CHAPTER XVII of The Fortune Hunter, a novel of New York society by Anna Koromowit. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Thou here? It was not thou whom here I came to seek. Now my dear husband said Mrs. Clinton to her liege lord, as she was arranging their places in the China breakfast service. You really must do something about this affair. I know that Brainerd is a good-for-nothing, idle, dissipated, penniless young fellow. I know it on good authority, and he shall not marry my daughter. I hope not, my dear, but what can I do? Has he never even proposed for her? Did I not tell you that he had, my dear, and that Estelle told me herself that she was engaged to him, and would marry him? It would break my heart to see her throw herself away in such a manner. There's young Edgar Chadwick. I would much rather see her his wife, and Mrs. Chadwick is such a delightful woman. She would be such pleasant company for me, and then the doctor would always be at hand, and there is not a physician in New York like him. Very good, you may arrange all that between yourselves. But why have you taken such a dislike to Mr. Brainerd? Did not Ellery tell us that his father left him a hundred thousand dollars? Yes, but I do not believe a word of it. A man came here after him the other day, who looked for all the world like a collector. And what do you wish me to do? Merely to call upon him this morning, and so turn the conversation that he will be obliged to speak of his intentions towards Esther, then ask him what is the state of his circumstances, and let him know that at all events he shan't have your consent. A very pleasant errand, truly.  Nonsense! Why can't you do it? Now promise me you will call upon him this very morning. Certainly I will call upon him if you desire it, but men always make a bungling mess of such matters. We have not the tact of women. I will call upon and discover what I can do, for if your representation of Brainerd is a true one, he certainly shall not marry my daughter. That is right. Now go! Be sure you give him his walking ticket. That delightful Mrs. Chadwick can't enjoy him, nor can I. Mr. Clinton was one of those quiet, systematic men who hate to have the daily routine they are accustomed to pursue interrupted, and who have yet a greater hatred of all domestic dissension. He knew that, for the preservation of his household peace, he must comply with his wife's request, and therefore determined to pay a visit to Mr. Brainerd forthwith. As he entered Mr. Brainerd's luxurious apartments, that gentleman was sitting with his back to the door, his head leaning upon his hands, his brows knit, his eyes glancing uneasily over a suspicious-looking strip of paper, which lay on the table in front of him. Directly opposite to Mr. Brainerd sat another gentleman, in an attitude of the most perfect ease and enjoyment. With his club foot tenderly extended upon a chair, he was puffing every once in a while a wreath of smoke through his nostrils, and ejaculating with every puff, Capital cigar, capital, your la norma, capital, my dear fellow. Mr. Clinton invents in front of the table before he attracted the attention of either gentleman. Mr. Brainerd raised his eyes at the sound of the steps, and arose confusedly from his seat. Mr. Clinton, how do you do? How do you do? How are you? Happy to see you again, haven't forgotten me, I hope, did some business for you five years ago at the time of the great failures. Everything going to ruin then, banks broken, everybody blown up great country. That's great country. Mr. Badger rubbed his hands briskly together, as though there was something exhilarating in his reflection upon these little disasters. Mr. Clinton returned his salutation with a bow, and Mr. Brainerd, glancing fiercely at Badger, placed a chair for his guest. I'm afraid I have interrupted you, said Mr. Clinton. Oh, not at all, replied Brainerd boldly. I was only transacting a little business with Mr. Badger here. I have heard so much of his ingenuity that I had just determined to try his skill in the collection of some money for me, which I had given up as lost. I was just looking over the account. That's all, my dear sir, said Badger, before Clinton could reply. The exact truth, I assure you, pwn on her. My friend Brainerd compliments me too highly. No, perhaps he don't either. Flattered myself when I have a little business on hand. There's no satisfying me till it's accomplished. Can't be done, sir. Can't be done. And Mr. Badger struck the table with his fists to render his language more impressive, and at the same time give a side long glance at Mr. Brainerd. Mr. Brainerd, said Mr. Clinton, rising, my visit was merely one of accident or civility, and as I find you engaged I will do myself the pleasure of calling again. Mr. Brainerd was too much relieved to oppose Mr. Clinton's departure, although Mr. Badger seemed greatly disposed to do so. Mr. Clinton, however, declined the polite invitations graciously given to him by the latter general. Badger, you will ruin me, exclaimed Brainerd, flinging himself into his chair. You give me no peace.  You always interfere with my brightest prospects. Very sorry, my dear fellow. Very sorry. Didn't mean anything of the kind. Quite a mistake of yours. Here comes Mr. Ellory. Ah, Mr. Ellory, how do you do? It's in time to comfort the afflicted. My friend just wished him for you. I know he was. See it in his face. Mr. Badger was certainly possessed of the power of divination in this instance, for Brainerd was much relieved by the entrance of Mr. Ellory. Ellory, let me say a word to you. Brainerd drew his friend aside and then said in an undertone, that fellow will ruin me, ruin me at the very moment when my wishes are on the eve of accomplishment. Read this letter from Esther Clinton. She said that her mother has discovered our engagement and opposes it, but that she will fly with me to the utmost ends of the earth. Her father was here a moment ago and found this fellow sitting here with a cigar in his mouth gloating upon his prey. Now, my friend, can you not assist me with the loan of a hundred dollars, which will satisfy Badger for the present? If Esther remains in the same mood, you shall be repaid before next Sunday. Well, really, Brainerd, I don't like to refuse you, but this is quite out of my line. I have only just money enough for my own expenses. Couldn't you raise the wind in any other way? Impossible! I am the most infernally unlucky dog. Out of those cursed Jews I have got all that I can get, and unless you help me, I do not know which way to turn. Remember that your money will be repaid to a certainty, for Esther swears that she will marry me. I never do anything of the kind, Brainerd, but rather than see you miss your chance, I will venture to satisfy Badger for this once. But remember, there is to be no delay. You ought to take this Esther at her word, and that instantly. Thank you. Thank you. Trust me, I shall do as you desire. Mr. Ellery approached the table, and, writing a few cobalistic words on a piece of paper, presented it to Mr. Badger, at the same time handing him his hat and saying, Mr. Badger, you must excuse us at the present. Mr. Brainerd is not very well. Certainly, certainly, Brainerd, my dear fellow, hope to find you better when I call again. Must get well. Good morning, Mr. Ellery, Brainerd. Good morning to my dear fellow, speedy recovery, to you, speedy recovery. And no, Brainerd, said Ellery, play your cards well. Be sure you don't miss a trick. I believe in my soul that if you had not made such a fool of yourself about Miss Walton, you should have been married to Esther before this. Ah, Miss Walton, do not mention her. What, so tender on the subject yet, a pretty fool you would have made of yourself if you had married her. I agree with Keats that love is a hut with water and a crust is love, forgive us, cinders, ashes, dust. Yes, but I never thought of marrying her, I could not. We will not talk of it at present. By the way, I intend upon calling on Miss Adair this morning. Two strings are sureer than one. Miss Esther may take a turn of filial heroism, which will miss one string. I shall still have another to draw my bow with. You will have to draw a pretty long bow to bend it with the last one, for Miss Adair is not wanting in shrewdness, but pay her your divorce this morning, by all means, and just imagine her Aria Walton, will you? If it were only Aria herself, sighed Brainerd, touch men who are bad. Get ready, and I will walk part of the way with you. While Brainerd was seated close by the side of Miss Adair upon her little sofa, for the sofa was intended to hold two, his thoughts reverted frequently to Mr. Badger, and at that very period by some strange chance Mr. Badger's thoughts were entirely aggrossed by him and his interest. Mr. Badger had returned to his dingy office and was in the very act of waging war with the cobwebs which delicately tapestry'd his walls when Mr. Clinton honored him with a visit. Mr. Badger threw down the broom and acquitted himself in sustaining the part of a host, much to his own satisfaction. Mr. Clinton entered into conversation and soon made several ineffectual attempts to ascertain if his host had any knowledge of the state of Mr. Brainerd's affairs, but Mr. Badger was a man of honor. There were cases, some few cases, where he did not think it necessary to make public the concerns of his intimate friends. Mr. Badger's surprising indisposition to be communicative more than ever awakened Mr. Clinton's suspicions, and he was determined to satisfy himself by strategic if he could not do so by other means. Perhaps you are not aware, Mr. Badger, said he, that I have some interest in this young gentleman. If there are any demands against him, perhaps I may be of assistance.  Didn't know you had an interest in him, didn't I? Knew it all along, knew your daughter myself, pretty girl, fine woman, capital match, capital. Mr. Brainerd is somewhat embarrassed at present, is he not? Up to his teeth in debt. Hand you his accounts in a minute, do business for almost all the people he employs, livery stable bill, a poser. Write me a little check for that, and you'll be doing a good action, a good action. Just what I expected of you, very much obliged. Here's a paper, sir, here's ink. Pin don't want nibbing, just the man I took you to be. You must excuse me at present, Mr. Badger, on second thoughts. I fancy it will be best to talk this matter over with Mr. Brainerd. Mr. Clinton, having obtained the information he wanted, rose and hastily left the office. Why, the old hunks, said Mr. Badger, looking after him. Didn't shell out after all. He's a deep one. Got all he wanted out of me and never showed me the color of his shiners. Too bad, too bad, no gratitude. Write that man down as no gentleman. End of chapter 17. Chapter 18 of The Fortune Hunter, a novel of New York society by Anna Koromovic. