EDITH HYLTON. BY MARY CLAIRE. Many years have now passed since a family group was gathered one gloomy evening in March around a bright fire, which, hardly aided by a glimmering from the fast darkening windows, half shadowed, half lighted up the large dining-room and the young faces of its inmates. These were seven in number, five sisters and two brothers, who were carrying on a conversation in that unrestrained freedom that marks "the household nook, where hearts are of each other sure." The subject was a party, at which they had been present the foregoing evening; and every now and then most musical laughter burst from their lips. Had an unseen observer watched them he would at once have been struck by their sweet-toned voices, the brilliancy of their wit, and the very superior language in which, without either affectation or pedantry, their thoughts were clothed. Still his ears would have been pained by the unjust conclusions they formed of others, the bitter satire, the wilful exaggeration in which they indulged. The Hyltons, to whom we have just introduced ourselves, were emphatically a talented family; whatever they said was better said, whatever they did was better and more quickly done, than the words and performances of ordinary persons. Two of the family had a talent for drawing and painting, and their portfolios were eagerly examined, and long lingered over even by connoisseurs. Some of them played and sung; and, however engrossing might have been the conversation at an evening party, if the Miss Hyltons took their place at the piano or harp, all other voices were hushed, and every one present eagerly listened to their bewitching strains. But in addition to these talents they possessed remarkable conversational powers; and being thoroughly well informed, could enter into most subjects with spirit and animation. The young men always succeeded in forcing from the dullest after-dinner party such peals of laughter that they not unfrequently reached the drawing-room, where the lady of the house was feeling inexpressibly thankful to their sisters for enlivening that sullen, solitary half-hour before the return of the gentlemen. It appeared as if Nature had spent her stores upon these favoured ones, for they were remarkably beautiful: their beauty, like all else belonging to them, was of a superior order; their figures were tall and well moulded, and their classical features, added to a proud bearing, common to the family, gave them an air of singular family resemblance and distinction from all others. Yet all these "fairy favors" secured then neither love nor happiness. In the formation of their characters one thing was found wanting, and that want destroyed the beauty of the rest. Utterly devoid of self-government, the words that first rose to their lips must be spoken; the contemptuous sarcasm was rarely suppressed, and long after the satire was forgotten by them, it rankled in the hearts of those who had been made to writhe under it. Persons, whom they had represented in a ridiculous light, would hint that "it was a pity the word of a clever person could never be relied upon;" and although their society was courted by others, they could not help suspecting that many regarded them with feelings of fear and dislike. Their habits were marked by indolence and procras tination; and, as it is the peculiar privilege of persons in a country town to know at what time their neighbours rise and retire, the late hours that the Hyltons kept, and their indulgence in the morning, were well known. Many a prudent mother warned her son that such girls would never make good wives, and many a young man when duly informed of something said to his disadvantage by the laughter-loving sisterhood, was precisely of the same opinion. They too were dissatisfied with themselves, and often each one asked herself the question, "Who is the better for my life?" Every few months indeed they were aroused to sudden activity; they would visit the poor, lend books, form schools, and teach evening classes; then the whole house was, as the servants expressed it, "in an uproar." Sometimes they would be too late for meals, or occasion dismay by having a formidable number of dirty children in the dining-room. But by degrees these fits wore off, and they relapsed into indolence till some fresh scheme woke up their ill-directed activity. But we are making our tale wearisome by so lengthened a description, and must now conduct our readers back to the pleasant room where we left the party. The discussion which so deeply engaged them was interrupted by the entrance of a servant with two letters-one for Miss Hylton, and the other for her orphan cousin, who, just entering, had taken one of the places left vacant by the departure of the two brothers. Lucy Dermont blushed deeply as she glanced at the hand-writing, and was leaving the room when her eldest cousin exclaimed, "Now Lucy, don't deny it, that is an offer from Mr. Gardiner!" and taking her hand, said playfully she should not escape. The challenged maiden turned round on the threshold, displaying a countenance that strikingly contrasted with those around her-a contrast which did not so much consist in her fair tresses and light blue eyes, opposed to the raven hair and dark eyes of the sisters, as in the meek and gentle expression her features bore, while the form of her lips betrayed great indecision. She was an orphan niece of Dr. Hylton, and had been brought up from infancy in his family. Every one observed how different Lucy was from the rest, how much she was thrown into the background, and how silent she appeared by the side of her brilliant relatives; still such remarks were generally closed with, "Well, after all, I like Lucy Dermont the best; it is very pleasant to know, that after you have been talking to her, your remarks will not be turned into ridicule." And there were some who discovered that when an old lady, or a very young gentleman, was to be amused, Lucy could talk very pleasantly: while others hazarded an opinion