University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Day after day passed, with few incidents and no changes,
until Arthur and Julia appeared to be satisfied that the time for
explanation had gone by, and both fell into the habits of intercourse,
which mothers are most likely to be pleased with, where
the parties are in no immediate danger.

Arthur had grown serious, and Julia thoughtful; and though
they were often left alone together, and neither had entirely forgotten
the arrangement entered into on their way back from
their visit to Edith Archibald, yet Arthur never thought of saying
sister Julia, nor Julia of calling him brother, instead of cousin.
Both, in fact, were under some restraint, — both uncomfortable,
if they were left long together, — and both embarrassed, whenever
they met in the presence of Mr. Fay, who had now become
a regular visitor at the cottage, — dining there two or
three times a week, and always taking a bed.

Unwilling to interfere with Mr. Fay, Arthur grew generous,
and either spent his evenings away, or withdrew to his chamber
at an early hour, and rose very late, so as to give him every
opportunity he could wish, morning, noon, and night.

A whole month had now passed over. The weather was
beautiful and soothing; the trees began to feather and tremble
with new life, and everywhere the waters were gurgling and
rippling, and the flowers budding and blossoming. And so were
the daughters of the land — as if they had nothing better to do
— scattering perfumes with every puff and sweep of the wind,
whether along Broadway, or in the secret places of Greenwood,
till every breath of air told of their presence and whereabouts,
and strong men grew sleepy and faint with acknowledgment, as
they floated by.

For a time, on finding how much they were alone together,
and how little he was allowed to know of what was going on,
Arthur grew more and more uneasy every day, and being too
proud to question his mother, or to watch Julia, he managed to
keep out of the way, until he was almost a stranger; and, at
last, it so happened that, whenever Julia rode out on horseback,
for her health, it was no longer with Uncle George or cousin
Arthur, but always with Mr. Fay, of whose beautiful horsemanship,
even his mother was never weary of talking. Under one
pretence or another, if they went for a drive through the neighborhood,
or over to the battle-ground, or along by the sea-shore,
Mr. Fay and Julia were seldom in sight — either a long way
ahead, or a long way in the rear, and almost always in what
appeared to be very earnest conversation.

Arthur grew more and more serious and stately, and Julia more
and more reserved and silent; and as they had never come to the
explanation both had been hoping for, though neither would
acknowledge it, and Arthur was preparing to go abroad, they
were likely to separate, if something did not happen to change
their new relationship, as they had never separated before, in all
their lives. Their hearts were heavy and sore; but with all
her conscientiousness, Julia was a proud creature, and Arthur
too unreasonable for what was wanted. Each misunderstood
the other; and for want of a few words — a look — or a touch,
— these two dear friends, who loved each other, after all, with
something more than the tenderness of a brother and sister,
were in the way of utter alienation, without foreseeing the consequences,
or the wretchedness they were preparing for themselves.
They were too much alike, perhaps, and neither would
speak first.

But one day, as he stood upon the piazza, and Julia alighted
upon the new turf, with a flushed countenance, and eyes full of
earnestness, after a long ride with Mr. Fay, and without allowing
him to help her off, Arthur saw a look pass between them
that troubled him, and immediately, without stopping to change
her dress, or to throw off her hat and gloves, or even to lay
aside the silver-mounted riding whip Mr. Fay had just given
her, she swept by him into the back parlor, followed by Mr.

Fay; and as Arthur went up to his room, a few minutes after,
he saw them sitting together upon the sofa, and talking together
in a way which left him no longer in doubt, and he determined
to act accordingly.

“To-morrow, at half-past ten, if you please, I shall be at the
door,” said Mr. Fay, after a few minutes had passed. “It would
be well, perhaps, to ask your cousin Arthur, — or shall I? He
may be wanted for a witness.”

Arthur did not hear Julia's reply, but from something that
followed, he was led to infer that his mother and uncle were
both to be of the party, whatever it was, and that witnesses
were wanted. “Could it be possible?” thought he. “Can they
be going to church — or to be married privately — and I to
know nothing of their purpose, till the very day has arrived?
Can it be that my dear mother has been afraid to trust me, or
that Uncle George knew I had been kept in the dark? But
why in such a hurry, and why do I see no preparation? Of
a truth, if it were anybody else, I do think I should call it unmaidenly,
if not unseemly.”

