as soon as she reached her room, threw her bonnet on the bed, and taking the brooch from its crimson morocco case, sat gazing upon it with an air of intense thoughtfulness. "Heigh-ho!" she at length sighed; "if he were only a little younger-even five years would be something! -I'd teach that fellow Clayton how to sneer. Impudent puppy!" So saying, she rose, with a determined compression of her lips and a little significant scowl upon her forehead, and hastily arranged her toilet. "Whom do you think I met?" exclaimed Edith to her mother, as she entered the parlour, "and what do you think I have got? Only look there!" "Very beautiful," said Mrs. Marchbank; "but you should be careful from whom you accept such things. "Surely there can't be anything to fear from an old gentleman of seventy." "Mr. Rugby!" "What a kind old soul! How I do wish, mamma, he would take a notion of you!" am. Nonsense! child." "Well, I am sure you are much liker him than I "I wonder what can have put such stuff into your head." Shortly afterwards, in burst Sydney in a state of the highest glee. "Huzza!" he cried, mounting on a footstool, and fourishing his handkerchief. "I am all right now. Huzza!" "What in the world has occurred?" inquired his mother, nervously excited. "I will tell you," replied the young man, coming down from his pedestal. "If I were you, Ede, I would marry old Rugby to-morrow. Without exception, he is the jolliest old brick in the universe. He has actually placed a thousand pounds at my credit, in order that my business may go on with comfort!" "How very handsome!" exclaimed the old lady. "Handsome? It's immense." "And he has given me that," said Edith, holding up her beautiful new brooch to the light. "Ho! So-ho!" "Only as a souvenir; so don't, I pray you, misinterpret." The gratitude of the family continued highly eloquent until the evening, when Mr. Rugby came, as Le had promised, and was soon under the necessity of requesting that he might not be overwhelmed with their thanks. During tea, the old gentleman was so genial, happy, and full of anecdote, that in Edith's eyes--and very *weet, pensive, and impassioned eyes they were he seemed to brighten back into the semblance of merely a ripe middle age. "You have seen a great deal of the world," she at length said, as she sat looking up with childlike wonder and admiration into his keen, fresh face. “Thank God!" he replied, "I enjoy excellent health, and am fond of travel." "I should so like to visit the Continent!" “Well, when you go, Edith, just try and secure me for your guide." Sydney had, by this time, left for some engagement of his own, and Mrs. Marchbank was abruptly summoned to visit a neighbour's child who was sick. Mr. Ragby and Edith were alone. The kindly, white-headed old man and the young chesnut-haired girl sat on the sofa together. By degrees, the old arm was put round the young waist as tormerly. Edith did not resist. "What a pity," said Mr. Rugby smiling, "that I While the preparations were going briskly on for the marriage, Edith wore none of the looks which should belong to a happy bride. Her eyes had almost always the appearance of being newly dried, as if from long weeping in secret. She spoke little, and could not be induced to take any interest in the costumes that should be worn, or the company that should be invited. Even the well-meant jocularity of Sydney was powerless to bring a really healthy smile to her lips. She was tranquil, passive, and apparently quite indifferent to everything that was going on around. The truth is, that she felt utterly horrified at her position. That she loved Mr. Rugby with all the best instincts of her heart, was true; but only, after all, as a daughter might love a father. He had been the benefactor of her family to an extent rare in the annals of human friendship. But was there no way short of marriage by which she could testify the depth, the devotion, the deathlessness of her gratitude? She scarcely knew how she had been betrayed into giving her consent. It was partly pique, partly esteem, partly compassion. But the issue it involved magnified itself to her imagination as something absurd, unnatural- even awful. Still, no thought of interfering with the preparations or resiling from her engagement ever crossed her mind. On the contrary, she towered to a mood in which she would have walked into the jaws of death had duty prompted. But her eye became wild, her cheek blanched, and her expression that of a martyr nerved for the stake, yet inwardly suffering from an agony of sensitiveness to pain. Mr. Rugby was not blind to the altered appearance of the young lady whom he was about to conduct to the altar. He ascribed it, however, merely to anxiety on account of her mother's health, and to the dread which she had more than once expressed of leaving her by herself-a prey to her unfortunate