Chapter 8

"Oh," said Miss Falkner, "we are going to call at the cottage to-morrow, and I will be your guide. We have long been intending to pay a visit to Miss Willoughby, mamma is anxious to apologize for some little misunderstanding." Helen tried to speak, but her words could find no utterance, in reply to the impertinent speech of Miss Falkner, but shaking Sir Horace warmly by the hand, she bowed and went into her home.

At breakfast Miss Falkner told her mother, that as Sir Horace Mortimer, had made an appointment to visit Miss Willoughby; they could avail themselves of his escort, and go with him. This I beg leave to say, though apparently the thought of the moment, was a _preconcerted_ proposition: but one which Sir Horace declared impossible! as he had particular business with Miss Willoughby, at which none but Dr. Sherman, and Mrs. Cameron could be present. This was spoken so decidedly, that no further opposition was made to his wish to go alone.

But both mother and daughters were sadly puzzled. Conjecture was rife among them the whole morning: at last they came to the conclusion that he had made up his mind to propose for Helen--it must be so, else why Dr. Sherman and Mrs. Cameron present?--this point, therefore, was settled--at least with the Falkners, of her acceptance of him, a rich East Indian, oh there could be no doubt of that. And the elder Miss Falkner could breathe again, since she was free to captivate Mr. George Mortimer, with whom she was desperately in love. Thus do vain and silly people jump at conclusions and thus is half the business of a country town, or village, settled without any concurrence, or even knowledge of those most concerned.

The request of Sir Horace Mortimer set Helen wondering, and certainly deprived her of some hours sleep. His peculiar manner and his ardent gaze, too, recurred to her mind, as she lay thinking on the subject.

She was completely puzzled, he was a perfect stranger whom she had never before seen, nor he her, what could it mean? Would not some have concluded he was in love with her, but a man old enough to be her father! Such an idea never entered her head: in fact she could make no probable guess, so she determined to make a virtue of necessity, and wait quietly, till he came. Early the next day, she sent for Mrs. Cameron, and told her of the appointment Sir Horace had made, and as she thought it more than probable, the Falkners might accompany him, as they spoke of doing so over night, she wished her friend to be with her. But we have already seen that Sir Horace had decidedly expressed his determination to go alone. Mrs. Cameron was equally perplexed with Helen, as to his object. She thought perhaps he had mistaken Helen's likeness, to some one he was attached to in his early years, and applying her favorite well-founded maxim and belief in an over-ruling Providence, made up her mind, that however the mistake might be; it would end in the orphans finding a sincere friend in the Baronet or the rich Nabob, as the people termed him.

Whatever were the surmises of Sir Horace Mortimer, he was perfectly satisfied with the result of his private examination of the miniature for he exclaimed to himself, "God be praised! it must indeed be so," saying this, he put it in his pocket, and joined the Falkner family at breakfast, where the conversation before related, took place.

On his way to Helen's, he met his cousin, and they walked on together. At length Sir Horace Mortimer asked, "George, my boy do you not begin to think of marrying; it is in my opinion, high time you should--let me see; you must be eight and twenty, why you are losing time sadly, take care I don't get spliced first, as sailors say."

"Why sir, they do say Maria Falkner has certainly made a conquest of you."

"They do, do they: its very kind of them to settle so important a point for me. Do you approve the match."

"I think there are many who would make you happier."

"Miss Willoughby, for instance!" said Sir Horace.

"Miss Willoughby! sir."

"Yes, Miss Willoughby, George, what objection? Should I be the first old man, who has married a young girl? and made her happy too. I intend to make her a proposal to-day."

"You! sir; you surely don't mean what you say!"

"But I do, though; I was never more in earnest in my life. But, eh, George! what is the matter? you change colour. You don't want her yourself? You know you can't marry her and Miss Falkner too."

"I marry Miss Falkner? Never; I would sooner be wedded to--"

"Hold! my boy; I know the workings of that wayward heart of yours, better than you think; and, therefore, let us understand each other; at any rate, let me be clearly understood, when I say, that unless you make up your mind to marry Helen Willoughby, I shall."

"But, my dear Sir Horace, though I greatly admire and esteem her far beyond any woman I ever saw. Yet I am,----" and he paused.