A tap at the door.

“Come in,” said Arthur.

“To-morrow,” said Mr. Fay, “your cousin Julia goes before
the grand jury. I cannot be with her, — but you must, — and
as you, yourself, may be wanted for a witness, we have arranged
it with your uncle and mother, for you all to go in the same carriage.
This will leave me free to act as the circumstances may
require. She will not be detained above an hour, — and perhaps
not so long. I have explained everything to her, and all
you have to do, is to attend her to the door of the grand jury
room, and there wait for her, till she is returned to your hands.
I do not think your mother will be wanted, but she may.”

Arthur trembled with shame and vexation. Here was another
mystery cleared up, and that so naturally, and with so little
effort, as to leave him without a shadow of excuse, for the headlong
precipitation of his judgment.

He had observed that Uncle George was beginning to lose
flesh, and look troubled; that within a few days he had been
forgetful, and absent in mind; but as he did not know when the

next move was to be made in court; as Mr. Fay appeared to feel
no uneasiness whatever, he had never once thought of the possibilities
involved. But now — now that the grand jury were mentioned
— and the dreadful signs of preparation were multiplying
about him, — whispered conferences, — anxious watching, —
paleness, — and the change of look and step we so readily
observe in seasons of sorrow and alarm, he felt aggrieved and
astonished; aggrieved, that while others were evidently prepared
for the coming morrow, he was left in the dark; and astonished
— utterly astonished — that his dear mother should not
have kept him informed. Poor boy! How little did he know
of the purposes or plans of Mr. Fay; not one hour of uneasiness
would he ever subject anybody to, not even a murderer, if
no advantage was to be hoped for. “No, no,” said he, “`sufficient
for the day, is the evil thereof;' and a sleepless night is
far from being what women most need at such a time — preparation.
Julia, I have been obliged to apprise; for, until to-day, I
have not been able to foresee when the case would be called up.”

No uneasiness did he betray; and yet there was none of that
professional indifference — that want of sympathy — that chilling
heartlessness, which the poor trembling wretch, who has
committed himself, body and soul, to a man of the law, so frequently
meets with, until you see him dying by inches of hope
deferred — not the hope that maketh the heart sick — but the
disappointed hope — the hope of finding what he had bargained
for, when he laid bare the dreadful secret of a wasted life to a friend
that sticketh closer than a brother — so long as the money lasts,
and he is allowed to share and share alike in the profits of their
copartnership; — heartfelt sympathy, strengthening encouragement,
and compassionate cheerfulness, at least, if nothing more.

Meanwhile, the strange, though very pleasant intimacy which
had sprung up at a single interview, between little Edith and
Julia, had ripened slowly, but steadily, into the tenderest and
warmest of sisterly friendship. Unlike as they were in general
character and temperament, one being serious and thoughtful,
and reserved; the other, wayward and playful, and, to all appearance,
very communicative, they were nevertheless wonderfully
alike in the distinguished attributes of youthful womanhood, —

when the heart is in flower, and the mysterious currents of her
inner life begin to “ripple to the finger-ends,” and the voice
changes, and you may know what she is dreaming of, by the
shadow under her drooping lashes, by the trembling vibration
of her finger-tips, when they touch yours by accident, as you
stand by her at the piano, and turn the music for her. Both
were shy and sensitive — both almost haughty in their natural
bearing toward strangers, and especially toward the inquisitive
and the meddlesome; yet both were conscientious and high-principled,
and upon what they believed proper occasions, both were
openhearted, and full of unsuspicious, childlike trustfulness and
gentleness.

Mrs. Archibald and Mrs. Maynard and Uncle George had become
pretty well acquainted, and arrangements were in progress
for having all three — Mrs. Archibald, the baby, and poor little
Edith — all four, indeed, for Carlo was the first invited, —
brought over to the cottage, for a month, on trial; after which, if
Edith grew stronger, and there should be room enough and to
spare, and if the baby and Carlo should not manage to disturb
the whole neighborhood, nor turn the house inside out, there was
a hope that, of the two families, now consisting of two mothers,
two middle-aged widows, who were widows indeed, though still
young enough to be delightful companions for the married or the
unmarried — two blossoming maidens — one sprightly young
man — a dog — a baby, and a capital specimen of the old bachelor,
in the finest preservation, and not “ower young to marry
yet,” something more might be made, after awhile.