nerves. Indeed, whenever Edith happened to be detected by her venerable suitor in tears, she was in the habit of feigning distress about her mother, with the view of disguising the true state of her feelings. The worthy old gentleman, therefore-partly from overjoy at his conquest, but chiefly with a benevolent anxiety to restore her cheerfulness-continued to do his wooing with a kind of brisk juvenescence which he was apt to carry to excess. Sometimes he would approach her with his fine old countenance leaping with glee, and snapping his fingers and singing as one might do to a child. At other times he would glide about the room with a cautious dancing step-something between a minuet and a shuffle-and end with a strong breath or two implying over-exertion, a laugh that reddened him to the temples, and a confession that he was not quite so light on the floor as in his early days. can have little share. It is not for me, however, to Although Edith was in some sense pleased to see her revered fiancé thus happy, she was yet pained and shocked at the spectacle of venerable eld assuming such youthful airs. She began, in short, to take that interest in him which a proud and sensitive wife takes Henry Clayton watched her intently, and, slowly in a husband whose dignity she is desirous to preserve. approaching, ventured to take her hand. He then, The incongruity between poor, amiable Mr. Rugby's in low fervid words, said, "Edith! there is yet time. friskiness and his gray hairs impressed her with a If Mr. Rugby is really the generous man he is repredegree of melancholy, which aggravated her conscious-sented, he will release you. He will judge your enness of the sacrifice she was on the eve of making; gagement to him as the mere hasty mistake of your and again and again she gently prayed him to desist. youth. Appeal to him frankly, Edith! If he should "Tootsy-pootsy!" he would say, patting her cheek not release you, then hold him unworthy of you, and, playfully, what makes its little self so glum?" by one brave act, vindicate the prerogative of your "Don't tell me of your early slavery at the desk. youth-fly with me, who am at least your equal in You must have been quite a ladies' man in your time; years-and add one more example of the supremacy and a notorious flirt, too." of love over the promptings of worldly policy, the coercion of mercenary friends, or even an extorted or mistaken pledge. O Edith! moments are everything. Your fate is trembling in the balance; decide while there is yet time;-one word and you are free!" 66 "What! you think I know how to court, eh?" "But, dear Mr. Rugby, I always like you best when you are quiet and sensible.' "Now, be you sensible, and cease to 'dear Mr. Rugby' me. Call me Charles, or I'll pinch its little ears. Edith tried to please him with a smile, but, relapsing into seriousness, remarked, “You are very merry. "And you must be merry too, my dear." Edith pressed her hand to her eyes; whereupon Mr. Rugby looked puzzled; but immediately tried by gentle force to remove it, saying, "It musn't be mumpy-dumpy when it's going to get married." The manner of the old man during these interviews, kindly and tender as it was, appeared to Edith to become every day more ridiculous-so little was it in harmony with her own mood. She feared he was in his dotage. His mimicry of the playfulness of youth had thus only the effect in her eyes of adding to his apparent age. The brightness of his spirits caused her to see his wrinkles more clearly. She remembered the words of Clayton, and began to fancy what the world would say of her as she went languidly or jauntily to church with her old bridegroom of seventy. And yet so conspicuous were his efforts to please, even in the midst of his little senile frivolities, that she felt she could not say a word or do a thing to vex him-no, not for the whole world. One day, as Edith sat in her misery alone, the door flew open, and in burst Henry Clayton, anxious and excited. "What means this visit?" she asked, in a frightened manner. "Miss Marchbank," he stammered out, "I have come to offer you my hand and heart." For a moment or two she gazed at him steadfastly; then, quickly covering her face with her hands, groaned out, "It is too late." "I know it," he said, and the auburn locks trembled; "but, nevertheless, to make this offer is a duty which I owe to my conscience. Of course, you reject it?" "I do." "Then know that if misery be your portion or mine, I at least am guiltless." Edith wept as if her tears would have no end; while her young and handsome lover went on to contrast that which might have been with that which too obviously was. But I do not speak thus," he continued, "in order to vex you. It is now known to me, and to the world, that you have made your choice. Upon that choice the world may perhaps smile, and attribute it to motives