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Such are thy dangers, yet if thou canst steer, past all the perils, all quicksends clear, then mayest thou profit. Crab. It was not until after the hour of business that Mr. Clinton returned home, and when he had privately communicated to his wife the discoveries he had made, they summoned Esther. Without much preface, he portrayed Brainerd's character in glowing colors to her, and pronounced him to be a worthless fellow and a needy fortune-hunter, whose object in taking her as wife only to best circumstances, declared that he would never consent to such a man's union with his daughter. Then you must renounce your daughter, said Esther heroically. He has been traduced. I have given him my troth, and should I break it, my heart must break first. Esther clasped her hands over the spot where she supposed her heart to lie, and, drawing herself up to her utmost height, stood, looking at her parents with undaunted heroism. Then you break our hearts after all the love we have lavished on you, said her mother.  That assertion is as great an insult to me as to him, preferred the dutiful daughter. Father and mother, your words are empty-wind. I could not hope to escape the common lot, that I should be persecuted and my lover traduced. I always expected, but once for all, I tell you that my promise to Mr. Brainard I will never break, although you spurn me from your door. Mrs. Clinton burst into tears, and Mr. Clinton, turning to his wife, said with undisguised rage, This comes from your fine bringing up.  You may thank yourself for her disobedience and insolence. You have got your reward. Mr. Clinton would have proceeded, but Rachel, who for a few minutes previous had entered the room, unnoticed, interfered. My dear father, leave me with Esther. I have something to communicate which may make her change her mind.  Do not weep. All will be well. I am quite certain that you will have no cause for tears. For once Mrs. Clinton looked kindly on her eldest daughter, and as she listened to these charming words, she kissed Rachel's forehead and said with emotion, Do, Rachel, my good kind, Rachel, do persuade her, do influence her, she will make us all miserable. I will, mother, only leave us and take father with you. Esther stood gazing on the group until Mr. and Mrs. Clinton left the room, and turned a defying glance on her sister. I'll tell you your words are idle. They cannot move me. Perhaps not, my dear sister, but hear what I have to say. From what I accidentally heard of my father's conversation with you, I infer that you are engaged to Mr. Brainard. I am not more grieved than astonished to hear it. My dear Esther, you do not know the man. He is a double-faced villain. It was only a few days ago that Arya told me, in confidence, that he addressed her in the language of passion, and even, She spoke falsely. I know Arya Walton well. She is duplicity itself. This is the second time you have made her the cloak of your designs. Once you told me that she was engaged to Edgar Chadwick, and that was false. We all know. Now you assure me that Mr. Brainard is paying his addresses to her, and that is false, so yet I know. Arya is incapable of speaking a false word, returned Rachel warmly, and at that instant she observed the carriage standing before the door, for at this hour her mother generally took an airing. She opened the window and beckoned to the coachman. Richard, drive as fast as you can to the lemmings. Give my love to Miss Walton, and tell her, if she is well enough, she will do me a great favour by stepping immediately into the carriage and coming here. Make haste, and you will be back before my mother is ready. Rachel closed the window, and the carriage drove away. Esther, we will not talk on this subject at present. You shall hear from Arya's own lips whether I have given you a false account of Mr. Brainard's proceedings. Esther did not deign to make any reply, but seating herself opened a new novel she had just commenced perusing. Rachel took her station at the window and awaited with impatience the return of the carriage. In less than a quarter of an hour it drove briskly to the door. Rachel ran into the street, and before the coachman could alight, she drew herself down the steps and handed Arya out of the carriage. Nothing happened. Are you not ill? inquired Arya hastily. None, my sweet Arya, how good it was of you to hasten here. Come in quickly, how this keen air makes you cough! Rachel twinned her arm around her friend, and tenderly supported her into the parlor. Esther looked up at their entrance, closed her book, and folding her arm said, Arya Walton, good morning! Good morning, Esther, replied Arya, in her usual gentle tone. My dear Arya, said Rachel, I wish you to perform an unpleasant duty, but I know you will not shrink from it when you learn that you can be of service to us all. My sister is engaged to Mr. Brainard. Mr. Brainard, is it possible? Yes, and as I believe that his attentions are not altogether disinterested, and as I know that you can unmask him, I wish Esther to hear from your own lips that he has several times professed to be deeply enamored of you. Oh, Rachel, what I told you was for your ears alone. Forgive me for having betrayed your confidence. I did so in hope of benefiting Esther. Esther cast a look of supreme scorn upon them both. It is now your duty, Arya, to disclose what you would have otherwise kept secret. Tell my sister frankly, has not, Mr. Brainard, in the plainest language paid you his addresses. I cannot deny that he has. And has he not done so lately, within a fortnight? Arya looked as though it gave her great pain to answer. But the anxious expression of Rachel's countenance induced her, unhesitatingly, to reply, Yes, sister, you hear, said Rachel. I hear and see, see all, and therefore I believe nothing. This is a well-contrived plot, but it has not succeeded. You have given yourself a great deal of trouble for nothing, Miss Walton. Believe me, my dear Esther, I spoke an unpleasant truth, but I spoke the truth only. I can believe nothing. I have pledged my hand to Mr. Brainard, and I will wed him. Arya was confounded, Rachel in despair, while the latter was deliberating what course to pursue, the bell of the street door rang. Rachel darted to the window, as though she had a pre-sintiment that somebody whom she desired to see was near. Thank heaven! It is Brainard himself. Now Esther, you shall have proof that we have spoken truly. Arya, you must remain here and receive him. Esther and myself will retire, and I think we may be justified in listening to his conversation. Oh, no, no, Rachel, indeed I cannot. You must excuse me, I am not strong. You must spare me this," said the agitated Arya, who could not endure the idea of witnessing Brainard's compunctions. What, Arya, will you not save your friend from the miserable fate of becoming this man's wife? Pardon me, I hardly knew what I said. I will remain, but, indeed, I am unfit for the task. If you would do a good action, you will render yourself fit, exclaimed Rachel with energy. The effect of her words was instantly visible upon Arya, who, until then, looked as though she herself the culprit. Come, Esther, the door is opening. Come quickly, or it will be too late. Esther made some resistance, but Rachel, summoning up all her strength, forcibly drew her into the next room. The folding doors had scarcely closed upon them when Mr. Brainard entered. His astonishment was quickly succeeded by delight on beholding Arya. You hear charming Arya, this is a joy unlooked for, what kind spirit sent you to gladden these eyes that have not been blessed since they last saw you. Mr. Brainard, said Arya, hesitatingly, I—you—she looked toward the folding doors as though she could hardly restrain herself from mourning him. But the thought of Esther's perilous situation put to flight the half-formed intention. She answered with more composure, Mr. Brainard, this is not the language in which you should address me. How should I address you, except in the language of my heart, loveliest and best, a harsh fate may outwardly separate us. I may even be forced to wed another, yet we shall not, must not be wholly separated, Arya. My love will still be yours. Your love, tell me, shall it be mine? Mr. Brainard had hardly spoken these words before the doors flew open, and Esther burst frantically into the room followed by Rachel. Thithon exclaimed Esther, you are unmasked! Mr. Brainard was appalled. He gnawed his quivering lips without the power to frame a denial or excuse or a reply. The veil had fallen, and could no longer hide the foul beast that it had so long concealed. Esther could not add another word. Her desire to be a heroine fled from that moment. She saw her arrows and follies in their most glaring light, her ingratitude to her parents, her injustice to her sister, her unkindness to Arya, and her whole life's infatuation. A mental mirror was held before her eyes, and one glance to her reflected self restored her to her reason. Regardless of Brainard, she approached Arya, and, throwing her arms around her neck, sobbed, forgive me, I have been a fool! Arya warmly returned her embrace, and the exulting Rachel exclaimed as she beheld this reconciliation. Esther is indeed restored to us. Now we shall be happy again. Meanwhile Mr. Brainard had seized his hat, and, great as was his desire to sneak from the apartment unobserved, he feared he could not do so. Unintentionally encountering Rachel's eyes, he commenced saying, This is some mistake. I have been misunderstood. I have, you have for once been understood too well, sir, replied Rachel indignantly. I wish you a very good morning, Mr. Brainard, and the next time you attempt to marry an heiress, be careful how you fall in love with her friend, and, above all, beware that you do not express your sentiments in a room with folding doors. Miss Clinton, you will not hear me, said Mr. Brainard, determined not to fly the field without making a defense. No, Mr. Brainard, we have heard enough to satisfy ourselves. I desire to hear no more. Good morning! Mr. Brainard could only acknowledge the dismissal by finding his way out of the house as quickly as he conveniently could. But, while he did so, he said to himself, What a blow-up! Thank fortune there is one string left. I always feared that this one would break. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of The Fortune Hunter, a novel of New York society by Anna Koromowit. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted. They have torn me and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. Byron. As the clock struck three, on the day succeeding that which had been made memorable by the Clinton visit, Mr. Badger found himself opposite the Bowling Green. His business in that part of the city was not merely to pass judgment upon the fountain or upon the fantastically uncouth heap of stones, to a very creative imagination bearing some slight resemblance to a cluster of rocks, over which the limpid croton reluctantly, with a very visible effort, dashed itself. Yet although Mr. Badger had affairs of importance to transact, he felt bound, as a patriot, to pause and survey the ingenious handiwork of his countrymen. After he had examined the fountain, in every possible point of view, he stood before it, exultantly rubbing his hands, shaking his head, and occasionally giving way to a solitary ebullation of mirth, as he ejaculated, So blime, so blime, great country this great country. His admiration, having thus vented itself, Mr. Badger thought it time to proceed to business. Didn't intend to wake up the old woman on Pearl Street today, however, someone near there now better not lose the opportunity. Mordant nearly settled, one more visit hoped to have done with him. Ain't a favorite customer, growls and shows his teeth like a full-bred Newfound London. Mr. Badger looked tenderly at his stout cane, as though conscious that nobody but himself was aware of its medicinal virtues. He turned quickly into Pearl Street, and stood before Mr. Mordant's inhospitable looking dwelling. To try his strength and test his patience upon the rusty knocker would be but useless trouble. A better mode of gaining admittance suggested itself. An entrance through the basement might easily be accomplished, and to this passage he therefore betook himself. He unceremoniously made his wants known by applying his sturdy walking stick to the door. He could hear the echoes ring through the deserted house, and they were his only answer. Mr. Badger was of a determined character, and a few obstacles only stimulated his energies. Gavely turned his back to the door, at the distance of a few steps, and permitted himself to fall heavily against it. This feat he repeated until the whole house shook, and the hinges and locks of the old door gave evident symptoms of resisting no longer. It was then that he heard something fall in the kitchen, succeeded by the sound of uneven steps tottering through the entry. "'Be you going to pull the house down?' demanded Tabitha from within, but without making any attempt to draw back the bolts. Mr. Badger, probably indisposed to trust his voice, replied, by once more dropping his whole weight against the door. "'Lord have mercy on us! Don't be after door not again! Who's there?' Mr. Badger answered as before, and this time a hinge gave way. "'Don't! Don't!' screamed the old woman. "'Wait a bit, and I'll open the door! Oh Lord! Oh Lord!' Mr. Badger was too polite to refuse this request, and the door slowly opened, but only enough to make visible Tabitha's shriveled face. "'How do you do? How are you, your ladyship? Didn't want to give you the trouble to walk all the way up the stairs.  Hey, what's burning?' The old woman had been so much alarmed by Mr. Badger's attempts to make a forcible entrance that she had not noticed the clouds of smoke that were gathering around her. "'Lord have mercy on our souls!' was all she could say, and forsaking her post, she rushed screaming into the kitchen.  Oh Lord! Oh Lord! The house is caught!' Mr. Badger, although thick smoke, had now rendered the passage so dark that he could hardly see, led by the sound of Tabitha's shrieks, groped his way into the kitchen. What a scene presented itself! The consuming flames darted up from a large portion of the floor, and were savagely climbing up the walls. Tabitha flew yelling around the kitchen, seizing pails and pitchers and jugs, everything that contained a drop of water, and throwing it wildly upon the burning floor. Mr. Badger caught up the swill pails and hurled their contents over the raging element, but the fire only burned more fiercely, and in a few moments more the terrified couple could with difficulty escape the pursuing flames by flying from the kitchen. "'Fire! Fire! Fire! House on fire!' shouted Mr. Badger, leaping into the street. "'Fire! Fire! Oh Lord! Oh Lord! Fire!' shouted the old woman, snatching her burning cap from her head, and frantically pulling her singe-grey locks about her face. In a few seconds a crowd assembled, but the house was old and decayed, and a large portion of it was constructed of wood, and before an engine arrived the flames were bursting through the lower windows, and an attempt to enter the house by the basement was impossible. Several efforts were made to force the street door, but the strength of the bolts within rendered every trial ineffectual. "'No matter, there's not much there worth saving,' called a man from the crowd. "'Oh, more not, lived alone, and all this furniture wouldn't bring twenty dollars.' "'No such thing! No such thing!' shouted Mr. Badger, at the top of his voice. "'There's a lady! Got a lady!  Oh, profligate! Save the lady! Never leave a lady in trouble. Always save the lady's eyes, save her eyes, save her eyes! Aren't there a man among you? We'll save her!' he cried, in a state of increasing excitement. "'Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, hear ruinous! Don't believe him! The house is empty. There's nobody in there at all. Lord, Lord!' Interposed the old woman, alternately weeping, wringing her hands, and shaking her fist in Badger's face. "'The woman ought to know,' cried Womb. "'To be sure,' replied another. "'Gentlemen! Gentlemen!' screamed out Mr. Badger. "'Pon my honor! Pon my soul! There's a lady!  At the top of the house! Gentlemen!' And Mr. Badger assumed the position of an orator, inciting his hearers to do some noble deed. "'A lady! A lady, gentlemen! A lady should never be overlooked! She's there! I know she's there! Soar with my own eyes! A fine woman! Fine woman! Don't let her burn! Never harm a woman!' As though to corroborate Mr. Badger's statement, at that moment a shriek, a wild, piercing, heart-rending shriek, the shriek of frantic despair, burst upon the startled ears of all present. So long and loud was that appalling cry that it drowned the din of voices, the noise of rushing feet, the crackling of the flames, and the busy sound of the engine. "'A ladder! A ladder!' Vossa-reforated Mr. Badger. The ladder was procured and fastened to the side of the house, but the flames had mounted high and were bursting from almost every window. The house tottered. To ascend the ladder would have been madness. Even the courageous and noble-hearted fireman drew back. In vain Mr. Badger loudly harangued the crowd and pronounced the woman a fine woman, the finest woman in the world, and their country a great country. Not a creature would venture upon the perilous exploit. Jets of water fell plentifully upon the roof of the house, but the flames still mounted, and the ladder appeared worse than useless, involuntarily the populace drew back, expecting every minute to behold the house fall, hurling the ladder with it and perhaps burying some of them in the ruins. It was during that period of awful, agonizing suspense, that Mr. Moore daught himself, burst through the crowd, with his mighty arms flinging everyone aside that impeded his progress. He snatched up a coil of rope, and with bare head and his features distorted by fear and horror, fixed his foot firmly upon the ladder, and ascended with the speed of a wild animal. The ladder scarcely reached the attic windows, Moore daught fiercely tugged at the blinds of one of them, but they were secured within by a secret lock, that he himself had invented for the purpose and would not yield. Dropping one end of the rope and holding the other in his hand, he clambered to the top of the house, and disappeared through the small door that opened onto the roof. It was a fearful moment. The flames were already bursting through the blinds he had tried to force, and an instant Moore the roof must fall, the crowd below held their breaths during his absence, and every eye was fixed upon the spot where he had last been visible. Just as they began to despair of his return, his head reappeared and with a leap he was once more upon the scorching roof, his left arm clasped and apparently lifeless woman, and with his right hand he tightly grasped the rope which he had fastened within the attic. Creeping to the edge of the tiles, he carefully suspended himself from the roof in order to reach the ladder. A suppressed murmur of dread rose from the crowd as they beheld his fearful position. Should the rope give way, should his foot miss the bar, he and the helpless being in his arms were lost. He swung boldly round and touched the ladder, his fingers unclasped himself from the rope, and with the rapidity of thought he descended. A loud, hearty cheer greeted him as he reached the ground, and a hundred hands were stretched forth to hurry him to the opposite side of the street. Mechanically he permitted himself to be carried along, and he had hardly reached a place of safety before with one tremendous crash like the peel of thunder the house fell, and the lurid flames danced exultantly over the ruins. And shot up their tall wreaths to the reddening skies. Pideous to behold was the appearance of Mr. Mordant as he stood supporting himself by an iron railing. His face was blackened and scorched. The clothes were burnt from his shoulders. His feet were without shoes. His stockings badly singed, and blood flowed profusely from his lacerated hand that had grasped the cord in his dangerous descent from the roof.  