The two clerks, or, The orphan's gratitude :: :: University of Virginia Library

It was evening in the merry month of May.
A glad company were gathered in the mansion
of Mr. Abbot, in Collonade Row. It
was the bridal night of William. And who
did he wed? Who, but the lovely orphan
who had saved his life, was the bride of the
merchant's son. The heart of Fanny was
joyous, yet there was a sadness mingled with
its joyousness. Her smile was sweet, yet
there was melancholy in it, for she thought
of her absent brother.

Lucia, too, thought of him. But in that
thought was there nought but the thrill of
friendship for an absent one? Ah, ask the
youthful and glowing heart of the gentle
maiden if she did not even to herself confess
a stronger, deeper, warmer feeling—a
feeling to which their association in the
morning of their days had given birth, but
which had been nursed to an ardent intensity
because its object had not been near to share
it—the first breathing of love!

The guests were gay—the dance went
round. The wine, for they drank wine then,
was poured, in sparkling libations, to the
health of the happy pair.

“One thing alone is wanting,” said Mr.
Abbot; “were your brother here, my sweet
girl, our joy were all complete.”

The door opened, and the servant ushered
in a guest. All turned as a tall and commanding
figure entered the apartment, and
advanced towards the bride. He was muffled
in a mantle, that hid his face, but he no
ticed not the surprise of the company. He
took the hand of the bride.

“What means this, sir?” asked William,
advancing.

The stranger's cloak fell off. One moment,
Fanny gazed astonished at a form arrayed in
the rich uniform of the Bolivian Republic.
The next, she was in the arms of her long-lost
brother.

Henry strained her to his heart, and turned
to meet the bashful greeting of the wondering
Lucia. She was no longer the playmate—the
laughing girl, but a gentle and
loving woman.

“God be thanked!” said Mr. Abbot; “my
wronged boy is returned.”

“Welcome, Harry, my old friend, and
brother.”

Henry gave into the hands of Mr. Abbot
a small packet. It was that given him by
the dying Richard—it was that given to the
wretched murderer by his dying mother.

The merchant opened it, and his face grew
pale, and his hands trembled.

“My sister's letters!” cried he.

“And we are thy sister's children,” said
Henry, “the children of Mary Abbot.”

The tears gushed from the good merchant's
eyes.

“Then are you my children, bless ye,
bless ye.”

“So we are cousins,” said Lucia, throwing
herself in the arms of the happy Fanny.

What a long time it would take to tell the
joy of the reunited ones—to tell how Mr.
Abbot's sister Mary had eloped with a poor
man, and for love had lived and died in obscurity—how
she had committed to Mrs.
Martin the history of her life—how Richard
had concealed it from Henry; and how his
remorse had at last restored it to the orphan's
hands. And how long it would take to describe
the love of William and Fanny, too.
So, we will leave it to those who love, to
fancy it.

Thus far in the life-path of youth, have
we travelled. Shall we follow? No! for

youth is the fresh floweret of the morning,
and the high sun of fortune, as well as the
storm-wind of adversity, must wither it. We
have followed the good and the bad, and we
have traced their fate. The long-lost has
come once more to his childhood's home.
There let him rest. The guilty one sleeps
in a foreign land, in a murderer's grave.
May he rest also, for of the grave we know
not.

But what has the old man Time done with
the others. The erring but loving Mary we
have lost sight of. The repentant Fred. we
left in a prison. The coquette Kate, and the
wild Ned Rifton—we must trace them, for
they, too, were the persons of the drama.

There was a beautiful little cottage, in a
lovely village in Massachusetts; and the
vines clambered over the door, and flowers
bloomed in the garden before it. Fields
with the shining tops of the grain glittering
in the summer sunset, were around it. And
at the open door, sat a farmer with a young
and beautiful wife, and a little cherub of an
infant sported before them.

“And have you not heard of Henry Fowler's
marri age with the beautiful daughter
Mr. Abbot.”

“Yes, Frederick, Mrs. Rifton told me in
her letter, and of the dreadful fate of Richard
Martin.”

“Yes, Mary; and such might have been
my fate, but for you,” and the husband looked
fondly on his young wife. “But when is
Rifton coming to visit us?”

“Next month. And Kate, too.”

“What a happy couple are they, Mary—
Ned and Kate.”

“And are not we, Frederick?”

“Yes, Mary; for I am honest now.”

Reader! This has not been a “seduction
tale.” You have not been dragged
through the chambers of a brothel, nor amid
the scenes of low vice. But the “life of the
gay spirits” has been lightly touched; and
the swift and sudden descent of the precipice
of crime has been faintly pictured.
What has been said is truth, in the main, and
the moral is the moral of life.