that her simple Scotch airs had a melody which spoke more to them than the Italian operas and German songs that her cousins delighted in. One had evidently thought so, a young clergy man whom she had met the summer before; and who now, after vainly trying to summon up resolution to ask a private interview, had committed his hopes and fears to paper. But alas! the letter arrived at a most inauspicious mo ment. Edward Gardiner was naturally very bashful, and his love rendered him positively awkward. He had been brought up by a maiden aunt, dividing his time between her house and college, and had consequently been but little into the Society of ladies. His exterior, without being decidedly plain, was unpretending, and poor Lucy, who had for some time known that he loved her, had felt most acutely the sarcastic manner in which he was mentioned by the others, yet lacked courage boldly to declaim against such injustice. Now indeed the floodgates were opened, pouring forth such a torrent of wit and sarcasm, that the tinid girl was fairly overpowered; every mistake was exaggerated, every action placed in the most ridiculous light, and his personal appearance so scoffed at, that you might have supposed the Miss Hyltons the sisters of fairy-tale renown, where the Beast became the wooer of the shrinking Beauty. Had poor Lucy been the heroine of a romance, she would have answered scorn with scorn, and fought the battle for her absent lover, but she wanted confidence and strength of mind; she could have borne to wed a man whom her cousins hated, but one whom they ridiculed and despised--the thought was beyond endurance. So, when at last Miss Hylton stopped her mirth to say, "Of course, Lucy, you have not entertained the idea of accepting this exquisite Adonis?" she faintly replied, "Why, Edith, I thought I would ask your advice, and then-" Here she stopped. ́" And then what, cousin Lucy?" "You know," was the answer, "the circumstances in which my father died, how entirely I am dependent on my uncle, and-" 66 Nonsense, Lucy," cried the sisters, who really loved their cousin; "do you think while we have a home you shall leave us for such a consideration?” "Don't say another word about that," continued Edith. "I will sit down and write an answer for you, such as Mr. Gardiner deserves for his presumption!" And in spite of Lucy's feeble remonstrances, the thoughtless girl penned a haughty, contemptuous refusal for her cousin, who thus saw her fair promise of happiness destroyed without feeling the power to check the ruthless hand that crushed it. This letter was despatched, and the young man, who felt that Lucy had given him tacit encouragement, mingled his bitter disappointment with indignation, and left the neighbourhood, fully determined never to see her again. On cool reflection the sisters, though unwilling to confess it to each other, felt that they had acted wrongly, especially Edith, to whom it occurred that Lucy might have liked Mr. Gardiner. "Impossible," she thought again, remembering Lucy's passiveness, and so dismissed the subject from her mind, as she re-perused the letter which she had received at the same time. It came from a young friend, who was lately married, asking her to spend a few weeks at her new home. Edith sat down to accept the invitation without another thought of Lucy; she little knew that at that moment the poor girl was in her own room, giving vent to the bitter tears she dared not shed before her companions, remembering and weighing every word he would think she had written. "It is all over now," she said to herself. Why was I so foolish? Why could I not tell them all the truth? I deserve my punishment, but it is greater than I can bear!" In order not to make our story too prolix, we will pass over some months, and follow Edith to the house where she was a visitor. Mr. Staunton, the husband of her friend, was a man of intellect and intelligence, possessing in addition great penetration; he sat as a judge, and often a stern one, upon the characters of those with whom he came in contact. No wonder that Edith did not feel at home with him : if her most brilliant sallies were at the expense of others, if her most vivid descriptions were too highly drawn, no applause was won from her rigid host. But if her beauty and talents failed to impress Mr. Staunton, he had a visitor not disposed to be such a Minos, in the person of a young barrister, who had officiated as groomsman at the wedding. Frank Glenville thought he had at last found in Edith the woman of whom he had so often dreamed, the character he had singled out from the pages of poetry and romance, but sought for in vain among ball-room misses and blues. He was a young man of real talent, and could fully appreciate her powers of mind; being gifted likewise with a striking personal appearance, and possessing remarkably agreeable manners. Edith, who, notwithstanding her satirical propensities, had a spice of romance in her disposition, began to be as much in love with him as he evidently was with her. One beautiful evening in July Miss Hylton and Frank had been walking together in the garden, as if they would never weary of its shades, and Edith, pleading an excuse, had retired to her room, where she might dream out "her own sweet dreams at will." She was restless with very happiness, and throwing open the sash, stepped on the small balcony before her window: there, in the moonlight, she saw the rustic arbour where he had sat by her side there was the white rose, from which he had gathered the fairest bud for her; and one moonbeam, struggling through the thick foliage, marked the very spot where, when that blossom fell from her tresses, she had seen him take it up to treasure it next his heart like a fairy gift. Who can tell the happiness with which a maiden remembers all the tokens of love "Uttered not, yet comprehended!" But as Edith mused, she heard her own name mentioned by Mr. Staunton, and then an earnest, and, as it seemed, an expostulatory answer in Glenville's voice. She remembered that the room in which they were was under her own, and that the window opened on the lawn; and (we do not say that it was justified, but ours is a history, not a romance) she leaned forward to hear the conversation-if it were a sin, bitter was her penance. She listened while Mr. Staunton taxed Frank with love towards her, and heard her lover boldly confess it. "Have you told Miss Hylton of your affection?" was the next inquiry, which was answered in the negative. "Then, my dear Frank," replied his host, "take my advice and leave Bournfield to-morrow, without saying a word to Miss Hylton." 