But she was uninjured and appeared totally unconscious of her situation. The flames had not touched one tress of the long shining hair that fell in dark clouds to her knees. The white robe that fluttered about her attenuated frame was unscorched, and though her face was hueless it was not with terror, for her eyes rested vacantly on the gaping crowd that gathered around her. She passed her thin fingers through the locks' face, and lifted them back and smiled. "'Is she mad?' whispered one. "'I suppose so. Perhaps the fright has crazed her. Mr. Mordant caught the sound of these words, and they roused him from the lethargy into which he had fallen. "'Oh, a carriage! Will somebody have the goodness to procure a carriage?' he gasped forth as though in acute pain. A carriage was soon at his command, but before he could enter it, Mr. Badger caught hold of his arm and saluted the lady with a bow. "'How do you do, your ladyship? How are you? Hope you aren't hurt. It was I, your ladyship, told the people you were there. Didn't believe me, until you let them know yourself by screaming, right, right! Always make oneself hurt when one wants assistance!' Mr. Badger then turned to Mr. Mordant. "'What a pickle you're in, hey! Saved her though, didn't you? Oh, you old profligate! Who'd have thought it? Who'd have thought it? Never saw your match in all America! Great country this! Great country! Greatest country in the world!' Mr. Mordant extricated his arm from Mr. Badger's grasp, lifted his companion into the carriage, and, with difficulty, crawled in himself. To Mr. Liming's eight-street number, make haste, coachman. "'What number did he say? Must keep the run of him! What number?' The coachman pushed Mr. Badger aside, closed the door, and mounted the box. As he was lifting his whip, old Tabitha, who had followed her master, ran forward, and tried to clamber up behind the carriage. "'I'll help you! Always help the ladies,' said Mr. Badger, gallantly coming to her assistance, and seating her safely as the carriage drove away. "'There you are! Now hold on! Aren't that sublime? Ha, ha, ha!' When the carriage stopped before the residence of Mr. Liming, old Tabitha's ludicrous appearance quickly drew around it a crowd of idlerds. Lots of derisive laughter mingled with hisses rose on every side. The old woman, when she perceived herself to be the object of this ill-timed ridicule, sprang furiously from her seat, and rushed into the midst of the throng, and, with her shriveled arms, dealt about her a succession of blows, which would have turned the rabble's mirth to rage, had her streaming gray locks, her soiled and tattered dress, flying in the wind, and her begrimed face been less calculated to prolong their merriment. The clamor attracted Mrs. Liming to the window, and it was while she stood there that the coach door opened, and Mr. Mardant staggered into the street, apparently unable to support himself. "'Aria! Aria Walton!' cried Mrs. Liming. "'Look here! Your uncle just got out of this carriage, and he looks as if he had come out of the witch's cauldron, and, sure enough, he has one of the witches along with him!' Aria would not lose time by approaching the window, but flew downstairs to receive Mr. Mardant. "'Uncle, good heavens! What has happened to you?' She said in a tone of alarm, as he leaned heavily on her shoulder. "'The house is burnt to the ground. Do not mind me. Take care of her,' replied Mr. Mardant, tremulously, pointing to his companion, who still sat quietly in the carriage. Aria sprang into the coach, and, without questioning who or what the unfortunate woman might be, led her tenderly into the house. The singularity of her appearance, Aria attributed to the accident she had just encountered, and the restlessly vacant look of those dark eyes might, she thought, be the effect of terror. As they entered the house, Mr. and Mrs. Liming joined them. Aria hastily explained that her uncle's house had been consumed by fire, that he was injured, and the lady with him much alarmed, and requested permission to lead them to her chamber. "'Certainly, my dear, how can you ask that question?' replied Mr. Liming. "'Lean on me, Mr. Mardant. I fear you are badly hurt.' "'But who is that woman?' demanded Mrs. Liming ungraciously. She is the strangest-looking creature I ever saw. Who is she?' Probably some neighbor of my uncle's, whispered Aria, whose friends may have been separated from her by the crowd, or perhaps have been burnt to death. Her intellect seemed stunned by some sudden shock. Let me take her to my own chamber. I suppose it can't be helped now, but I don't admire taking people into my house whom I don't know,' answered Mrs. Liming. I promise that she shall give you no trouble, but pray, send for Dr. Chadwick immediately, my uncle needs care. There is not a moment to lose.' Aria turned from Mrs. Liming, and, taking the hand of her new acquaintance, conducted her to the chamber we have before described. "'Are you at all injured?' inquired Aria kindly. The strange being whom she addressed, without appearing to comprehend her words, looked fearfully around the room, touched her long, slender finger to her lip and whispered, "'Hush!' That her reason wandered was evident, and Aria could hardly retain her emotion as she perceived it. "'Will you not lie down? Sleep may restore you. See, this is my own little bed. Lie down and rest!' Her words fell unheeded on the poor maniac's ears, yet Aria's voice seemed to have power upon her, for she bent her head to listen to it, and looked uneasy when the sound ceased. Aria gently drew her toward the bed, for she permitted herself to be guided like a child, and smoothed the pillow and said, "'You will rest well here!' "'Hush!' Again, warningly, whispered the maniac. Aria was much enfeebled by the nature of her disease, but the energy of her will could at any time momentarily endow her with much physical strength. She stretched out her arms, and by strong effort of volition succeeded in lifting the light form of the stranger and laying her softly upon the bed. The maniac made no opposition to being placed in this recumbent position. Aria seated herself beside her, took her hand, and with a gentle motion smoothed back the long and tangled hair from her forehead. There must have been something soothing and composing in that touch, for over the staring eyes that looked as though they were watching intangible shapes hovering about them. The lids slowly drooped, and at length closed the limbs relaxed, and their nervous motion was stilled. The hurried breath came more evenly from betwixt those pallid lips the sufferer slept. But how, like death, seemed that sleep! Surely life could find no fitting abode in that wasted form, but still lingered to take farewell of its old intentimate. The jet-black lashes that lay on her alabaster cheek, and the jetty hair that clustered in masses around it, gave to that still face the hue and aspect of the grave. Aria, as she gazed upon this image of death, could hardly believe that the rosy current still glided through the delicate veins that interlaced those blanched temples. How fearfully she must have suffered to become thus shadow-like she murmured to herself, and tears of compassion fell upon the countenance over which she was vending. I feel drawn toward her, even more strongly than common pity should attract me, and why. Ah! Is there not always sympathy between those who have suffered? How beautiful is even this wreck of loveliness! Certainly I have seen those features before, or some features that resemble them. Who can she be? A little moment longer, Aria sat watching the slumberer, and finding that her rest was likely to be undisturbed, stole noiselessly from the chamber, and hastened to that of Mr. Mordant. Mr. Mordant was extended on the bed, partially disencumbered of his de-garments. The writhing of his features denoted intense suffering, yet he uttered no complaint, and suppressed the groans that were struggling to escape from his lips. Does not the doctor arrive, inquired Aria of Mr. Liming? Not yet. We expect him every minute. Aria glided to her uncle's side, but she dared not touch him, lest she might increase his pain. Dear, loved uncle, I know how dreadfully you are suffering, but you will be relieved soon. Yes, very soon, and by the healer of all mortal sufferings groaned Mr. Mordant. Do not speak so. For my sake do not. I should be alone in the world without you, uncle. It would not be for long, my poor child, said Mr. Mordant in a softened voice, and forgetful of his own pain while he scanned Aria's wand features. You will fall as soon, if God so will, replied Aria. But, dear uncle, I have not told you that she, that the lady, I have left her asleep. Terror must have deprived her of her senses, for she appeared to me to be quite deranged. Mr. Mordant started up in the bed, deprived her of her senses. Who said that it was terror? Who knows anything about it? Who told you she was mad? Did she say I made her so? Oh, no, dear uncle, I only supposed her to be deranged. But her strange conduct may have been the effect of fear. Yes, it was one of fear, of horror, of remorse. She shall not say I made her mad. She has made me frantic. It was my own act that blighted her existence. And my deeds, with her united, have blighted mine.  And now the end is coming. But no future life can have torments in store more hideous than the anguish I have endured in this. I do not fear death. I hail its approach. I hasten toward it. The worst that may come cannot surpass the past. His reason is wandering, whispered Arya to Mr. Liming. If you could only sleep, uncle, you would be much better. If I could only sleep my last sleep, I should be better. For I should not then be upon the mental rack of suspense. I should know that the hour of retribution had come, and it would be too late to dread it. Mr. Liming, desirous of changing the current of the suffering man's thought, said, you have not told us yet who this lady is. Not told you, you will know soon enough, replied Mr. Maudant bitterly. I would tell you now that your blood might freeze as mine does when I remember her history, but I have not the power. He sank back exhausted upon the bed, and Arya made a sign to Mr. Liming not to disturb him by further conversation. They stood in silence by his bedside until Dr. Chadwick was announced. Arya was then dismissed from the chamber. She immediately sought her own room, but, finding its occupants still slept deeply, she returned, and seated herself upon the stairs near her uncle's door, that she might have an opportunity of speaking to Dr. Chadwick as he passed out. In about a half an hour, Mr. Liming came out into the entry and, observing Arya, said, the doctor wants more assisting in dressing your uncle's wounds. I am going for some of the servants. Oh, no, I will assist, replied Arya, properly. You, know my child, it will be a very painful operation, and I should not like to try your courage by permitting you to witness it. But who will assist so willingly, so gladly? You need not doubt my courage. Surely I can endure to see what my uncle is forced to bear, but your help will suffer less if I am employed.  