University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE COUSINS AND THEIR TRIALS.

Five years! How much is comprised in that brief
phrase, over which the pen glides so easily! How strange
and varied were the experiences which that little interval
of time, now a mere point in the history of the past, brought
to the subjects of our narrative.

Ralph Werter had abandoned his country residence, and
had taken a stylish house in town, greatly to the gratification
of his wife and daughters, who, by dint of extravagant
dressing and costly entertainments had become known and
countenanced among the ton. His own taste was not naturally
for display, but he had suffered himself to be overruled
in this respect by his family, while his fondness for
being thought and called rich reconciled him to the cost of
such a reputation. He became known on `Change—he was
hand and glove with several millionaires—and was himself
considered by the community to be quite one of that golden
variety of the human animal. He was now more than
sixty years of age, and his experience had not been an
exception to the rule, that the heart in which avarice is
the dominant passion becomes more grasping with increasing
years—more deaf to the demands of justice, more
callous to the calls of pity.

His prediction of Sidney's early death had not been
verified, and he was at times alarmed at the tenacity of
life exhibited by his ward in the midst of a disease which
every year became more manifest. He was still confident

that the boy could not live to manhood; but even if it
were possible that he should briefly survive that period, he
hoped to keep him in his present state of exile, ignorant
of his rights, and free from any influences which might
tend to thwart his own designs.

Sidney's own fortunes had been mild and genial with
the exception of that illness, which, while giving him but
little real pain or anxiety, seemed to be gradually wearing
away his vital powers. His home was a quiet and comfortable
one, where he had found some true friends, and
one beloved playmate, in a little daughter of Mr. Reed,
who became to him all that a sister could have been. He
never regretted his change of residence, and, but for his
desire to see his old friend Sukey, he would have preferred
never to return to his former abode.

Yet he had begun to entertain grateful feelings towards
his uncle for his kindness in providing him so pleasant a
home, and allowing him to remain so long unmolested in
it. His greatest trial was his separation from Addison,
and the improbability of his ever seeing him again, for his
uncle had been careful to have him informed of his cousin's
departure to the West Indies. Sidney's education had
progressed with rapidity, and he had within the first year
of his residence in the country written a long letter to Addison
at Barbadoes, and another to his cousin Lizzie at
New York, which epistles cost him a great outlay of time
and mental labor to perfect, and both of which met with as
warm a reception as he could have anticipated—for they
found their way in a few days into Ralph Werter's kitchen
fire.

Many long months he patiently waited and looked for
the answers to these burnt letters, rising daily with the
fresh hope that that was to be the blissful day when they
would come, and retiring nightly with the belief that it

would be to-morrow. Then he wrote again to Addison,
with a similar result, extending the period of disappointed
expectations through another half year, and then gradually
abandoning the hope, and giving way to the sad thought
that he was forgotten and not cared for.

But the heart of childhood closed over these wounds—
other friends supplied the place of the lost, and the wronged
orphan was still happier than those who usurped his rights,
and happier, alas! than that unfortunate friend by whom
he supposed himself neglected.

Addison entered upon his new business with success, and
with entire satisfaction to his employers, but within three
months after his arrival out, the unhealthy season commenced,
and the approach of the dreaded fever began to
be heralded.

He was among its first subjects, and, narrowly escaping
death, he remained for weeks prostrated, and for months
enfeebled, by the severity of his attack. Nearly a year
elapsed before his strength was fully restored, and, rejoicing
in the belief that he was fully acclimated, he dauntlessly
awaited at his post the second arrival of the scourge,
but only to be again thrown upon a bed of pain, and again
to endure all his former protracted illness, and still more
protracted convalescence.

Disheartened by these sad experiences, he did not dare
to hope, when again restored, that his sufferings had secured
him any immunity for the future, and he began to
think of retreating before so great a peril, and returning
home, although with his purposes all unaccomplished. But
he was advised that his acclimation was now undoubtedly
complete, and that he might be considered as holding a receipt
in full from the Pestilence, which would faithfully respect
his claims to forbearance in future, and he resolved to
remain. Less sanguine, however, than before—less hopeful

and joyous of heart—he had lost his playful spirits, his
elasticity of motion, and his merry, ringing laughter; but
for these changes there were other reasons besides his personal
misfortunes.

