University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
CHANGES.

Ten years have passed away, since we followed poor
Anna Hubbell to her early grave. With the lapse of
time many changes have come to those who have kept
with us in the early chapters of this story. Jimmy Clayton,
long since admitted to the bar, is now a lawyer of
some celebrity in one of our western cities. For six
happy years he has called Delphine Granby his wife, and
in his luxurious home a little boy four years old watches
each night for his father's coming, while the year old
baby, Anna, crows out her welcome, and Delphine, beautiful
as ever, offers her still blooming cheek for her husband's
usual greeting, and then playfully assists the little
Anna in her attempts to reach her father's arms. Truly,
Jimmy's was a happy lot. Blest with rare talents, abundant
wealth, and influential friends, he was fast approaching

that post of honor, which he has since filled, and of
which we will not speak, lest we be too personal.

But on his bright horizon one dark cloud heavily lowered.
He could not forget that Josephine, his once beautiful
sister Josephine, was now an object of reproach and
dark suspicion. Step by step she had gone on in her career
of folly, until M'Gregor, stung to madness by the
sense of wrong done him, turned from his home and sought
elsewhere a more agreeable resting place. At first he
frequented the more fashionable saloons, then the gaming
room, until at last it was rumored that more than once at
midnight he had been seen emerging from some low, underground
grocery, and with unsteady step wending his
way homeward, where as usual Josephine was engaged
with her visitors; and her half intoxicated husband, without
entering the parlor, would repair to his sleeping room,
and in heavy slumbers wear off ere morning the effect of
his night's debauch. In this way he became habitually
intemperate, ere Josephine dreamed of his danger.

One night she was entertaining a select few of her
friends. The wine, the song, and the joke flowed freely,
and the mirth of the company was at its height, when
the door bell rang furiously, and in a moment four men
entered the drawing-room, bringing with them Mr.
M'Gregor, in a state of perfect insensibility. Laying
him upon a sofa, they touched their hats respectfully to
the ladies and left.

With a shriek of horror and anger Josephine went off
into violent hysterics, wishing herself dead, and declaring
her intentions of taking immediate steps for becoming so,
unless some one interfered and freed her from the drunken
brute. One by one the friends departed, leaving her
alone with her husband, whose stupor had passed away

and was succeeded by a fit of such silly, maudlin fondness,
that Josephine in disgust fled from his presence.

From this time matters rapidly grew worse. Still, as
long as Josephine was surrounded by the appliances of
wealth, her old admirers hovered around her; but when
everything was gone, when she and her husband were
houseless, homeless beggars, they left her, and she would
have been destitute, indeed, had it not been for her eldest
brother, Frank, who did for her what he could, remembering,
though, that in her palmy days of wealth she had
treated him and his with the utmost contempt. Her second
brother, John, was in one of the southern states.
The next one, Archie, was across the ocean. Jimmy, too,
was away at the west, and for the two between Archie
and Jimmy, graves had been dug in the frozen earth just
three years from the day of their mother's death. It was
well for Uncle Isaac that he, too, was sleeping by the side
of his wife, ere he heard the word dishonor coupled
with his daughter's name.

For a time after their downfall, M'Gregor seemed trying
to retrieve his character. He became sober, and labored
hard to support himself and wife, but alas! she
whose gentle words and winsome ways should have led
her erring husband back to virtue, spoke to him harshly,
coldly, continually upbraiding him for having brought her
into such poverty. At length, in a fit of desperation, he
left her, swearing that she might starve for aught more
he should do for her. For a time she supported herself
by sewing, but sickness came upon her, and then she was
needy indeed.

Once, in her hour of destitution, George Granby, now
the happy husband of Kate Lawrence, found her out, and
entering her cold, comfortless room, offered her sympathy
and aid; but with her olden pride she coldly rejected

both, saying she was doing well enough, though even
then she had not a mouthful of food, nor the means of
buying it. George guessed as much, and when after his
departure she found upon the little pine table by the
window a golden eagle, she clutched it eagerly, and purchased
with it the first morsel she had eaten in twenty-four
hours.