Other things had happened too, which Arthur had not forgotten,
though they were never mentioned. Letters had been
received from Charles, of a startling, though somewhat mysterious
character, of which, for the first time in all his life, Arthur was
permitted to know nothing; and once, while wandering in the
rear of the Washington parade ground, on his way to see the
captain of a ship, soon to sail for South America, whither he was
preparing to go, by the advice of Uncle George himself, who had
spent a large portion of his life there, and was acknowledged to
have had great influence with the Emperor, Don Pedro, — he
came suddenly upon the little row of cottages, with flower-gardens

in front, where he had gone with Julia to see Edith; and
while stopping by the nearest gate, and looking about on both
sides, to see if there was anything he remembered — or in the
midst of such intolerable sameness and prettiness anything, whatever,
whereby the cottage of Mrs. Archibald might be distinguished
from the others — he saw an aged man walk hurriedly
toward the nearest, mount the steps — followed by a large dog,
— apply the night-key, and enter as if on tiptoe. The next
moment there was a loud, joyful bark — the ringing shout of a
child — and the noise of trampling feet running hither and
thither, and of welcoming voices, loud and happy, though not
intelligible at the distance he stood. Nevertheless, he could not
be mistaken. The voice of the dog he knew — the shout of the
baby sounded familiar — and there, of course, dwelt the widow
Archibald. But mystery of mysteries! What business had William
Bayard there — and so much at home, as to be followed by
Carlo, and to have a night-key? For William Bayard it was —
though he mounted the steps with astonishing alertness, and vanished
like a shadow.

How very strange, thought Arthur — go where I may — do
what I will — I am constantly reminded of that mysterious man!
It may be that the footsteps I have heard following me, night
after night, as I have wandered through some of the vile and forbidden
paths of this great Babylon, because I could not bear to
stay at home, nor to go to bed early, — instead of being what I
have hitherto supposed, the tramp of a watchman, stopping when
I stopped, and following hard after me, tramp, tramp, tramp,
with the ring of an iron-shod staff at intervals upon the pavement,
may have been those of our guardian angel, this aged
Quaker — this perambulating myth; — on my life, I should not
be greatly astonished at any time, on turning my head, to find
him at my elbow!

As he finished, he turned to go away, — and lo! — at his very
elbow — there stood the apparition of William Bayard; for a
moment he was all at sea, and stood stock-still with astonishment.
If this man — this aged Quaker — was indeed William
Bayard himself, and no spirit, — then who was the other
William Bayard he had just seen hurrying up the gravel walk,

mounting the steps, and entering the cottage, followed by Carlo?
Were the shadows he saw passing swiftly to and fro, by the large
windows, and the noise of trampling feet, and the joyful cry of
the child, and the yelping of the great watch-dog, only shadows?
or had he taken leave of his senses?

“How's thee do to-day?” said the apparition, offering its
hand.

Arthur felt strangely. He was no materialist, — was he, therefore,
a spiritualist? Was he under any sort of delusion? Was
the atmosphere about him charged, like a Leyden jar, with
mesmeric, or other power? He hardly knew what to say, nor
how to behave — though he durst not refuse the offered hand.
Luckily for both, it was warm to the touch, — and he began to
feel better.

“I saw thee coming this way, Arthur, and I hurried forward,
thinking thee might want to see the widow Archibald, or my little
friend Edith — or the baby — and I thought it best to prepare
them; but when I saw thee stop and lean over the gate,
and look about, as if thee didn't exactly know where thee was,
and linger there in the way thee did, I felt sure thee had no
message for them, and so I concluded not to mention that I had
seen thee, but go out by another way, without being noticed, and
come upon thee as I have — a little by surprise, I dare say.
How's thy mother to-day? and thy uncle George?”

“Very well, I thank you —”

“Ah — remember me to him, and say, if thee please, that I
shall be with him, the Lord willing, on the day appointed. And
that comely young woman, Julia, I hope she is well.”

