but
I was told that he had purchased that splendid
house in — street, next door to Mrs. A—'s.”

“Is he intending to occupy it?”

“I guess so—though perhaps not. He said he
purchased it for his sister—but who can she be?
Have you ever heard him name her?”

“No—I thought he had no relations.”

“I presume he has not. It was only a ruse—
and he will live there himself. Mrs. A— sent
him a card for her party—she is dying to be acquainted
with him; but it seems he does not intend
to go. Ah! you and Louisa are the magnets for
him. I should'nt wonder if he was intending to
propose for Louisa this evening, and so, as a preparatory,
will tell you who he is. How I wish I
knew!”

In the parlour of the Moreys, though it was
only half-past nine, there reigned the hush of midnight.
The tea-things had long been removed.
The little boys, Richard and Edward, had had
their games and sports, in which Mr. Lassar had
participated, with all the glee of a child; Louisa
had sung and played her father's favourite songs,
and, accompanied by Mr. Lassar's flute, performed
the plaintive airs her mother loved best;—the little
boys had retired; the piano was shut; and gathered
closely around the centre table, the remaining
members of the family group were waiting, in the
hush of mute attention, the expected history of
Mr. Lassar. Hark!—ring! ring!—bustle! bustle!
—Who can it be?—Who but Mr. and Mrs. Danvers.

“You see we are returned to spend the evening
with you, my dear Mrs. Morey,” said the lady, as
she uncloaked, unbonnetted, and threw herself languidly
on the sofa. “I told Mr. Danvers that one
party at a time was as much as my nerves would
bear. Don't let us interrupt you, Mr. Lassar. I
assure you we shall esteem it the greatest of favours
to hear you communication. Mrs. Morey
could not feel more interested in the events of
your life than I do.”

“The events of my life, madam,” said Mr. Lassar,
“have been so varied, that a long story might

be told; but, to gratify you, I will come to the result
at once. Let me just run over the index. At
twenty, I was, by my father's death, and the insolvency
of his estate, thrown on the world—went to
India to seek my fortune—after many hardships,
sufferings and struggles, became interpreter and
factor to a Persian merchant—and finally, at his
death, succeeded to his business and property.”

“But your sister;” said Mrs. Danvers, eagerly.

“All in good time. Mrs. Morey, had you ever
a brother in India?” His voice trembled.

“Yes; Edward—Edward Erskine. What do
you know of him?”

“Isabel, dear Isabel—I am Edward Erskine!”

“They will cut Mrs. A—, that is certain,” said
Mrs. Danvers to her husband.

“They'll cut us, too, my dear.”

“But I am sure I have always esteemed Mrs.
Morey—and how could I know she was Mr. Lassar's
sister?”

“True; how could you know she would ever be
able to give another party? Well, money is much
more fashionable than merit—they will now have
friends enough.”

“And they will live in that splendid house, and
Miss Lamson is to reside with them. How
strangely things happen! It has been a happy
New-Year to the Moreys.”