in which affection "No more of this!" cried Edith, collecting herself, dashing back her tears, and rising to her full stature. "I appreciate, sir, the love you say you bear me; but to defer the declaration of it till now was unmanly. This instant leave me. Edith Marchbank is the affianced bride of one at whose age you have sneered; but who, let me tell you, has a virtue for every year that he is old. Go, sir!" The unhappy youth again snatched her hand pressed it for a moment to his lips-and hurried away, agitated and wild with sorrow for the beautiful treasure he had lost. In a few minutes, Mr. Rugby entered, with his head turbaned fantastically with a red silk handkerchief, and with a beautiful new Spanish guitar slung by his side. He entered with the romantic glide of a stage troubadour-strumming the cords untunefully with his shaky fingers, and warbling forth, with his poor femnant of a voice, the refrain of some forgotten serenade. The spectacle struck Edith with shame. Yet how could she suffer a solitary flash of anger to escape through her tears, when she knew that all that foolish masquerading was elaborate for her special delectation, and was really amiably meant to disguise the advanced years which so young a maiden might deem unsuitable in her bridegroom? A ruddy laugh of returning good sense concluded the undignified exhibition. Mr. Rugby transferred his handkerchief to his pocket; and, unslinging his guitar, presented it to Miss Marchbank, saying There, my darling Edy! I have brought a little musical gift for you. You remember you said you thought the guitar a very graceful instrument." In “Oh, sir! you are much too mindful of every casual word of mine. I know not how to thank you. deed, I know not." "What! weeping again? I hope your mamma is not worse?" "I fear she has been worse ever since she knew I was going to be married." "How should that be, my dear? It is not as if you were doing anything foolish-running away with some young scamp, or allowing feeling to get the better of judgment. Your marriage will at least be a prudent one. Perhaps she thinks, Charles "Stop! I must give you a kiss for calling me Charles. It shows it is a loving little gipsy-pipsy after all." "Perhaps she thinks your choice should have fallen upon herself." "What! and you by; you who are a second edition of her-only revised and improved, you know? Besides, your mamma-but don't say I said so-is just a little too old." Edith stared, until her affectionate gray eyes became filled with wonder and tears. "Do you then really think," she said, "that people should not marry when they are too old?" Not ladies of delicate nerves, when they are past a certain age; but with men in good health it is different." "Oh, I see," said Edith musingly, and with an expression of vague doubt as if she did not see in the least. Mr. Rugby observed she was unhappy, and passed a long night in continual efforts to soothe and cheer her. These, however, were all unsuccessful. The poor girl cried and cried; and yet, when Mr. Rugby, driven to despair, put the question point blank if she repented of her engagement to him, she murmured a pathetic "No, no!" and hid her eyes in his bosom. The worthy old man kissed and blessed her at parting, and then walked slowly, very slowly, home, with a heavy, homeless feeling at his heart. Could it be that she did not really love him-that her affections were rooted elsewhere that she repented the engagement she had formed? Not very interesting questions may these be for the world to discuss now, but they nevertheless sufficed, during that whole night long, to keep sleep from the pillow where a certain aged head rested. CHAPTER V. Sydney Marchbank was the male head of the house, and the natural protector of its female members. It was therefore, he thought, a duty which he owed to his position to shoot Henry Clayton. Whether he was prepared to resort to that extremity was, of course, another question; but of the deadly direction in which duty pointed he had no doubt whatever. The truth is that he had obtained some clue to what he called Clayton's surreptitious and dastardly interview with his sister; and had marked the effect which it had produced upon her health and spirits. Under these circumstances, it was at least a satisfaction to demonstrate loudly, even should matters be carried no farther; and seeing that his highly melodramatic manner, as he strode up and down the room, excited his mother's nerves and remonstrances, he continued to exclaim, with more apparent determination than ever, "I'll shoot him. I'll shoot him; I will. I'll shoot him dead." This was shortly before the marriage-day. The table was covered with presents, and Edith had retired with her dressmaker to have her marriage-dress fitted on. Her obvious misery diffused itself to every member of the family. In vain had Sydney talked