“Quite recovered, Sir; but when are you coming over to see
for yourself? You are wanted, Sir!”

“Wanted!”

“That's the very word, Sir! My mother wants to see you,
and so does Uncle George, and so does Julia.”

“If I do not wholly misunderstand thee, Arthur Maynard, thee
may tell thy dear mother, that I hope to see her within the next
following month — peradventure sooner, but I dare not promise,
for I have much to do before we meet, and much to say when
we do meet; and she must not be hurried.”

“You could not fix the day, Sir?”

“No, Arthur, — it is not in man to foresee what a day may
bring forth; but if I am not self-deceived, she will be ready to
acknowledge, when I do see her, that I have acted wisely in
delaying. But I have a word for thee, my young friend. Thee
will be wanted — set thy house in order — thee may be called
for, when least expecting it —”

“Nevertheless, my dear Sir, I hope to be prepared.”

“Indeed!” — taking Arthur's hand between both of his, and
gazing earnestly into his eyes, — “indeed! I was not speaking
of death, but of that preparation we all need, for the proper discharge
of our duties in life, one to another; but I see that prayer
has been heard for the only son of his mother, and she a widow,
and that by being prepared, thee meant more than I did — the
Lord be praised!” And the old man lifted his calm, beautiful
eyes to the habitation of his Father, and his lips moved, and a
tear trembled upon his cheek, and his white hair shivered and
blew about his face, like a halo.

“What I intended to say,” added he, after a short pause, “and
all I intended to say, was, that thee will be wanted for my purposes
before long, and that I would prepare thee by saying —
do not be out of the way. The voyage to South America need
not interfere with what I have in view; but if it does — why,
the voyage must be given up. Tell thy mother what I say, and
be governed by her counsel.”

Saying this, the venerable man disappeared; and so suddenly,
that before Arthur had collected his thoughts, and got well under
way, for his intended call upon the shipmaster, with whom the
voyage was to be made, the very sound of his footstep, and the
ring of his cane, as the iron ferule struck the pavement, had
passed away.

He had mentioned the promise at the cottage, and all had been
looking for him, day after day; but up to that on which he had
been told to prepare for the morrow, and get ready to go with
Julia, not a sign of his coming had appeared.

Meanwhile, Arthur had been studying the Scriptures for the
first time in all his life, — not merely reading them, that his
mind might be enriched and strengthened for the companionship

of orators and poets, and eloquent reasoners; but studying them,
with inward prayer and great thankfulness of spirit, — he had
been present, moreover, at the Fulton Street prayer-meetings,
at the business-men's prayer-meeting in Broadway, and at others
in the John Street Church, and at the Stuyvesant Institute, and
once had been moved to breathe a word of prayer loud enough
to be overheard by some of the strangers about him, — and yet,
he was far from feeling satisfied with himself. He was expecting
too much, perhaps, — like Naaman the leper, he was looking
for a wonder, for some “great thing” to astonish his soul; and
then, too, he had been told so much about the assurance that
others felt, and so much about the brightness of their way, and
the blessedness that had followed so instantaneously, that he
began to be troubled, to have uncomfortable misgivings, and to
fear that he had gone too fast, and too far; that he ought to have
been less hopeful and more patient, and felt more anguish, and
striven longer to save himself, — or, in other words, to make
himself worthier. Delusions all! And yet the most of all to be
feared, as the great Adversary well understands, or they would
not be constantly employed against the lowly-hearted and self-distrustful.
If to begin were to finish, and there were nothing
more to be done, but fold our arms or lie down by the way-side,
then it would be otherwise, and we should undergo no change,
feel no discouragement.

Toward evening, on the very day before Julia was to appear
against her uncle, as her aunt Elizabeth was sitting by herself
in the back parlor, with the curtains down, and the pleasant
afternoon sky of the season shimmering through the snowy drapery,
and warming up, as with inward sunshine, the sumptuous
folds of crimson cloth, a tremulous ring was heard at the door,
and after a few words of inquiry, the girl entered, saying that an
elderly gentleman, who never made use of a card, and would
rather not give his name, wanted to see widow Elizabeth Maynard
alone for half an hour.

“What kind of a looking man is he, Judith?”