Sickness and increased poverty had come upon those
most dear to him, whom he had left at home, and whom he
had vainly hoped ere this to be able materially to assist.
Captain Jay had been obliged by illness, and nearly total
deprivation of sight, to abandon his business, which, slight
as it was, had been almost the only support of his family,
and now, when the chief means of their living was cut off,
its expenses were increased by the necessity of medical attendance.

Addison had heard from time to time, by letters from
Lizzie, of the progress of misfortune at home, and he had
gladly sent every dollar he could spare for their relief; but
with the most painful economy he could save but little out
of his income, which was greatly reduced by his own sickness.
He would gladly have withheld from his friends the
tidings of his own afflictions; but, as he could not properly
do this, he spoke as lightly as possible of them, and sent
no word of wail to hearts already stricken and desponding.

The four succeeding years were marked by no striking
event in his own experience, and by no favorable change
in the affairs of his friends, whose poverty remained unmitigated
and unrelieved, excepting by his own efforts. Regularly
and cheerfully, through all that period, his monthly
salary was remitted to his father, with the exception of a
sum barely sufficient for his own economical support; and
many of his young associates, more profuse of expenditure,
wondered at the seeming parsimony indicated by his style
of living. He mingled but little in society, and formed
but few acquaintances, but he made one friend, worthy of
the name, whose companionship was his solace in many a

sad hour, and whose attachment to him was only equalled
by his own reciprocating regard.

Like himself, however, Edward Hazleton was an early
struggler against adversity, a buffeter of the waves of fortune,
which yet could never wholly wreck a vessel so buoyantly
freighted, for he was one of the most light-hearted
and merry of mortals. Care sat easily upon him, or rather
it never could be said to more than flit across his heart,
yet although never bemoaning his own hardships, he had a
ready appreciation and sympathy for the sufferings of
others. Two minds so congenial to each other could not
fail to harmonize and coalesce, affording to each that sincere
delight of which true friendship is ever the source.
Edward was the son of a widow lady who lived in retirement,
almost in seclusion, but whose few associates were
among the first class of citizens. Addison knew nothing
of her history excepting what observation taught him, that
some deep, abiding grief, probably that of bereavement,
was her lot. Her son was her life, her joy, her hope, the
great compensation for a great sorrow; and richly, fondly,
he fulfilled his blessed mission. Mother had never more
dutiful son; son never a more loving mother. In his
younger years she had used her most diligent efforts to bestow
upon him a good education, and now he richly repaid
the obligation, by using his acquirements for her maintenance
and comfort. Scanty means, indeed, were his as
yet, but his store of hope and joyous anticipations for the
future was absolutely boundless, and he fortunately succeeded
in infusing some portion of this feeling, tempered
by soberer reason, into the heart of his mother, who was
yet scarcely past the middle age of life.

But great as was the pleasure which Addison derived
from such a friend, he pined for those still more beloved,
and he dreaded daily to hear still sadder tidings of their

penury and distress. He knew the worst had not been
told him, and his only consolation for his prolonged absence
was the certainty that his earnings were a source of relief
for his parents and sister, though he little dreamed that it
was nearly all their support. Yet the sums he was able to
save and remit were not large, and he flattered himself
that he could gain at least an equal stipend in his native
city, and have the satisfaction of being near his friends.
This hope grew upon him as he contemplated it, until it
became almost a certainty in his estimation, and then he
resolved to go. Unspeakable was his delight, when this
resolution was fully formed, at the prospect of a re-union
with those so dearly beloved, and the only alloy which now
mingled with his cup of bliss was regret at parting with
Edward. The young friends, however, confidently hoped
to meet again, and agreed upon a correspondence, which
should in some degree lessen the pain of separation.

Addison stated his wishes to his employers, received from
them a reluctant but honorable dismissal, with a high testimonial
to his worth and fidelity, and a free passage home
in a ship about to sail for New York.

He embarked so soon after resolving to go, that there
was no time to send home tidings of his approach, so that
his return was entirely unheralded. Had it been otherwise,
something doubtless would have been done to conceal
from a first view of the beloved visitor the depth of that
destitution to which his friends were reduced, but now
there was no disguise.

Captain Jay, whose incapacity for business was total,
and apparently permanent, had taken a still more humble
house than his before unpretending cottage—he had parted
with the most valuable articles of his furniture, replacing
them with substitutes of commoner material—and everything
that partook of show or finery in the wardrobe of the

family, had also been little by little sacrificed for the necessities
of subsistence.