Arya quickly silenced the doctor's objections to her services, and, seating herself upon the bed, calmly supported the head of her uncle while the doctors dressed the terrible burns that had eaten away the flesh from his breast, shoulders, and arms. Once or twice an irrepressible groan broke from the compressed lips of Mr. Mordant. But Arya firmly retained her position, dampening his foreheads with some water that stood near when he looked faint, and when his courage was about to give way, whispering words in his ear that were more potent than any medicine could have been in restoring him. At length the operation was over. A composing draught administered to the patient, and the doctor retired, followed by Arya. My uncle is very seriously injured. Do you think that his life is in peril, doctor? That is a question, my dear, that I usually decline in answering to friends of my patients, because it would excite them to hear it, but it will only relieve me to know the truth. I entreat you to answer my question. You are a perfect heroine, my young lady, and I believe I may trust you. Your uncle's, that is, Mr. Mordant's state is dangerous in the extreme. Yet if he is not attacked by fever, he may recover. I will return this evening. Arya silently pressed the doctor's hand, and once more hastened to our chamber. As she opened the door, her first look was towards the bed, but it was vacant. The object of her search was sitting in a corner upon the floor, rocking herself to and fro, with her arms folded on her bosom as though they clasped something invisible to her heart. Hush, said she in a low tone. She sleeps. Who sleeps, softly inquired Arya, kneeling beside her. My own little one, my own, only child. She sleeps now, and look how she smiles in my face. But all last night I heard her wail. The whole night through, oh, it pierced my heart, that low, mournful wailing. I hear it so often, nothing would round the sound. Just so she wailed when they snatched her away. Hark, do you not hear her? Is it not a piteous sound? Arya thought she had never heard a sound so piteous as that of the voice to which she was listening, but she could distinguish no other. Again the poor creature by her side commenced rocking backward and forward, folding a fancied being to her bosom, and as she rocked she sung a sweet, but hurried and broken tone. Hide thee on thy mother's breast, hush that wailing cry. Safely, safely thou mayst rest, none but she is nigh. Rest, rest, rest. Hark, he comes that step, oh, me, never lose thy clasp. Close circling for we must flee, now we'll escape his grasp. Flea, flea, flea. She ceased and sat silently gazing in her lap. Arya spoke to her, but she made no reply. How wrong I was, thought Arya, not to let Dr. Chadwick see her. When he comes this evening I shall not forget it. Thank heaven she does not appear to suffer. End of chapter 19. Chapter 20 of The Fortune Hunter, a novel of New York society by Anna Cora-Mollett. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. That man that hath a tongue I say is no man, if with his tongue he cannot win a woman. Shakespeare. Mr. Brainard, realizing that after his discomforture at Mr. Clinton's, that there was no time to be lost, immediately proceeded to pay his devours to Miss Adair. He was informed at the door that Miss Adair was engaged, which, according to the fashionable vocabulary, means own desabile. But Mr. Brainard was not thus to be satisfied. A desperate effort must be made, and made before the little melodrama enacted at the Clinton's was publicly discussed. He took his card and, tracing upon it a few tender words, dispatched it to Miss Adair. The answer he received was that, if he would make himself at home, Miss Adair, in the course of a few minutes would be with him. A fashionable lady's few minutes is generally half an hour. But when the lady has reached a certain age, and requests those minutes while awful beauty puts on all her charms, the few minutes generally extend themselves to an hour and a half. At least Mr. Brainard found this to be the case. But he did not regret the opportunity thus offered him of preparing sundry speeches and observations, with which to greet the lady of his affections, besides calling to mind all the scandal he had ever heard, and some he had not heard in order to satisfy the well-known cravings of Miss Adair's appetite for the curious and extraordinary. When the rustling of the lady's silk dress proclaimed that she had made her appearance, Mr. Brainard started from his musing mood, and almost prostrated himself at the fair one's feet. How do you do, Mr. Brainard? Where have you been hiding yourself lately? What have you been doing? How is Mr. Ellery? Are you as great a friend as ever? I hear he has cut the funnings. Do you know them? Have you heard why all your acquaintances are dropping them dreadful of hair, is it not? Mr. Brainard commenced answering the lady's questions in order. But this was more than expected, for Miss Adair interrupted him with twenty other queries, which he thought it advisable to evade by making some tender observations, which were intended as a preface to the question which he himself was impatient to ask. At these observations Miss Adair probably blushed, but the rich carmine that already tinted her cheek did not permit any additional cue to become visible. Seizing the auspicious moment when the lady thought it proper to hang down her head with maidenly modesty, and become suddenly silent, Mr. Brainard poured forth his feelings in the most appropriate and touching language, and concluded by soliciting Miss Adair to change her maiden glances for a name and for a ring. Consent, on such occasions, is usually communicated by silence, but Miss Adair's heart, which was accustomed to overflow at her lips, would not now be tutored, and, after ensuring Mr. Brainard's happiness by answering his question, the impulse to make a few necessary queries on her own part was so strong that she could scarcely forbear saying, Where do you intend to live? Have you thought of a house? Have you a carriage building? Do you prefer uptown or downtown? Don't you intend to pass a summer at the springs? When do you intend to be married? The last question, Mr. Brainard probably divined, for he declared that there was nothing he hated like a long engagement, that, in his opinion, when parties were once affianced, that they were wedded in the sight of heaven, and therefore he urged that the ceremony should take place before the close of that very week. Miss Adair made a few bashful objections, but finally permitted herself to be overpowered. And on an occasion so solemn, so important, so touching to every man of feelings, said Mr. Brainard, I think privacy particularly desirable. Miss Adair thought otherwise.  She was proud of the resignation, and cared not how many witnesses beheld her assume new chains. Mr. Brainard pleased for a private wedding with all the eloquence he could command. He professed to think the duties into which he was about entering, so important, the vow he was about making and receiving so solemn, one that involved so many considerations that the presence of strangers would distract his thoughts and make him enter into the holy estate of matrimony without due gravity. After much persuasion, Miss Adair consented to all his wishes, and it was agreed that they should be married on the morning of the fourth day from that time, that her two brothers and her bridesmaid only should be present, and that in the afternoon they should leave New York and take a tour through the eastern states. Mr. Brainard now felt his happiness much more secure than he ever had done during his engagement to Esther Clinton, and realized in a few days he should be able to bid defiance to Mr. Badger and cut his acquaintance forever. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of The Fortune Hunter A novel of New York society by Anna Cora Mollett This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor Come, my sweet girl, sent thee by me, for there is a good spirit on thy lips, will drive away from me the evil demon that beats his black wings close above my head, Coleridge. Long has this secret struggled in my breast, long has it rocked and rent my tortured bosom, Smith. Two days passed on and brought with them an increase of Mr. Mordant's suffering. Night and day would Arya willingly have remained at his side. But the unfortunate being who shared her chamber seemed even more than her uncle to need her ministering care. For Arya's hand alone would the poor maniac receive food. Her ears were closed to every sound but Arya's voice, and she would listen to its lightest tone and yield instant obedience to her desires. At Arya's earnest entreaty old Tabitha had been permitted to sit during the day in the kitchen chimney corner at Mrs. Lemmings and to sleep on the floor before the kitchen fire at night, for Mrs. Lemmings declared that she had no bed to give to the old hag. Tabitha, having expressed a desire to see her mistress, as she called her, and tend to her wants, Arya gratified the old woman by conducting her to her chamber. The instant she entered, the maniac rose shuddering from the cushion which Arya had placed for her upon the floor, and, darting to a corner of the room, stretched out her arms to prevent Tabitha's approach, and when the old woman, trembling with rage, persisted in advancing toward her, she shrieked and threw herself upon the ground, wound her fingers through her loose locks, tore them wildly from her head, and refused to be pacified until Arya forcibly ejected Tabitha and locked the door. Give me back my babe, tell her to give me back my babe. There, there, do not let her see it, hush, hush, little one, or she will hear you cry. Now sleep, sleep upon this poor heart, thy mother's lonely heart. Oh, lonely and sad was that mother's heart, when its joy with the sire departed, but the touch of thy cheek half were bosom blessed, thou art bummed to the broken-hearted. Sometimes the unfortunate creature would sit for