“One of the handsomest looking old gentlemen I ever clapped
eyes on, if you please, m'em; and with such a pleasant countenance,
and such beautiful eyes, as clear as crystal, m'em, I

should say; not so very old, neither, m'em, if it wasn't for the
white hair streaming away down over his shoulders, and a little
stoop, as he stands leaning on his cane.”

“That will do, Judith, I am satisfied,” said Mrs. Maynard,
feeling a little faint, and trying to prepare for the interview, by
one look upward, — “Show him in.”

After a few moments, a quick step was heard along the passage-way,
and the ringing sound of a heavy cane, used with the
decided energy of somebody altogether in earnest, and not so very
old after all. The door opened — the girl withdrew — and there
stood, face to face with the widowed mother, and the bereaved
wife, the man she had most loved and most revered of all God's
creatures in the morning of life, while the dew of youth was upon
her. But oh, how changed! how unlike what he had been thirty
years before, in the strength and glory of his towering manhood.

“Elizabeth,” said he, — coming forward with a look of untroubled
serenity, and offering both hands, — “I have long
wanted to see thee, face to face, and alone! Year after year
have I been hoping and believing that Providence would bring
us together once more, in some such way; and though I have
been very near to thee at times, near enough to hear thy well-remembered
voice, I have been so unwilling to disturb thee, or
to put myself in thy way, so changed as I knew thee would find
me, that I have waited patiently and hopefully for the hour
which has now arrived; — and I thank our heavenly Father,
my dear friend, that, after all thy sorrows and trials, I find thee
so little changed in appearance, and looking in such good
health.”

Mrs. Maynard took both hands, as they were offered; and
leading him to a chair — and making a sign for him to be seated,
for her heart was too full for speech — placed herself by his
side, still retaining one hand, while she turned away her face,
and wept in silence.

“I am afraid thee finds me very much altered, Elizabeth, —
but, perhaps, if thee had seen me, as I have thee, many times
every year, since our last interview, thee might not have been so
shocked.”

A gentle pressure of the hand — followed by a faint hysterical
sob — was the only reply.

“I did not intend to refer to the past; — but as my object
now is to prepare thee for the future, and especially for the morrow,
— `for we know not what a day may bring forth,' nor how
soon I may be wanted elsewhere, — thee understands me, I hope,
— I have desired `to set my house in order,' not knowing how
soon I may be called away. Rather distressing symptoms have
returned within the last month; and it appears to me sometimes,
that I am only spared for the help of thy dear brother, and for
the vindication of thy most worthy husband, in the coming trial.”

“For the vindication of my husband! how so? What has
happened, I pray you, Mr. Bayard?”

“Elizabeth!”

“Well, my dear friend, what would you with me?”

“If thee wouldn't break my heart, Elizabeth — call me William.”

“Well, then — William — you say that you desire, not only
to save my poor brother, but to vindicate my husband! Pray
tell me what I am to understand by this? Can it be, my dear
friend, that my poor husband ever had anything to do with this
terrible business, or that we are any way involved in it?”

“Thee shall know hereafter, Elizabeth. I am bound to secrecy
for a while; — after thy brother is set free, I hope to show that
neither he, nor my friend Harper, was ever at all blameworthy
in the business, however much appearances may be against
both.”

Mrs. Maynard trembled from head to foot, and her strength
departed, and she was like a little child; and her heart died
away within her, as she murmured, —

“I desire to know the worst, William Bayard, — to be prepared
for the worst; and if there be anything, whatever, which
would be likely, if it came upon me by surprise, to disturb the
tranquillity of mind I now enjoy, in the midst of all our tribulations,
in mercy, let me know it!”

“I dare not, Elizabeth. My word is pledged. But thus much
I can say, and will say, — thee has nothing to fear, if the whole
truth comes out; nothing for thy brother, nor for thy late husband;

but we are beset by crafty adversaries, and thy poor
brother is completely enmeshed. Nay, nay, do not look so frightened,
I beseech thee, or my own courage may fail, when I most
need a treble portion. Put thy trust in God. Happen what
may, thee has much to be thankful for.”