These changes had chiefly been made during the first
two years of Addison's absence, before his established
health and increasing pay had enabled him to make any
considerable remittances home, and since that period those
contributions, with the scanty earnings of Lizzie, had been
the sole source of support. With what pain, yet with what
affectionate gratitude, the invalid father received these
monthly offerings of filial love—with what tenderness and
solicitude he regarded his toiling but uncomplaining daughter—words
are inadequate to tell.

Lizzie obtained work from a fashionable dress-maker,
which she was allowed to do at home, but alas! at those
sadly unremunerating prices which have ever rewarded the
labors of the “needle slave.” Often she saw her handiwork
upon flaunting and fashionable ladies of the neighborhood,
who in beauty and grace, and all the true merit of
womanhood, were immeasurably below the humble seamstress
who had contributed to their adornment. Not unfrequently,
indeed, had she labored for the Misses Werter,
unknown to them, and receiving but a pittance of the extravagant
sums which her principal charged for her work.

It was to such a home that Addison came abruptly and
unlooked for, changing it to a palace of delight, and rendering
all the loving little circle for a while forgetful that
they had any cause for care or anxiety.

It would be pleasant to linger in contemplation of this
scene of domestic bliss—to dwell upon the many subsequent
hours of enjoyment which, despite every privation,
were allotted to this guileless family; but other events
claim the attention of narrator and reader, and hasten us
from these alluring themes.

Addison was not long in learning the full extent of his

parents' poverty, and he knew he had no time for inaction,
if he would not behold even a worse state of things than
already existed. He hastened to seek business, and while
none better was attainable, he sought and found employment
as a scrivener, an occupation for which his rapid and
elegant penmanship eminently qualified him, and in which
he had the advantage of being able to work at home. In
this labor he had the satisfaction of being able, by great
diligence, nearly to equal the amount of his former earnings,
and although he had adopted it only as a temporary
resort, yet when a year had passed away, he was still engaged
at his tedious and never-ending tasks, without any
better promise for the future.

His youth was passing away, his health was impaired—
he saw his beloved sister sinking under toils similar to his
own, and his heart at times grew sad and very heavy, with
its load of cares and bitter anticipations. He had made
frequent attempts to obtain business which might give some
increased promise for that far future which now stretched
with such gloomy prospect before him; but all his many
efforts to this end had been unsuccessful—for he was without
influential friends or patronage.

It was on an evening when he had returned greatly disappointed
from an application of this kind, which had given
more than its usual promise, and the failure of which produced
more than usual dejection, that the knock of a visitor
was heard at the door. Addison stepped quickly to the
door and opened it, admitting a young, slight man, who
advanced hesitatingly into the centre of the room, looking
by turns at each individual present, and then sinking silently
into a chair, as if overcome by fatigue or emotion.
He had removed his hat on entering, and a mass of chesnut
curls were clustering round a pale, white forehead, beneath
which eyes of unnatural brilliancy shone like meteors

upon the astonished group around him, and became finally
fixed with a steady gaze upon Addison.

“You do not know me,” he said at length, mournfully.

Faint as was the voice, Addison started as if electrified
by its first tone, a look of transport illumined his face, and
he sprang to the side of his visiter, grasping each hand in
his own.

“Sidney! Cousin Sidney!” he exclaimed, “It is indeed
you. Speak to me, that I may make sure I do not
dream.

“It is Sidney!” said the guest, smiling through his
flowing tears. “Are you really so glad to see me? Then
I am happy indeed!”

A reproachful look from Addison said more than the
words with which he replied—

“Glad, did you say, Sidney?”

“You never received my letters then, or you answered
them, and they miscarried? Or there is something—some
excuse—some reason why for five weary years I have hoped
to see you, or to read one line traced by your hands, and
have been ever disappointed until now.”

Sidney spoke rapidly and with agitation.

“I have never received a letter or a message from you.
I have written four times to you, imploring you to answer
me, however briefly—I have thought of you, dreamed of
you, prayed for you, as if you had been my brother, and
yet, oh! Sidney, you can ask me if I am glad to see you!”

“Forgive me, Addison—I see it all—and all can be
explained hereafter. Let me see my aunt and cousin
Lizzie now,” and passing to the side of the mother and
daughter, who had remained almost breathless witnesses
of the extraordinary scene, he blushingly kissed them both
and said—

“I have thought often and much of you since my acquaintance

with Addison at school, for he drew such a picture
of you as could not easily be forgotten. Besides
which he told me you cherished a regard for me, and my
friends, Heaven knows, have been few!”