"You are what? Shall I tell you? You are so very fastidious, that you are refining away your happiness, like anything but a sensible man. You don't expect perfection, do you? The long and the short of the matter, is this: in your haste to answer my letter from the Downs, you sent me, by mistake, a confidential epistle, which you had intended for some intimate friend. Not having any signature, I went on reading it, nor till you adverted to my arrival off Deal, was I aware who was the writer. It was a lucky _contre temps_, it gave me a better insight into your views and character, than years of common intercourse could have done. I admire your principles, though I think you carry them a little too far. Now don't blame me, as I again repeat, you omitted your name at the end. So no more nonsense, my lad; 'screw up your courage to the sticking point,' and go, and propose for the girl at once. You must do it, I tell you, or I disinherit you, and give her every penny; and, as I before said, myself into the bargain. But I am off to Sherman's and thence, to Miss Willoughby, where I shall expect you in an hour, so you had best be on the alert. You will not be the first young man who has been outwitted by an old one, so mind." Saying this, he left his young relative, who was not, however, very tardy in following advice so consonant to his own wishes.

It may be thought George Mortimer was too particular, but be it remembered, it was a most honorable feeling that led to his deliberation; viz., the firm resolve not to win Helen's, affections, and then leave her. No, he nobly resolved first to learn the state of his own feelings; and well would it be if many others would act equally generous. But no! however men decry beauty, they are all its slaves, and it ever wins a willing homage from them. They are won by the attractions of a pretty face, and are in consequence, most particular in their attentions to its possessor; who is thus singled out, and in all probability, is subject to the jokes of her friends till from so constantly hearing, she is beloved, she believes it to be so, nor awakes from her dream, till she sees herself supplanted by a newer or prettier face. This is a crying evil: a bad state of things; and in regretting it, we must not lay the blame wholly on the opposite sex. There is doubtless too much credulity in the ladies, but this credulity would be greatly diminished, were they more frequently met and treated as rational beings, and they would much sooner become so: for they would have an object in it. How much would the state of society be improved, could there be a little reform on the side of each sex. Let the man, as the superior, commence; he will find his young female friends, beings capable of more than the small talk, with which they are too generally amused; and I think they will soon be better prepared for sensible conversation; and then let the ladies on their part be a little more sceptical in believing the flattery and adulation of the men, and not fancy every gentleman, who is friendly and attentive in perhaps merely a general way, in love with her. As in everything else, there are exceptions, here I only speak of generalities, and I trust not with acerbity. A very little of mutual effort, would bring about a great improvement in these matters. The _young_ have great influence on the _young_, particularly in the formation of character, and well for those who exercise it beneficially.

When Sir Horace Mortimer went into the cottage, he had hardly shaken hands than he asked Helen her mother's maiden name.

"Brereton," she replied.

"Brereton?" said he "not Anna Brereton, for she married a Lieutenant Bateson; am I wrong then, after all?"

"Papa changed his name," said Helen, "on receiving some, property, which we afterwards found he had no claim to."

"Then, my beloved girl, in me you behold your uncle William. You have heard your mother speak of me."

"Oh, yes, frequently! she always said, had you been at home, you would have brought about a reconciliation with grand-papa."

"Do you ever see or hear of your Aunt Elinor; she was engaged when I went away, to a Mr. Selwyn, and it was thought to be a good match."

Helen told him she had received two letters from Mrs. Selwyn.

"Which two letters I must see, for I suspect she has slighted you. As to you, my dear Mrs. Cameron, what can I ever say to you and your worthy brother, or the kind Mrs. Sherman, I meant to have had the Doctor with me; but just as we were leaving his door, he was called away to somebody taken suddenly ill. Helen, there is your mother's portrait, which was taken for me, but I sailed before it was completed. I gave the order myself and a pattern; Sherman received it last night, and this led to my discovering you. Though I was much struck when I first saw you, by your strong likeness, to your mother, I never expected, to see any of you."

"But why, dearest uncle have we heard, nothing of you for so long a time?"

"That my child is a long story, which time will not allow me to go into now: you shall have it some of these days; as I see George coming, whom I desired to follow me here, as I recommended him to consult you about his proposing to Miss Falkner."

"Me!" said Helen, "consult _me_?" and she colored deeply.

"Why not, you are second or third cousins; and he has a great opinion of your judgement."