“By the tone of your voice, my friend — by the very language
you employ — by your saying what I acknowledge on my
knees to be true, every day of my life, and almost every hour of
the day, that we have much to be thankful for, I see — I feel —
I am sure — that we have been too hopeful; and that you are
troubled for me, and for my poor brother.”

“Somewhat, I acknowledge; but if the worst come to the
worst, I tell thee now — and here — that I have in my possession
all the proof that can be required for the vindication of thy
brother; and that I have withheld it, from the first, only that I
might have other proof, so that no imputation should rest upon
the departed.”

“My poor husband, I suppose?”

“Question me no further, I pray thee; but come prepared to
answer such questions to-morrow, as Winthrop Fay may have
occasion to ask thee, at my instigation.”

“What are they? Could you not give me some idea of their
nature, that I may have time for meditation and prayer. I tremble
at the very thought of being questioned in public, without
preparation.”

“Let not thy heart be troubled, my dear friend. Thee will
not be questioned in public. I may have occasion to show thee
such a parcel as I have here, — look!” — and he drew forth from
an inside pocket a sealed package, directed to `William Bayard,
Esquire, Phila., United States, North America,' — “and I may
be obliged to open it in thy presence, and to ask thee if thee is
acquainted with the handwriting.”

“Why! it is the handwriting of my husband! How long
have you had it? — and why has it not been opened?”

“I have had it over eight months; — and it was not to be
opened, as thee may see by the writing here, till after the death
of the writer.”

“Do you know when it was written?”

“Nearly two years ago, I believe.”

“Do you know what the bundle contains?”

“No — but I can guess.”

“Well, and what do you guess it contains?”

“That question, dear Elizabeth, I cannot answer to-day; but
look at me! Thee knows me, and thee knows whether I should
be likely, after all that has happened between us, to withhold
anything from thee, which I had a right to communicate, and
which would be likely to help thy brother, or to make thee happier.”

“You are right, my dear friend — forgive me — but I am
very weak and fearful just now; the dismal weather we have
had so much of, may have something to do with my apprehensiveness;
— but, I am so glad to see you again — and looking so
well.”

“Elizabeth Maynard!”

“I mean just what I say. You are indeed looking well; for
the expression of inward joy — of a mind at ease, notwithstanding
your very white hair, and the stoop I observed as you entered
— has not only overspread your countenance, but filled your
eyes with brightness, and given a cheerful vibration to the sound
of your voice, which reminds me of other days.”

“Of other days, Elizabeth? I had hoped that all our other
days were forgotten; and that henceforth and forever, we should
meet as brother and sister in Christ. Where is Arthur?”

Startled by the abruptness of the question, she did not immediately
answer.

“I understand that he has taken to the Bible; and I have
reason to believe that his lips have been opened in prayer.”

“Yes.”

“But in public, I mean.”

“The Lord be praised! But can it be true?”

“I think so — though I have not heard him myself; but I
have not a few friends who are on the watch for new cases; and
judging by the description I have had, I think thy dear son
Arthur so far forgot himself at a prayer-meeting, two or three
weeks ago, as to breathe aloud what he meant for secret prayer.
But he was overheard —”

“By God's holy angels, I hope!”

“Even so, Elizabeth, — and also by mortal men, who were
ready to rejoice with the holy angels; and one of the brethren followed
him, after he left the meeting, as far as the Upper Ferry,
for the purpose of satisfying himself; but lost him there in the
crowd. Judging by what I was told of his appearance and
behavior, and age, I have no doubt, I assure thee, of its being
Arthur.”

“How shall I thank you, my dear friend, for your faithfulness
to my poor boy?”

“Thee need not thank me, Elizabeth. I am all the happier,
and it may be all the better, for being about my Father's business.
I am now an old man.”

“Oh, no — not an old man, William!”

“Perhaps not, if we reckon by years; but as we are only
allowed so many pulsations of the heart, whether we outlive our
three score and ten, or die earlier; as they are counted to us,
one by one, have we not good reason to believe that, if they are
hurried, our lives are shortened; and that, where a strong man
has to go through with many a sore and ever-changing uncommon
trial, he may be old in spirit, as in body, long before the
appointed hour common to others. When thee first knew me,
Elizabeth, I had no acquaintance with sorrow. I had never
been hurried nor troubled. My life was like a river. I had no
fear of calamity — no thought of death; and I was full of hope
and trust.”