plendid nonsense; in vain had her mother enlarged on the loveliness and value of the wedding-gifts. Nothing appeared to interest her or to revive her cheerfulness in the least. Sydney's boisterous gesticulation and threat to shoot Henry Clayton were simply a last alternative of despair, all other devices having failed. The dress was pronounced perfect; the dressmaker took her leave; and Edith sat down in her superb bridal array, but looking so utterly woe-begone that even the blithe Sydney became alarmed. "This will never do," he said; your manner is "Or do you really wish the whole affair stopped?" "Leave me alone. I mean to go through with it.” "Yes, my dear," said the mother, "but you must go through with it as if you were really going to be married. "And not," Sydney added, "as if you were going to be hanged." "Mr. Rugby is no doubt an old man," resumed the elder lady, "but many old men have been married, and to very young girls too. Everybody will tell you that he is much respected." "I know that, mamma. It is to be hoped that I respect him also. God help me else!" So saying, Edith glided from the apartment to resume her usual attire. "A nice bride for the old gentleman, truly!" exclaimed Sydney. "It is plain to me," said the mother, "that the poor girl's heart is not in this business at all." 66 Well, hang it! if it isn't, it ought to be stopped at once. It is a downright shame to deceive the old fellow." "But how can you stop it? Would not its stoppage vex Mr. Rugby more? Might he not, besides, withdraw all his help, demand up all that is his own, and leave us to positive beggary?" 66 He might play the very deuce with me, I know. Of course, he would require to be smoothed down. Halloo! that is he at the door. I'll bolt-leaving you to give him a gentle hint. It will come best from you." The young man took refuge in his bed-room, and his mother sat down, struggling calmly with her nerves. She was even foolish enough to imagine that her efforts to compose herself were successful. Mr. Rugby entered-it was his usual hour-with much of his fresh, healthy colour gone. He sat down, and requested he might have a glass of water, saying that the stair had affected his breathing for the first time. There was a caraff and tumbler on a side table, to which he was immediately helped. After resting a minute or two, he appeared to be a little revived. Mrs. Marchbank was nervous in the extreme. "How is Edith?" inquired the old man. "Well, I am sorry to say it," replied the old lady, "but really there is no disguising it: she is not well at all; at least, she is not so happy as a young bride should be-she is certainly not. "Poor thing!" "But I know she respects you, Mr. Rugby. I know she does-as who does not that knows you?" Ay, ay,-respects me!" 66 "If she was only a little older-I don't mean to say as old as myself, for do you know I am actually turned forty-six?-she might even have sense enough to-to love you." "Enough. I have suspected this. She does not love me. But I must hear it from her own lips." Mrs. Marchbank gave a little shudder of chagrin, and, leaving the room, said, "I shall send her in. She was changing her dress, but should be ready by this time." In a few moments the pale young bride and the still paler old bridegroom confronted each other alone. 'Even if I refused, you would almost have a right to command me," said Edith, with a faint smile. "I would not wish to command you in anything. May I put my arm round you?" 66 I suppose you are entitled." "Edith! I have lately suspected, and have now ascertained from your mother, that you do not love me, and of course have no wish to marry me. This is a serious thing for me. But before taking any step one way or other, I am naturally anxious to learn the truth from your own lips." "Believe me, dear Charles! your suspicions are wrong. My mother, too, must be equally mistaken. I am pledged to marry you, and have no other desire than to fulfil that pledge.' 66 "Good girl! good girl!" said the old man, shaking her hand nervously. Somehow or other, I feel to. day as if I had walked many, many miles. May I ask you to ring the bell?" Edith did as she was desired, and, on the servant appearing, he said, "Have the goodness to tell your mistress 1 should like to see her." Mrs. Marchbank was labouring under palpitation. Supported by her son, however, she was at length induced to enter the parlour. The old man did not rise, but said, "Sydney, too! I am glad to see you.' "If there are secrets, I'll retire," said Sydney, rather overawed by the general solemnity of the countenances. "There are no secrets," said the old man, "at least so far as I am concerned. The matter is simply this: -I was led to understand that my very dear Edith desired that my marriage with her even after all the preparations had been made-should proceed no farther. But I have now learned directly from herself that this is not the case. Her wish is still, it seems, to become my darling little wife. Is not that your wish, Edith?" 