"Well sir," said the Baronet to Mr. Mortimer, as he entered, "the hour has not yet expired: however you have given me time to tell Helen, how nearly she and I are related, for her mother was my own sister!"

"Is it possible!" cried the astonished George.

"Yes, and I told her you were coming to consult her upon several matters." As he spoke this, he stole his hat and slipped off giving a significant look at Mrs. Cameron, who followed the old gentleman to the garden, and there learnt what he had gleaned from George Mortimer's letter, to Mr. Emmerson, viz., that he was much attached to Helen--and added he had no doubt but they should soon have a job for Mr. Montgomery, to marry them.

"At any rate we must have him here."

The remainder of my tale, is soon told, viz.: that Helen and Mortimer, were united, and Mrs. Falkner, insisted on removing to a place where she would be more likely to settle her girls. Sir Horace bought the villa which still retained its name.

IDLE WORDS.

"My God!" the beauty oft exclaimed, In deep impassioned tone; But not in humble prayer, she named The High and Holy One; 'Twas not upon the bended knee, With soul upraised to Heaven, Pleading with heartfelt agony, That she might be forgiven.

'Twas not in heavenly strains She raised, to the great Source of Good, Her daily offering of praise, Her song of gratitude. But in the gay and thoughtless crowd, And in the festive Hall, 'Midst scenes of mirth and mockery proud She named the Lord of All.

The idlest thing that flattery knew, The most unmeaning jest, From her sweet lips profanely drew, Names of the Holiest! I thought how sweet that voice would be, Breathing this prayer to Heaven, "My God, I worship only thee, Oh be my sins forgiven!"

THE MANIAC OF VICTORY.

But here comes one, that seems to out-rejoice All the rejoicing tribe! wild is her eye, And frantic is her air, and fanciful Her sable suit; and round, she rapid rolls Her greedy eyes upon the spangled street. And drinks with greedy gaze upon the sparkling scene! "And see!" she cries how they have graced the hour That gave _him_ to his grave! hail lovely lamps, In honor of that hour a grateful land Hath hung aloft! and sure he well deserves The tributary splendor--for he fought Their battles well--ah! he was valor's self-- Fierce was the look with which he faced the foe But on his Harriet, when my hero bent it, 'Twas so benign! and beautiful he was-- And he was young; too young in years, to die! 'Twas but a little while his wing had thrown Its guardian shadow o'er me--but 'tis gone-- Fall'n is my shield, yet see now if I weep. A British warrior's widow should not weep-- Her hero sleeps in honor's fragrant bed-- So they all tell me, and I have nobly learned Their gallant lesson--all my tears are gone-- Bright glory's beam has dried them every drop No,--No,--I scorn to weep--high is mine heart!

Hot are mine eyes! there's no weak water there! 'Tis time I should have joyed--what mother would not? To have shown him that sweet babe o'er which he wept When last he kissed it--yes he did--he wept; My warrior wept!--as the weak woman's tears From off this cheek, where now I none can feel, He kissed away--he wet it with his own; Oh! yes 'twould--'twould have been sweet to have shown him How his dear lovely boy had: grown, since he Beheld it cradled, and to have bid it call him By the sweet name that I had taught it utter In softest tones, while he was thunder hearing, And thunder hurling round him--for his hand Would not be idle amid deeds of glory; Yes _glory--glory--glory_ is the word-- See how it glitters all along the street!-- And then she laughs, and wildly leaps along With tresses all untied. Fair wretch--adieu: In mercy--heaven thy shattered peace repair.

--FAWCETT.

"GOD DOETH ALL THINGS WELL."

I remember how I loved her, as a little guileless child; I saw her in the cradle, as she looked on me, and smiled. My cup of happiness was full; my joy, no words can tell, And I bless the Glorious Giver, "who doeth all things well."

Months passed, that bud of promise, was unfolding every hour. I thought that earth had never smiled upon a fairer flower. So beautiful! it well might grace the bowers, where angels dwell, And waft its fragrance to His throne, "who doeth all things well."

Years fled; that little sister then was dear as life to me, And woke, in my unconscious heart a wild idolatry. I worshipped at an earthly shrine, lured by some magic spell, Forgetful of the praise of Him "who doeth all things well."

She was like the lovely Star, whose light around my pathway shone, Amid this darksome vale of tears through which I journey on; No radiance had obscured the light, which round His throne doth dwell, And I wandered far away from Him, who "doeth all things well."