In a snug, cozy parlor in the city of C—, are seated
our old friends, Jimmy Clayton and Delphine. The latter
is engaged upon a piece of needle-work, while the former
in brocade dressing gown and embroidered slippers, is
looking over an evening paper, occasionally reading a
paragraph aloud to his wife. At last throwing aside the paper
he said, “I have been thinking of Josephine all day.
It is a long time since I heard from her, and I greatly fear
she is not doing very well.”

“Do you believe her to be in actual want?” asked
Delphine.

“I don't know,” was the answer. “From her letters
one would not suppose so, but she is so proud and independent,
that you can hardly judge. Frank, too, has
left Snowdon, and there is now no one left to look after
her.”

There was a rap at the door, and a servant entered,
saying, “The evening mail is in, and I brought you this
from the post-office,” at the same time presenting a letter
to Mr. Clayton, who instantly recognized the hand
writing of Josephine. Nervously breaking the seal, he
hurriedly read the blurred and blotted page. Jimmy had
not wept since the day when the coffin lid closed upon

his mother, but now his tears fell fast over his sister's letter.
It was as follows:

“Jimmy, dear Jimmy, my darling brother Jimmy.
Have you still any affection for me, your wretched sister,
who remembers well that once, proudly exultant in her
own good fortune, she denied you, and that more than
once she turned in scorn from the dear ones in the old
Snowdon home? You cursed me once, Jimmy, or rather
said that I was accursed. Do you remember it? It was
the same day that made me a wife and our blessed mother
an angel. They ring in my ears yet, those dreadful
words, and they have been carried out with a tenfold vengeance.
I am cursed, I and mine, but my punishment
seems greater than I can bear; and now, Jimmy, by the
memory of our mother, who died without one word of
love from me,—by the memory of our gray-haired father,
—and by our two brothers, whose graves I never saw,
and for whom I never shed a tear,—by the memory of
all these dead ones, come to me or I shall die.

“Patiently I worked on, until wasting sickness came,
and since then I have suffered all the poor can ever suffer.
Frank is gone; and from those I once knew in this city,
I dare not seek for aid. Perhaps you, too, have heard
that I was faithless to my husband, but of that sin God
knows that I am innocent. The firelight by which I am
writing this is going out, and I must stop. I know not
where M'Gregor is, but I do not blame him for leaving
me. And now Jimmy, won't you come, and quickly,
too? Oh, Jimmy, my brother Jimmy, come, come.”

It was a chill, dreary night. Angry clouds darkened
the evening sky, and the cold December wind swept furiously
through the almost deserted streets, causing each
child of poverty to draw more closely to him his tattered
garment, which but poorly sheltered him from the blasts
of winter. In a cheerless room in the third story of a
crazy old building, a young woman was hovering over a
handful of coals, baking the thin corn-cake which was to
serve for both supper and breakfast. Everything within
the room denoted the extreme destitution of its occupant,
whose pale, pinched features told plainly that she
had drained the cup of poverty to its very dregs. As
she stooped to remove the corn-cake, large tears fell upon
the dying embers, and she murmured, “He will not come,
and I shall die alone.”

Upon the rickety stairway there was the sound of
footsteps, and the gruff voice of the woman, who occupied
the second floor, was heard saying, “Right ahead, first
door you come to. Yes, that's the one; now be careful,
and not fall through the broken stair;” and in another
moment Jimmy Clayton stood within the room, which for
many months had been his sister's only home.

There was a long, low cry of mingled shame and joy,
and then Josephine was fainting in her brother's arms.
From the old broken pitcher upon the table Jimmy took
some water, and bathed her face and neck until she recovered.
Then was she obliged to reassure him of her identity,
ere he could believe that in the wreck before him, he
beheld his once beautiful sister Josephine.