Aunt Elizabeth withdrew her hand, as if to wipe away a tear;
but it soon found its way back, they never knew how.

“Thy husband and I, notwithstanding the difference in our
tempers and ages, were like David and Jonathan. We loved
one another, I verily believe, with a love passing the love of
women. But, while we were walking together in the sunshine
— fearing no evil — the thunder broke over our heads, and the
earth opened underneath our feet, and I was swallowed up in the
darkness, and he alone escaped. Be not frightened, I beseech
thee! Do not shudder and tremble at the touch of my hand.
Thee has nothing to fear. I am not beside myself, nor growing
wild, I assure thee.”

“Oh, I am not afraid, William, — if I tremble, it is with grief,
and sorrow, and shame, that so noble a creature should have
been so frightfully shipwrecked, through any fault of mine.”

“What do thee mean, Elizabeth Maynard? Whose fault was
it, I pray, if, when I had been brought to a knowledge of the
truth, so as to see for myself that I was not only walking on
the outermost verge of a precipice, overhanging the shadows of
another world, but that I was leading thee there, step by step, in
my blindness? — whose fault was it, I say, that I lost my balance
in the suddenness of the revelation, and in letting thee go,
lost my only stay on earth, and toppled over headlong into the
abyss? To thee, my dearest friend, am I indebted for that
knowledge of what most concerned us both; which, while it
shortens my life here, will, I trust, lengthen it hereafter.”

Aunt Elizabeth was a little frightened, it must be acknowledged,
notwithstanding her disclaimers, and there were times
when her heart beat thick and hurriedly, and her color came
and went, and her tears fell upon the hand she held, like summer
rain, but there was no wildness of look or manner, no want
of self-command; nothing, after all, but a deep seriousness, and
a flow of language, wholly unlike what she had been accustomed
to for years.

“Do not misunderstand me, I pray thee. Next to our heavenly
Father, am I under the greatest obligations to thee, for
helping me to look into my own heart, as thee did, — for revealing
me to myself. Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth! if thee knew how
long and how terrible was the darkness that followed thy unexpected
marriage — a marriage I had hoped for and wished for,
— though not so soon perhaps, — thee would not wonder to find
me an old man, with white hair, stooping, and trembling, and tottering
on my way toward the grave. And yet, I do not blame
thee — I never did blame thee. Harper was worthy of thy holiest
earthly affections, — he was a man after my own heart, when
both were but worldlings; and the very man I would have chosen
for a beloved sister, — nay, even for thee, dear Elizabeth, had it
been left with me to decide. But when I tell thee, that, for long
years, while wandering over Europe and Asia, and seeking rest,
but finding none, the sorrowful remembrance of our last meeting

haunted me for ever and ever — thee will understand me. In
the watches of the night, I saw thee pale and weeping — I heard
thy broken cries of anguish and terror, and the faint, low sobbing,
that drove me from the house out into the cold night air, and at
last over sea.”

“Oh, my friend, my poor friend, what shall I say!”

“Nothing, Elizabeth. Nothing more can be said now; the
seal of death is upon my forehead, the hand of death upon my
heart. Bear with me for a few moments, and I shall be through
with all I have wanted to say. For many a year, I was unable
to eat or sleep, I was filled with such dismal forebodings; and
lest the friends who watched over me might be troubled, I would
feign sleep, and lie still, hour after hour, till I was almost ready
to spring from the bed, or sofa, and throw myself out of the window,
in my unappeasable restlessness; and I would often swallow
my food at the risk of choking, and without the least relish for it
— or the least inclination — and when I could not distinguish
one kind from another — and with an air of cheerfulness, too,
which satisfied them, till they saw how emaciated I grew, and
how querulous and peevish. At last, I determined to follow thee
to England; — I did so — and that saved me, for I have never
lost sight of thee since.”

“Never lost sight of me!”

“Never! At this moment, I am as well acquainted with all
that has happened to thee and to thy household, from the day I
first met my friend Harper in the neighborhood, as if I had been
living under the same roof with thee.”

“Did he know this?”

“No, — not altogether. He knew that I often saw thee, and
often heard thy voice; but many times he believed me to be afar
off, in other lands, when I was within two minutes' walk of the
street you lived in.”