That star went down, in beauty, yet, it shineth, sweetly now, In the bright and dazzling coronet that decks the Saviour's brow, She bowed to that destroyer, whose shafts none may repel; But we know, for God has told us, that "He doeth all things well."

I remember well, my sorrow, as I stood beside her bed, And my deep and heartfelt anguish when they told me she was dead. And, oh! that cup of bitterness--but let not this heart rebel, God gave; he took; he can restore; "He doeth all things well."

HOW OLD ART THOU?

Count not the days that have idly flown, The years that were vainly spent; Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own, When thy spirit stands before the throne To account for the talents lent.

But number the hours redeemed from sin, The moments employed for heaven; Oh, few and evil thy days have been, Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene, For a nobler purpose given.

Will the shade go back on thy dial plate? Will thy sun stand still on his way? Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate Rests on the point of life's little date, Then live while 'tis called to-day.

Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page, As they lessen, in value rise; Oh, then rouse thee, and live nor deem that man's age Stands in the length of his Pilgrimage, But in days that are _truly wise_.

ON TIME.

Who needs a teacher to admonish him That flesh is grass! that earthly things, but mist! What are our joys, but dreams? And what our hopes? But goodly shadows in the summer cloud? There's not a wind that blows, but bears with it Some rainbow promise. Not a moment flies, But puts its sickle in the fields of life, And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares.

'Tis but as yesterday, since on those stars, Which now I view, the Chaldean shepherd gazed, In his mid watch observant, and disposed The twinkling hosts, as fancy gave them shape; Yet, in the interim, what mighty shocks Have buffeted mankind; whole nations razed, Cities made desolate; the polished sunk To barbarism, and _once_ barbaric states, Swaying the wand of science and of arts. Illustrious deeds and memorable names, Blotted from record, and upon the tongues Of gray tradition, voluble no more.

Where are the heroes of the ages past,-- Where the brave chieftans; where the mighty ones Who flourished in the infancy of days? Ah to the grave gone down! On their fallen fame Exultant, mocking, at the pride of man, Sits grim Forgetfulness. The warrior's arm Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame, Hushed is the stormy voice, and quenched the blaze Of his red eye-ball.

Yesterday, his name Was mighty on the earth; to-day,--'tis what? The meteor of the night of distant years, That flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, Musing, at midnight, upon prophecies, Who at her only lattice, saw the gleam Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up, Safe in the charnel's treasure.

Oh! how weak Is mortal man! how, trifling! how confined His scope of vision! Puffed with confidence His phrase grows big with immortality; And he, poor insect of a summer's day, Dreams of eternal honours to his name, Of endless glory and perennial bays, He idly reasons of eternity. As of the train of ages; when, alas! Ten thousand thousand of his centuries Are in comparison, a little point, Too trivial for account.

Oh it is strange; 'Tis very strange to mark men's fallacies. Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, And smile, and say, my name shall live with this, Till time shall be no more; while at his feet, Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust Of the fallen fabric of the other day, Preaches the solemn lesson.--He should know That time must conquer; that the loudest blast That ever filled renown's obstreperous trump, Fades in the lap of ages, and expires. Who lies, inhumed, in the terrific gloom Of the gigantic pyramid? Or who Reared its huge wall? Oblivion laughs, and says, The prey is mine. They sleep, and never more Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, Or memory burst its fetters.

Where is Rome? She lives but in the tale of other times; Her proud pavilions, are the hermits' home, And her long colonades, her public walks, Now faintly echo to the pilgrims' feet, Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace Through the rank moss revealed, her honoured dust.

But not to Rome, alone, has fate confined The doom of ruin; cities numberless. Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, And rich Phoenicia; they are blotted out Half razed,--from memory razed; and their very name And being, in dispute.

--WHITE

THE YOUNG MAN'S PRAYER.

One stood upon the threshold of his life; A life all bright with promise,--and he prayed, "Father of Heaven! this beautious world of thine, Is trod in sorrow by my race." The shade Of sin and grief darken the sunshine, Thou Around us with a lavish hand, hast spread. Man only walks this breathing glowing earth, With spirit crushed,--with bowed and stricken head. I ask not, Father, why these things be so, I only ask, that thou will make of me A messenger of joy, to lift the woe From hearts that mourn, and lead them up to Thee.

THE END.