He took immediate measures to have her removed to a
more comfortable room, and then with both his hands
tightly clasped in hers, she told him her sad history since
the day of her husband's desertion. She did not blame
M'Gregor for leaving her, but said that were he only restored

to her again, she would, if possible, atone for the
past; for, said she, “until he left me, I did not know that
I loved him.”

Jimmy heard her story, and then for a time was silent.
On his way to the city he had stopped at Snowdon, at the
home where his father and mother had died, and which
now belonged to him. He had intended to place Josephine
in it, but the time for which it was rented would
not expire until the following May. At first he thought
to take his sister to his western home, but this he knew
would be pleasant neither to her nor his wife. The old
“gable-roof” was still standing, and as there seemed no
alternative, he ordered it to be decently fitted up as a
temporary asylum for his sister. When at last he spoke,
he told her all this, and then with a peculiar look, he said,
“Will you go?”

“Gladly, oh, most gladly,” said she. “There, rather
than elsewhere.”

The lumbering stage coach had long since given place
to the iron horse, which accomplished the distance to
Snowdon in little more than an hour. Accordingly, the
evening following the incidents just narrated, Jimmy
Clayton and his sister took the night train for Snowdon.
The cars had but just rolled out from the depot, when a
tall, thick set man, with his face completely enveloped in
his overcoat and cap, entered and took a seat directly in
front of our friends. For a moment his eye rested upon
Josephine, causing her involuntarily to start forward, but
instantly resuming her seat, she soon forgot the stranger,
in anxiously watching for the first sight of Snowdon. It
was soon reached, and in ten minutes time the door of the
old gable-roof swung open, and Delphine, whom Jimmy
had left at Judge Howland's, appeared to welcome the
travelers. On the hearth of the old fashioned sitting-room,

a cheerful fire was blazing. Before it stood the neatly
spread tea-table, and scattered about the room were various
things, which Delphine had procured for Josephine's
comfort.

Sinking into the first chair, Josephine burst into a fit of
weeping, saying, “I did not expect this; I do not deserve
it.” Then growing calm, she turned to Jimmy and said,
“Do you know that eleven years ago to-night our angel
mother died, and eleven years ago this morning, you uttered
the prophetic words, “when next I come, you will
surely go?”

She would have added more, but the outside door slowly
opened, and the stranger of the cars stood before them,
saying, “Eleven years ago to-night, I took to my bosom
a beautiful bride, and I thought I was supremely blessed.
Since then, we have both suffered much, but it only makes
our reünion on this, the anniversary of our bridal night,
more happy.”

Drawing from his head the old slouched cap, the features
of Hugh M'Gregor stood revealed to his astonished
listeners. With a wild shriek Josephine threw herself
into his arms, while he kissed her forehead and lips, saying,
“Josephine, my poor, dear Josephine. We shall be
happy together now.”

After a time he briefly related the story of his wanderings,
saying, that immediately after separating from his
wife he resolved upon an entire reformation, and the better
to do this, he determined to leave the city, so fraught
with temptation and painful reminiscences. Going west,
he finally located in a small country village, engaging himself
in the capacity of a teacher, which situation he had
ever since retained.

“I never forgot you, Josephine,” said he, “though at
first my heart was full of bitterness toward you; but with

improved health came a more healthful tone of mind, and
in the past I saw much for which to blame myself. At
last, my desire to hear something from you was so great,
that I visited the city where your brother resides. I went
to his house, but on the threshold my step was arrested
by the sound of your name. James was speaking of you.
Soon a servant entered, bringing your letter. I listened
while he read it aloud, and wept bitterly at the recital of
your sufferings. I knew he would come to you, and determined
to follow him, though I knew not whether my
presence would be welcome or not. I was at the door of
that desolate room when you met. I was listening when
you spoke kindly, affectionately of me. I heard of your
proposed removal to Snowdon, and made my plans accordingly.
Now here I am, and it is at Josephine's option
whether I go away or stay.”

He stayed, and faithfully kept was the marriage vow
that night renewed in the “Gable-roofed House at
Snowdon.”