hours singing her wild songs, ever in the same strain, and ever imagining that she shielded an infant on her bosom. At other times, when she was more calm, Arya would endeavor to converse with her, and she would listen, and even answer as though some small vista of her darkened brain, the intellectual day-beam dawned again. Once she drew Arya to a window and, looking steadily in her face, said, Who gave you those eyes? They are like those of Eustis, and like the eyes of Ernst were blue. Your eyes should have been blue. I am told that I resemble my uncle, said Arya, designed to induce a connected strain of conversation. Do you not think so? What uncle? My uncle Mordon. Mordon. You his niece, Mordon's niece. Do you hear her, Eustis? She calls you uncle. What should this little one call you? Will you let her call her uncle, Eustis? Did you swear you would be no uncle? And who shall call me mother? Hush! It will this soon, this little tongue is driving now to form words. Mother? Mother? Oh, the sweet little word. This bit wants more pretty one. Hush! Now she wails again, darling. Will it never cease that wailing? Hide thee on thy mother's breast. Hush! That wailing cry. Safely, safely thou mayest rest. None but she is nigh. Rest, rest, rest. Arya had consulted Dr. Chadwick concerning her unfortunate friend, and his opinion was that no definite decision could be given respecting her case, until the origin of her madness and its duration could be discovered. For two days past Mr. Mordon had been so constantly delirious from a high fever that it was useless to look for any information from him. The doctor strenuously advised that the deranged lady should be sent to the lunatic asylum, where she would receive proper care. But Arya, who had been inspired with the tenderest affection for her new friend, earnestly pleaded that nothing should be done at present, and that the stranger should remain under her charge until her uncle recovered. As Dr. Chadwick had nothing as special to gain by opposing her wishes, he conceded, merely warning Arya that her strength was failing fast, and that he did not consider himself answerable for the consequences of her devotion to his patients. Both Rachel and Esther Clinton willingly assisted Arya in the care of her uncle, and she was thus unable to leave his side when he was unconscious of her absence. But she seldom left him to rest. Her attentions were merely transferred. Yet she did not seem to need sleep and felt no fatigue. The strength of her mind sustained her enfeeble body. Day by day she grew paler and thinner. Yet she was free from all physical pain, and too wholly occupied to endure a much mental suffering.  The fever had left him, and, for the first time since its indisposition, his slumber was calm. Arya attempted softly to steal her arm from beneath his head, but, at the motion, light as it was, his eyes unclosed. Arya, dearest uncle, heaven be praised, you are better. Better. I should be better if to have less corporeal pain were be better. But I have inward torment that never can be cured. Your angel presence would exercise any fiend, but the two that are ceaselessly gnawing at my heart guilt and remorse. They have bound my spirit for years. They will afflict it to eternity. There is no hope for me here. There can be none hereafter. Do not speak so, beloved uncle. If you believe that God is perfect, you must believe that he is merciful as he is just, and therefore he will pardon the true penitent. Be his sins what they may. What is it to repent? To renounce the course of life you have discovered to be evil. Then I have no time for repentance. Arya, my child, I am dying. It is too late for me to truly repent. Contrition for my crime I have for seventeen years daily endured, but to repent truly is to renounce the crime. I have not renounced it. There is no virtue in deathbed repentance, but spring from fear. This is my deathbed, and it is too late to hope for mercy. No, uncle, not too late, even though it were your deathbed, which I pray heaven it is not. Still, not too late, Christ pardoned the thief on the cross, even while the agonies of death were upon him, because he repented. Why may he not then pardon you? Remember the parable of laborers in the vineyard. They that entered in at the eleventh hour were accepted, and received their reward, even as they who tolled from the early morning. Let your repentance not be the repentance of fear.  Do not dread death as the herald of punishment. Load the crime, not from fear of the consequences it may entail upon yourself, but because it is a crime in the sight of heaven, and trusting God's mercy, and you will find it. For so as he himself promised, I do loathe it. I have long loathe it. Could I live longer, I would renounce it, would do all in my power to repair the evil I have done, but I cannot hope for pardon. Yet you will be pardoned. You are pardoned already. Oh, I believe it. I feel you are so. God grant that you may live to prove how true is your repentance. Bless you, my child. For your words are of comfort. Bless you. Bless you.  God may pardon me in his bountiful goodness, but can you? If I had any thing to pardon, I would cancel the debt thus, said Arya, kissing him tenderly, since you will now permit me to do so. Mr. Mordot's eyes glistened with a weakness, to which, for seventeen years, they had been stranger. My better angel, too late have I permitted myself to feel how sweet it was to be loved by you. I am now going from you. I feel that I am going. But I cannot bid adieu to life without unberthening my heart and displaying to you the canker that has blasted my whole existence. Are you prepared to hear a tale of horror? Have you the strength to hear it and owe? Will you promise not to hate me? To try not to hate me? I shall ever love you, uncle. I am quite ready to listen with coolness. Mr. Mordot raised himself with an effort. I would not shock your ears. I would not add to your misery. But the time has come when you must know the truth.  You have one, one dear to the world, yet still among the number of its grief-worn inhabitants. At twenty-two I was left an orphan, with one brother and a young sister. We were poor. But I had already begun to gain a livelihood as a lawyer, and we lived happily together upon a moderate competence. I was naturally proud, and most ambitious. I looked forward to gaining eminence in my profession, to be honoured and esteemed for my talents, and perhaps I had cause to do so. I was proud of the genius that my younger brother displayed.  My poor brother died shortly after my father. And then I lived only for Edith, only in Edith. She was my pride, my delight. I became less selfish. I told for her. I desired distinction, that its glory might be reflected upon her. When she was sixteen, I presented her one of my bosom friends, a young German, with whom I accidentally became acquainted, and for whom I had conceived the truest friendship. It was reported that he was the heir of a large fortune, and that his family was noble. What more desirable person could I have selected for the husband of my beloved sister? They had hardly become acquainted when I felt sure that my anticipations would be realised. My friend visited us daily, and it was evident that his attentions were more than pleased with my gentle Edith. About this time the business of war my clients obliged me to travel south. I could not take Edith with me, she was so pure, so prudent, that I did not fear to leave her under the sole protection of old Tabatha, who was our only domestic. Edith wrote to me frequently, and her own happy spirit at first pervaded all her letters. She often spoke of my friend. But I looked in vain for intelligence I desired most to hear, that she was affianced to him. I was forced to be absent from home a year.  During the tenth month of my absence she wrote that my friend had been forced to return to Germany, and I immediately attributed the depression from which she had evidently suffered to this cause. I could not any longer endure to remain absent from her, and, finding that I could not conclude my business in a year's time, I placed the cause in the hands of another lawyer and returned home. Let me rest I cannot go on. I cannot bear to think of that return. For a few moments Mr. Mordot laid back upon his pillow less exhausted by his exertions than overpowered by his violent emotions. You must hear the rest, the dreadful rest. You must hear it now or never from my lips. I returned home. Edith received me. No, not Edith. Not the Edith I had left. I hardly recognized the blooming boyate, sylph-like girl that tearfully bade me adieu, and the pallid, wan-featured being that more tearfully greeted me. She was enveloped in a shawl, which but imperfectly concealed her enlarge and unsymmetrical proportions. I knew not what to think. A suspicion crossed my mind, which almost made me frantic. I left her, salt ol' Tabatha, and threateningly demanded what ailed her mistress. She answered that she did not know, but that she feared she suspected she had great cause to suspect. Good God! I cannot repeat her words. They are too horrible. In a frenzy I rushed into the chamber of my sister. I accused her of having dishonored our name, of having ruined herself and me. I heaped upon her every term of approbrium, which rage brought to my mind. I cursed her. I even spurned her from me with my feet. She never replied. Could not reply, nor would I have permitted her. Long after my wrath had expended itself, she was lying at my feet in violent convulsions. With the existence of Tabatha, I laid her upon the bed and left her. Shortly afterwards she gave premature birth to a female infant. My first impulse, how can I tell you, Arya, my only blessing, was to murder the child! But some good angel withheld my arm. I had not yet made up my mind what course to pursue as regarded Edith, but I determined to remove the child from her and send it to a distance. For this purpose, after making my preparations for conveying the infant to a witness in the country, I entered Edith's chamber. She was lying with her baby cradle upon her breast, and her eyes, fixed fondly upon it, I approached her and rudely snatched away the child. She sprang up, shrieking, oh, I shall never forget how wildly she would have followed me but fell fainting on the door. When she recovered I was far distant. She missed the babe and, from that moment, became distracted. When I returned that evening I found her reason had wholly