The young man spoke with ease and self-possession, and
in a short time all feeling of restraint was banished from
the little circle of relatives, who conversed freely and earnestly
together.

“And when did you return to your uncle's?” asked
Addison, “and how is it that he has consented to your
visiting us?”

“I have not yet returned to my uncle's, nor shall I until
to-morrow, if you can give me shelter for the night. I did
not reach the city until too late an hour to admit of my
going out to —ville this evening, and I thought the opportunity
a favorable one for seeing you.”

“Then you did not know that Mr. Werter had become
a resident of the city? How fortunate for us!”

“Uncle Ralph resides in the city! No, I did not know
it, and for once I am glad of my ignorance. How long
has this been so?”

“For nearly a year—and he is living in great style, I
assure you—quite one of the nabobs—keeps a carriage, and
is called a millionaire.”

“That is strange—I do not think he can be very rich.”

Addison looked inquiringly at his cousin, but there was
nothing in his countenance or tone of voice which indicated
any doubt or suspicion of his guardian; for Sidney still
remained as utterly unconscious of his own wealth as he
was on the day he left his uncle's roof. Mr. Reed could
not have informed him, if he had desired, for he himself
knew nothing more in regard to it than Werter had chosen
to tell him, and from that secluded spot where he dwelt,
the affairs of the great city and its inhabitants were almost

as completely shut out as if they had been those of another
world. Ralph's quarterly letter, business-like and brief,
containing the stipulated remittance to the farmer, may be
said to be all that he ever heard or cared to hear from
New York. Sidney's relations, of course, could not suspect
so extraordinary a state of things, or they would at
once have informed him of what it was so very proper for
him to know, and, viewed in this erroneous light, much
that the young man said and did, of course seemed strangely
enigmatical. He could not fail to perceive the very evident
signs of a poverty so very nearly approaching destitution
as that of his friends, yet there was nothing in his
appearance or language to indicate that he thought their
fortunes different from his own, or that he had any power
to assist them. Nothing indeed could be more disinterested
than Addison's affection for Sidney, which, in its
inception and progress, had been uncontaminated by one
mercenary thought, but his parents could not fail to see
the great advantage which their unportioned children might
derive from the friendship and favor of their wealthy cousin,
and in their solicitude they almost expected to hear the
young heir giving some assurance of future patronage or
protection.

“Is it not strange,” asked Mrs. Jay, “that your uncle
did not inform you of his change of residence, when he
wrote for you to return?”

“He did not write for me to return, nor does he expect
me,” replied Sidney, with a more grave look than he had
before worn. “You may not have heard, and by this
light you may not, perhaps, perceive, that I am in feeble
health, and—and—perhaps I should say that I am seriously
ill. At all events, a physician who has frequently
visited me in the country, has earnestly advised that I
should spend the approaching winter in a warm climate,

and has insisted upon my hastening home to prepare for
my journey. Indeed, a recent severe attack of hemmorrhage
from the lungs so much alarmed him, that he would
not hear of my delaying my departure for the time necessary
to write and receive an answer from my guardian,
which would require about a fortnight, and so I have come,
although I have very little idea that Uncle Ralph will allow
me to go south.”

The pain which this alarming intelligence gave the listeners
prevented them from particularly noticing the closing
remark, which implied so complete a dependence on his
guardian, and submission to his control, and all seemed
anxious to cheer both the invalid and themselves with encouragement
and hope.

A southern climate would work wonders for him—the
sea voyage itself would cure him, if indeed he had any
serious illness, which they tried very hard to doubt, and
which Sidney, unwilling to distress them, did not re-affirm.
He did not believe himself incurable, but he believed there
was danger, although the term was scarcely appropriate in
relation to a change which he contemplated with so much
calmness, and at times with positive pleasure.

Their conversation was protracted to a late hour at night,
and ran upon numberless themes, yet strangely enough, it
did not lead to an elucidation of the great secret which had
so long been withheld from young Werter, although it often
seemed to approach that point.

If it had been possible for his relations to conjecture so
strange a thing as his ignorance on this subject, there was
enough in his language and deportment to strengthen a suspicion
once aroused; but, singularly enough, Sidney retired
to rest that night, and in the morning parted with his
friends, as unenlightened as he came.

Fortunately, however, he did not leave them without a

resolution and a promise soon to see them again. On this
point he said he would not now be ruled, for however he
might defer to his uncle's opinion in some matters, he was
sure he had arrived at an age when he had a right to control
his personal movements and the choice of his acquaintances.