66 "It is." "But, Edith!" said the old man, calmly resigning her hand, "it is no longer mine. I have determined that our marriage shall not go on. "How?" exclaimed Edith with calm eagerness. "Mr. Rugby!" cried her mother, and then commenced rubbing and thumping her very obstreperous heart. "Has anything happened?" abruptly interrogated Sydney. "Keep all quiet," said Mr. Rugby. "I am no longer in the foolish position in which I appeared to be placed. There is no withdrawal, on Edith's part, from her engagement. She is still faithful; and I am still happy. But The emphasis with which this last word was pronounced, and the pause with which it was followed, occasioned something like a sensation in the little circle. "But," he repeated solemnly and with a tremulous voice, "I know that she is making a sacrifice which I have no right to demand. Therefore, of my own free will, I have determined that the preparations shall cease. All stared at the pale, aged face, and at each other, by turns. "The situation of matters is awkward; but a solution is at hand which will save the necessity of any explanation to the world." "Solution!" exclaimed Edith, while Mrs. Marchbank cast her eyes on the ground, and felt as if something were about to happen. "Yes," said the old man, imprinting a kiss on Edith's forehead. "Bride of mine you shall never be in this world." "Your language is mysterious." "It is natural that it should be so, for it is spoken in the near presence of whatever is most mysterious to mortals. Edith! I am going to die." The poor girl shrieked and grasped his arm; Mrs. Marchbank rocked on her seat, and rubbed her breast, in an alarmingly agitated state; while Sydney uttered a great healthy exclamation of "Oh, nonsense! Mr. Rugby." But every one noticed, for the first time, that the countenance of the good old man was the colour of clay. It soon became evident that the hand of death was upon him. Mrs. Marchbank ran for brandy, and Sydney for medical aid. But it was too late. In the course of a few hours Mr. Rugby was no more. last words were, as he held Edith by the hand, and looked tenderly into her wasted and weeping face, "It is a satisfaction to me to know that in my dying, as in my life, I shall have proved the Friend of the Family." His The greater part of Mr. Rugby's fortune was bemourned him with affectionate tears, and many years queathed to the Marchbanks; and among those who afterwards described him to their children as a delightful old man whom they had once known and loved, were Mr. and Mrs. Henry Clayton. GARIBALDI AT SPEZZIA. BY ALLAN PARK PATON. "DEFEATED! wounded! captured?" Ay, in sooth, This time 'tis no lie of the venal wire. Strange unto you and me, 'tis yet the truthAs much as Pope or Emperor could desire. "Defeated?" Ay. What am I but a man? And what but men my helpers? I may err And I may fail. God's over all, whose plan Works clearly out, howe'er He may defer. Earth, light, life, His own Son; yea, made us free Even at the worst, within the skill of Death. For all that's said and done-a slave indeed! Ah! crowned, like Him, in mockery, and disgraced! For all thy prate, nought but a slave thou art! The monk's foul arm about thy throbbing waist; And France's iron hand upon thy heart! "Captured?" Ay, captured! Chains may wait these wrists A cell this body; but, look here! the mind, In here, triumphantly all force resists: My thought man, saint, or devil cannot bind! Victor Emmanuel, galantuomo, King; THE UNPUNCTUAL. of resistance or even censure towards it deadened, that a judge of the land will not be ashamed to rob the very jury with whom he is to administer the law-nay, will keep waiting the very criminal on whom they are to do common justice; and the clergyman will even, after having thus pillaged a gaping congregation of thousands, walk serenely to his pulpit, and expatiate on original sin and the frailties of mankind. SOCIETY is not so wide awake as it ought to be to the fact that it contains within its bosom a body of depredators who practise their habitual extortions without scruple or limit; who are restrained by no conscientious misgivings, and amenable to no laws; who are not even denounced by public opinion, but are in general rather favoured and caressed by their anthinking victims, who, even when suffering from their rapacity, call them " good fellows!" and "no one's enemy but their own." The worst of it is, too, that it is where civilization is farthest advanced-like arbitrary monarchs or feudal nobles, to levy where population and enterprise are rifest, and where social order is in other respects most scrupulously preserved that these depredators exact their heaviest contributions. "Time," says an old equationary