fled. She did not even recognize me. It was then I conceived a horrible plan, the execution of which was perfectly feasible. My sister was dishonored. I could never henceforth acknowledge her. Neither could I abandon her. I determined to proclaim that she was dead, and I would keep her in confinement as long as she lived. Oh, Tabitha was my only confidant. I was then living in the same house that I have always occupied. We removed Edith to a chamber in the attic and, closing the rest of the house, I gave out that my sister had died suddenly of a violent hemorrhage, published her death to the paper as inviting our few friends to the funeral and clad myself in mourning. The usual ceremonies took place, but so hurriedly that no questions were asked, and my story was universally believed. Seventeen years passed on and Edith never recovered her reason. What I have daily and hourly suffered in that time no language can convey to your pure mind. I have never prospered since that evil day. I have never had the courage to prosper. Every hour has brought retribution and every day contrition. Yet I was chained to the stake to be ceaselessly goaded by my own conscience. I could not turn away. I could not avow my deed and pardon Edith, that I might look for pardon from God. I was forced to go on that my misery might accumulate and crush me to eternity. But the child, Edith's child, is my aria. Oh, I knew it. Mother, then I have a mother. I may yet contribute to her happiness and help to obliviate the past. Then you will acknowledge her, love her, in spite of that dark stain which flinks its inky shadow even on you. Am I not her child? Am I not human? What right have I to judge or to punish? Oh aria, could I but have learned of you. But my father, does he yet live? I have not seen him since we first parted. Immediately after your birth he returned to his country and hastened to my house. He saw Tabitha and was informed by her that her mistress had given birth to a stillborn child and was herself dead. I never heard of him afterwards. I tried to seek him out to demand the satisfaction which only his life or mine could give. But I never found him. It is most probable that he instantly returned to his own country. His name. You have not told me his name. Ernst Ehringstein, merciful father I thank thee. But he lives. I have seen him. He calls me Edith. He is here, here in New York. Here, exclaimed Mr. Mordant fiercely, could I but reach him? It is not yet too late for vengeance. Let me see him. Bring him to me. Oh, if I could but live. If for two days I have but the strength which is gone forever. Two hours! You would not use it, nay dearest uncle. You would not use it in statching vengeance from the hand that alone can repay justice. I would not, no. Aria, I would not. I have been suffitted with crime. I desire never to see again the man who has so deeply wronged me. But I, I must see him and my mother. Dearest uncle Rest, you are exhausted. Let me leave you now. I will return soon. Go. But come back again quickly for your presence only can bring peace. Go. Oh, I am very weak. I will try to sleep. With hasty steps Aria returned to her own chamber. Edith was evidently awaiting her coming, and Aria, as she flung her arms about her, involuntarily exclaimed, Mother, who spoke that word? What have they done with the child? She is here. I am your child, replied Aria, who until this moment had suppressed every sign of agitation, and forced back her tears from the fear of injuring her uncle. You?  But my little one, she may be like you one day. She's but an infant now, yes. Weep, weep, weep for the little one. I never weep. Oh, there is comfort in tears. Weep, weep, and I will weep too. You?  She wept not for herself, not from self-reproach, nor from remorse, and therefore tears relieved her. At a gentle tap on her door she rose. Is that you, Rachel? Come in, but do not disturb her. I have much to tell you, for you can be of service to me. I have a father. Oh, Rachel, a living father. I have seen him, and through your means, I must see him again. My poor Aria, what can you mean? These last few days have been too much for you. Your senses are wandering. No, no, come with me. I will try to tell you. Aria led Rachel into another apartment, and then imparted the information she had just received from her uncle, softening his deeds without defending them, and retaining her own calmness until she spoke of her mother's error, and the misery with which it had been followed. Then she wept again, and more bitterly than before, some time elapsed before she could continue her relation. Rachel was naturally prompt of decision, and when she had heard the whole history, she instantly concluded that Mr. Ehrenstein should, without delay, be informed of what had transpired. Do you agree to this, Aria? Yes, it would be for the best. I must see him, and that as soon as possible. Then I will dispatch Mr. Allen immediately. He accompanied me here, and is now downstairs. The instant he returns, I will send you word, and acquaint you with everything that has occurred. In the course of another hour, Mr. Allen was admitted into the presence of his friend. He found Mr. Ehrenstein up and dressed, and in a state of great excitement, he had that morning read in the columns of the Herald a full and highly colored account of the burning of Mr. Mordant's house, and the strange appearance of an unknown female who had been rescued, doubts and fears, and hopes were alternately contending for mastery in his mind. But he knew not how to act. Mr. Mordant's place of refuge was not mentioned. It might not even be the same individual he had once known. And yet he felt sure it must be, for the house which had been consumed was the same in which Eustis Mordant had ever resided, the same where Ehrenstein had wild away many a blissful hour, the same from which he had turned 17 years ago, a lonely, heart-stricken man. When Mr. Allen communicated to him the information he had so lately obtained, Mr. Ehrenstein appeared beside himself. He offered no explanation, asked no questions. He only said, Lead me to her. Lead me to her, Edis. My Edis, Edis alive! Let me see her quick, quick. I will not be delayed. Lead me to her. It was useless to argue with him. He was incapable of comprehending reason. Mr. Allen was forced to do as he desired. When they reached Mr. Lemmings, Ehrenstein would not even remain in the carriage until Miss Walton had been prepared to receive him, but persisted in following Mr. Allen into the house. Mr. Allen wrote a few words upon a card and requested be given to Miss Walton. In another minute Arya was clasped to her father's heart. Their embrace was silent and not short. And when Mr. Ehrenstein unfolded Arya from his arms, it was to gaze in her face that he might once more trace there her mother's liniments. I felt it before. My heart leapt up the instant I saw you. How could I mistake those eyes, those delicate lips? But you are changed, my child, my beautiful child. Yet I have you. You are mine. I feel that I am a father. Once more he pressed the trembling girl to his breast, and only released her to request that he might instantly be led to her mother. Oh no, my father, that would be very dangerous. We must consult the doctor first.  But will you not see my uncle? He knew that you would be here and consented to see you. He believes himself to be dying, and would not quit this world without breathing to you his… pardon, she was about to say. But the word would have sounded too ungraciously upon a daughter's lips. Yes, let me see him, Oza villain, the dark deceitful villain. You speak of a dying man, whispered Arya, true, true. Own the dead and the dying, we must alike forgive. I will be timpill it. Mr. Mordant was sinking fast.  Ernst, he said feebly, you have wronged me deeply, but I have learned of this child to pardon. I have wronged you, Eustis Mordant. You have wronged and deceived me, but I never did wrong to you in my life. Is she not your child? said Mordant, making an effort to point to Arya. Yes. And my poor Edith, thus my wife, a cry of mingled delight and horror, broke forth from the lips of Mr. Mordant. Mr.  Her father thought she had fainted, but her lips gently moved, and then he knew that her spirit was offering up the prayer of a grateful heart. Your wife. She was your wife. Say that again. She vows. Then I am the only criminal. It is I who have destroyed her, and she was innocent. Oh, horrible, horrible. She lives. She will recover. She will yet be happy, said Arya, perfectly. Ah, is that no consolation? It should be. It is. But tell me further, Ernst. How could all this have been? It is told quickly. Soon after you left for Savannah, I became engaged to your sister. I desired that she should keep the engagement secret, even from you. For I had friends in America through whom it might reach my father's ears. I was his only son on the air of large positions. If I married against his consent, he would disinherit me. That I did not heed, but I feared such an act would break my mother's heart. And I knew that her prejudices were such that she would not be easily reconciled to my marrying an American. Besides this, my father had already selected a wife for me after his own taste. I knew that if his consent could be obtained, I could only obtain it in person. I determined to return to my own country, yet I could not leave America without making either to my wife, for I dreaded that some unforeseen accident might separate us. We were married privately, and without the knowledge of old Tabitha. I intended to set sail immediately for Geneva, but I had no courage to leave my bride. Months after month, I lingered, unwilling to part, until the period of her becoming a mother was so near at hand that I would barely have time to seek my parents and return, but I was myself a father. Should you arrive in New York before me, either thus to communicate her situation to you and show you the certificate of her marriage, this your passionate haste prevented. I failed in obtaining the consent of my parents and returned to America to proclaim Edith my wife in spite of their wishes. I hastened to your house on my arrival and learned from Tabitha that Edith was dead, and her baby had never breathed. I was too stunned to know what I did. For days I wandered about the streets like a madman, and when the vessel which had brought me here set sail, I was again on board of her. Shortly afterward, my father died, leaving me his sore hair. But