“And why did you not see me? You would have been always
most welcome, I assure you.”

“So he said; but I knew better — I knew it must be otherwise
— and therefore I insisted upon keeping out of thy way,
and not allowing thee to know that I was in the land of the
living.”

“How very strange! How mysterious, indeed! I now begin
to recall a number of incidents, which I might have known
at the time, had I not been misled in some way, so that my attention
was diverted — and which, I now see, must have had some
connection with you.”

“I dare say. He mentioned several to me, and we were sometimes
not a little amused at the narrow escapes I have had.
More than once I have met thee coming in, or going out of thy
house in the evening.”

“Indeed!”

“And once, I was kept a prisoner by thy husband in the next
chamber to thee, till near morning. It was the last time, however.
I determined to run that risk no more. Do thee remember
when little Arthur was brought home to thee one day, after
he had tumbled into the basin, where he had been feeding the
swans? I was watching him at the time, and took him out; and
was in the carriage with him and the nurse, when it stopped at
thy door.”

“Is it possible! You, my noble-hearted, generous friend,
watching over me for years, and over my husband, and saving
him — as he himself acknowledged to me over and over again,
with tears in his eyes — from a shipwreck worse than death —
and even from death itself, if I rightly understood him, on one
occasion; and I, never to know a word of all this, that I might acknowledge
your brotherly kindness, and minister to you in turn.”

“`Thou couldst not minister to a mind diseased, — pluck from
the memory a rooted sorrow,' Elizabeth, or `with some sweet oblivious
antidote' — I forget the rest, — but I was afraid to see
thee, — and thee must forgive me for quoting Shakspeare.”

“I remember, too, that something very strange happened at
the time of our greatest trouble; — and then it was that I first
heard of your being alive, and that, by your timely interference,
you had saved the house of Maynard & Co. from reproach and
ruin.”

“What was it, pray?”

“There was a ring — do you remember a large ring of twisted
serpents, with carbuncle eyes, which my husband wore?”

“Yes, and thy brother wears it now, though he tries to conceal

it, I see, as if it were something to be afraid of — or
ashamed of.”

“It is something to be afraid of. In some way or other, I
know not how — for he never explained the mystery — but
this I know, that my husband owed his life to that ring. After
the bitterness of death had passed, and he had begun to recover
from the terrible prostration that followed your timely interference,
that ring was put away; and I never saw it again till he
sent it to brother George from his death-bed, begging of him
never to part with it while he lived, and always to wear it, if he
could. But your eyes are fixed upon me with a look I do not
understand — it makes me tremble — pray don't! — you scare
me — my very blood runs cold!”

“I was waiting to hear in what way that ring was connected
with me in thy remembrance?”

“Well, — after the terrible night which followed the discovery
that Maynard & Co. were bankrupt beyond all hope, — he
handed me that ring, and begged me to put it away where it
would be safe, and where he should never see it again; saying at
the same time that you had appeared for his relief, just when there
seemed to be no hope — no possibility of escape — and that this
ring — though I never understood how — was in some way coupled
with your appearance; in fact, I well remember that he called
it a talisman, and assured me, half seriously, too, that it had once
belonged to some great Eastern monarch.”

“Solomon, perhaps?”

“No, not Solomon; but to somebody of our day, whose name
I do not now remember.”

“Was it Aladdin, Elizabeth, — or Tippoo Saib?”

“It was Tippoo Saib; I remember it well now — can you
clear up the mystery?”

“Yes; but hereafter, not now. All that he told thee was true.
That ring did save thy dear husband's life; — but I must go now;
farewell.”

“Won't you stay to dinner, and take a bed with us? We
shall have no company, unless our friend Fay should drop in;
but Julia, and Arthur, and my brother George, all want to see
you, and all want to know you; do stop, will you?”

“Not to-day, Elizabeth. Farewell!”

“Farewell, my dear old friend.”

And the next moment, William Bayard was gone, — moving
off like a man of thirty-five, at the most, as he hurried along the
piazza, and over the smooth gravel-walk, with his long, white hair
blowing backward in the wind, and his gold-headed cane ringing
like a light hammer upon the hard gravel.