proverb, "is money." It is in this equivalent of hard cash that the class we speak of do business. The selection of a field of exertion depends on training, on accident, on necessity-sometimes on taste. One man is a horsestealer, another a sheep-stealer, another gets at your money by forgery;-few limit their operations of this kind to pure cash transactions. The form in which the unpunctual robs you is by taking it out in time. His system is this:-In the comings and goings, the meetings and partings, of mankind, there are dropped odds and ends of time whereof every one should bear his average share. He is determined that, whatever losses there may be, none of them shall fall on him -his neighbours shall bear all. His motto is the candid one of the Border-rieving Cranstouns, “Thou shalt want ere I want." The way in which he proceeds is this:-If he adjusts a meeting with you, he fixes an hour at which the chances are fifty to one that he shall be disengaged. He wants to secure the advantage of that fiftieth chance, and is totally indifferent to the forty-nine which he throws against you. If an hour of time is to be lost-and with the hour of time an equivalent amount of temper; and with the temper so much appetite, content, and health-he lays his measures so that by no possibility shall the misfortune alight on himself; it must all fall on you, or some other neighbour in the Scriptural sense of the term. We have said that these Hostes humani generis are restrained by no qualms of conscience. In fact, they are often proud of their acts of plunder-conceiving themselves to be a sort of superior beings, entitled, tribute on their inferior fellow-beings who tread, with due punctuality, the dusty road of duty. They satisfy themselves, in all cases of cruelty and hardship, with such a syllogism as the following-"Men of genius are apt to be unpunctual. I am apt to be unpunctual-therefore, I am a man of genius." It shows how a naturally honest conscience may be seered by continuance in this sort of evil doing, that one of Charles Lamb's renowned jests contained a boast of the manner in which he had thus despoiled a fellowbeing. When charged by his employer with coming late to his desk, he answered, "But you can't deny that I go away early." So did he justify the filching of one end of the time which he had sold by abstracting the other. It is as if in justification of purloining the first shilling of a pound, he took credit for making off with the last also, and leaving a balance of even money. The principle is well expressed in the formula, "Heads I win-tails you lose." As we have already hinted, society, instead of sternly suppressing, is rather inclined to caress this class of criminals. But there is still a Nemesis, and they do not always escape unpunished with their plunder in their possession. There was the instance of Snobbles, who lost that snug Under-Secretaryship of the Board of Plantations. His patron, the Commissioner, said he had been long suffering regarding him. Out of respect for the memory of his old friend, the youth's father, he forgave the many occasions on which elderly gentlemen of unquestionable position were preserved in a state of external silence, but internal fermentation of profane oaths struggling to be free, as they wanted dinner for that young scamp, who floundered in half-an-hour too late, and totally unconscious of the dire amount of misery, irritation, and internal blasphemy he had caused. The Commissioner forgave, too, all the pic-nics, rides, jaunts, and appointments for a little business talk in which the youth had defaulted. But, on the great occasion when the Board were all assembled to install him, it was too much-the patron could stand this sort of thing no longer. So, Snobbles was passed over, and another appointment made-considered, by all present, as Very startling conclusions have been reached by adding up the various items consumed by a good feeder who has reached advanced life-the heads of oxen and flocks of sheep, the acres of potatoes, the stacks of grain, the lake of wine that would float a man-of-war, the rivers of beer, and rivulets of alcohol! So, if the whole value of what should have been other people's, which a hoary sinner of the kind we are describing has appropriated or destroyed in the course of his long life, were "totalled," would it not strike one dumb with amazement that such rapacity, reck-likely to be more satisfactory. lessness, and cruelty can be tolerated in the midst of established law and justice, and under the influence of religion? But, so amalgamated has the sin become with the very heart of society, so utterly is all spirit There was a deal of sympathy with Snobbles, in which we could not concur. What was the loss of £500 a-year in comparison with the accumulated evils he had inflicted on society through his special defect? |