whilst I never enjoyed, for Edith was not there to participate in my luxuries. I could never shake off my dejection and the trade upon my health. I had been for many years a confirmed invalid. When I sought my end vows approaching, a strong desire to visit the scenes of my former happiness seized me, and I returned to America. Soon after my arrival, I beheld this dear child, and her presence moved me so much that, from that time until this, I have been confined to my chamber. Had it been otherwise, I should have sought you out before today. Fortunately for Mr. Mordant, whose increasing excitement threatened to produce the most unfavorable result, his interview with his brother-in-law was interrupted by the entrance of Dr. Chadwick. As soon as the latter gentleman had bestowed all necessary attention upon his patient, Mr. Erinstein drew him aside, and, after astonishing the worthy doctor via relation of Mr. Mordant's history and his own, consulted him as to the propriety of beholding his wife in her present state. Dr. Chadwick was too much bewildered to give a clear and positive opinion, but requested that an imminent physician who had made cases of lunacy his a special study should be called in, and that no steps should be taken until his arrival. His request was, of course, instantly complied with. Dr. Chadwick's manner towards Arya, whom he accidentally met upon the stairs, had evidently undergone a wonderful change. He accosted her with the greatest tenderness. "'My dear daughter,' said he, "'we must take better care of you. You must not exert yourself so much. Edgar has been dreadfully anxious of you of late, but I thought you were much too occupied to see him. I hope, my dear, that I never said anything that might offend you.' "'Oh, no, doctor. Do not think of me. Only tell me what we shall do to restore my poor mother and my uncle. Can you not save him?' "'I hope so. But I cannot answer positively, my dear. All that can be done, I will do. But how are you yourself?' "'Quite well, quite well. Will Dr. Anderson be here soon?' "'I expect him any minute, my dear. And Edgar, can you not spare a moment to see him this afternoon? Gladly, most gladly, if my father will permit it, and I am sure he will.' "'Doctor,' called out Mr. Erinstein, who had been impatiently looking out of the window. "'I think he is coming. This looks like a doctor's gig, and I am sure it must be Dr. Anderson.' Mr. Erinstein was right, and after a long consultation between the two physicians, during which they questioned Arya very minutely as to her mother's symptoms, Dr. Anderson advised that Arya should prepare her mother's mind for the arrival of her father, conversing with her as though the seventeen years of her lunacy had not elapsed, and that when she thought the moment auspicious she should summon her father, his presence might recall her reason, and then, with careful management, her entire restoration might be affected. Dr. Anderson declared that he had produced several cures in this manner, and he especially warned Mr. Erinstein that, should his wife give signs of returning consciousness, he should restrain every appearance of emotion on his part, and calmly detail to her the occurrences of the last few years, speaking of her madness as of a long illness. He also proposed that Dr. Chadwickon himself should await the result of their experiment, as Arya and her father, hand in hand, were hastened out of the room. Dr. Anderson called them back and said, Remember, Arya, that a great deal depends on your choosing the right moment, and a great deal more, Mr. Erinstein, upon your calmness and self-possession. I feel it my duty to warn you that sudden shocks of this kind have produced death, although in the present instance I anticipate a favorable result. Arya entered her mother's presence alone, but her father remained immediately without the door, where he could distinctly hear every word that was spoken. May I sit beside you and talk to you? said Arya, placing herself beside Edith, who was, as usual, crouching in a corner. Yes, yes, here, close by me. I waited for you. Why did you not come? Closer, closer there. Lay your hand upon my shoulder. Now, speak softly, or you will disturb the little one. It pierces my very heart to hear it well. Softly, very softly. Arya complied with her request and spoke in a low and most affectionate tone. You never talked to me of Ernst. Why do you not? Of Ernst? Hush, hush. Be sure nobody hears you. I promised not to say we were married. It is not time yet. But you may speak of him now. Do you know that I have news from him? No. News from my own Ernst? Ah, I have not heard from him these three long, long months. What endless months they were. The time is always long without him. Do not breathe it. Come close. I will whisper to you.  Yes, dear ma- Yes, to be sure I know it. And if you will be very calm, quite calm, I will tell you something. Yes, yes, but make haste. I cannot bear to wait. You will try not to be agitated? Yes, yes. Ernst has arrived today. He is here, not far off. Ernst. Ernst arrived here, here. Oh, bring him to me. Why does he not come to me? Aria heard the handle of the door move, as though her father could no longer restrain himself from entering. She sprang up to forestall him, saying, I will bring him. But before she could reach the door it opened, and Mr. Ehrenstein wrenched in. Ernst, my Ernst, exclaimed Edith, and sank into his extended arms. Aria, dreading the result of this critical moment, when the broken clue of reason might be renewed or severed forever, made a warning motion to her father to be calm and concealed herself. Edith, I have returned to you, my beloved, until we shall never, never part again. Is it indeed you, Ernst? I have watched and waited for you, and how you have changed. Why, your soft-brown hair is growing white. Have you been ill? Some thought, dealest. But you have been ill, too. Yes, yes, very ill. And I have dreamed such frightful dreams. But our little one, Ernst, I must show her to you. I have seen her, dealest. On now that I behold you, my happiness is complete. But how came you to see her? She has hardly been out of my arms. Sweet Edith, will you listen to me quietly? I have something to tell you, something that you will hardly realize. Will you listen, or do not speak of our child, until I have done? Yes, yes. But are you really here? Is it really you, Ernst? Am I not dreaming now? It looks like you, and yet not like. It is I, myself, Edith. Would you not know me by this kiss? Now listen. You'll remember I left you, and shortly afterwards your baller returned, and there was some misunderstanding between you. Oh, yes, that was very horrible. Do not speak of it. Then your daughter was born, and after that you were very, very ill. You will hardly believe how long you were ill, for during your illness you forgot everything. It was a long, long vile. How long? So long you will hardly believe it. A great many years. So many that your daughter is now almost grown up. Do you not remember they took her from you? Yes, I remember that. It was very dreadful. But you were too ill to take care of her. Of now you are quite restored. She has grown up to be a beautiful girl, and you will love her when you see her, almost as dearly as I do. Oh, I love her better, much better. But where is she? Why does she not come to me? Here is my husband. Where is my child? Here. Edis, this is your child. As Mr. Aronstein said these words, he held out his hand to Arya and drew her forward. And once again the mother clasped her child to that breast, upon which she had so often fancied her lying. It was an hour of too much happiness to be described. The husband realized that his wife was restored to him, and Arya that she had indeed a mother. Arya then thought that the supreme joy of that moment could not be equaled in her whole life. But that very evening she was forced to confess to herself that even the ecstasy of that instant was surpassed. It was when her father, with his arms encircling her mother's waist, took Edgar's hand and placed it in his daughter's. And Edgar, bending tenderly towards her, whispered in her delighted ear, Be entirely happy now, my Arya.  My home will be a paradise with you, and I will learn of the aprair to him who made a home so fair. Alas, that moment of delight was short. It was interrupted by a summons from Mr. Mordant. He dealt with her father and Mr. Limming, hastened to his chamber. They found him much worse and unable to speak, except so faintly that his words were hardly audible. Come near, Arya, my Arya. Where is Edith? Who told me she forgave me? I, dearest uncle, and that she was quite restored to her stances. Then I shall die. I shall die more easily. Like, let me see her. You are all fading from me. I am going. But we will come to you soon, uncle. We shall all meet again. And in happiness, murmured Arya. Mr. Aronstein led in Edith. Her brother suddenly raised himself with renewed strength. For a second the mist vanished from his eyes. He endeavored to clasp his arms around her, but fell back upon his pillow and expired with his sister's name upon his lips. In spite of their wrongs, his loss was long and deeply mourned by Edith and Arya, but each found consolation in the other. Edith's restoration proved to be permanent, and Arya found the medicine of peaceful happiness the most potent remedy for her bodily ills. Her indisposition had sprung from mental causes, and in spite of its ravages, in the mind she found her cure. None of her friends could sympathize in her happiness so perfectly as Rachel Clinton, who made at her boast that she had not a wish ungratified. She had seceded in winning the affection of her parents. She had inspired her husband with an even deeper attachment than her lover had experienced, and her sphere of use was daily more widely extended. What further could she ask? From the time that Esther Clinton discovered the true character of Mr. Brainard, she may have been considered as cured of her monomania. At first she frequently became prey to ennui and was often tempted to resort to her favorite novels for purpose of dispelling her weariness. But Rachel was always at hand with her counsel, and Arya succeeded in grafting some of her own industrious habits upon her, so that at last she found amusement in occupation, the healthy tone of her mind was restored, and many fine traits of character daily developed themselves which rendered her an invaluable friend and an ornament to her sex.