66 My dear sir!" gasped the astonished lover. "I am perfectly sincere," returned his friend; "Miss Hylton is by no means calculated to make you happy!” Frank began a most indignant remonstrance, but Mr. Staunton interrupted him, saying, "Hear me, and then judge for yourself. All that you can say of Miss Hylton's beauty and talents I admit; they make her a delightful companion, but much more that is wanting in her character is indispensable in a wife. I have watched her narrowly, and you may rest assured her moral worth is far inferior to her intellectual powers; she will even stoop to falsehood." Impossible!" cried Frank. "I cannot bear this, even from you!" Hylton's habits been different, yet as she has been brought up in luxury and extravagance, it forms an obstacle that cannot be lightly thought of." With a frozen heart, and fixed like a statue, did poor Edith stand listening, as all the worst defects in her character were mentioned, and placed in their true light by the inflexible Mr. Staunton. And when at length she heard Frank argue that she was young, and if he could win her affections he might correct those faults, with deep anguish she caught the reply. “No, Frank; hers' are not faults that happiness can correct; it is only by grief, by disappointment and trial, under which an ordinary mind would be crushed, that such a spirit could be chastened and subdued. You cannot love her as she is now; you cannot respect her character; and love without that foundation is indeed a house built upon the sands'!" Edith could listen no longer, and retreating to her room, weighed the accusations brought against her, whilst her conscience told her they were true. In the midst of her distress she thought much of Mr. Staunton's closing words. "God knows," she murmured, "the grief, the disappointment, of which he spoke, has come upon me; mine is a terrible lesson, but it shall be rightly learned!" It seemed as if her unkind sarcasms, each instance of her disregard for truth, the mental and physical indolence in which she had indulged, all passed in array before her; but the fault she most deplored was the wrong she felt had been done to her gentle cousin. Dwelling on every circumstance, and with her perceptions awakened by her own heavy disappointment, she became certain that Lucy had loved Edward Gardiner. "Oh!" exclaimed the weeping girl, "I mocked away her happiness: how just is my punishment! But if reparation be possible it shall be made." Towards morning poor Edith fell into a feverish sleep, and on awaking sent down a message excusing herself from the breakfast-table. She listened for every sound, and at length heard a horse brought to the door; another minute and Frank passed the window slowly, but did not look up: she saw that he was very pale, and when the last sound of his horse's hoofs died away in the distance, she flung herself on her knees in one burst of agony and remorse. Collecting herself she remembered that none must know her sorrow; so calling up courage she entered the library. "Think," returned Mr. Staunton. 'Do you remember a statement made by her yesterday (repeating it verbatim)? Now, was that true "Edith, how pale you look," cried the unor false? I believe indeed that she has formed suspecting Mrs. Staunton; "it was most unfor so fixed a habit of inventing and colouring, that tunate that you were not able to join us at she does not know where truth ends and false- breakfast this morning, for Frank has been hood begins. Besides, she would seriously in-called unexpectedly to town. I asked him to jure you in your profession by her habit of ridiculing almost every one with whom she comes in contact. There is another objection; Dr. Hylton lives, it is generally supposed, up to his income, and will have little to give his daughters: you have not much to rely upon besides your profession, and though this would comparatively be of little consequence, had Miss return, but he fears he will not be able. He requested me to present his compliments to you, and say that he regretted leaving without bidbing you good-bye. Edith made a mechanical reply, and so effectually exerted herself to hide her feelings, that even Mr. Staunton congratulated himself on her peace at least being undisturbed. We need not dwell upon the sufferings poor Edith underwent during the remainder of her visit; and truly thankful was she when the day for departure came, not solely on her own account, but because she felt anxious about Lucy, whom she found looking far from well. Dr. Hylton had observed the change in the drooping girl, and ordered her removal to the sea-side: it struck Edith directly that if she could accompany her cousin she might, by kind loving care, win her confidence so far as to learn from her own lips whether she really still loved Edward. Edith's proposal was received with great astonishment, and Lucy felt her cousin's kindness most deeply, and often asked herself if it were possible the loving, unselfish being who watched her with even a mother's tenderness, could be Edith Hylton. At length the question Edith longed so much to ask was put, and Lucy confessed her love, but said nothing of all she had suffered. The repentant girl, bending all her mental energy to repair her fault, resolved at once upon a plan. She determined to see Edward Gardiner, to confess to him the part she had taken, and to assure him that Lucy loved him deeply, though she had weakly yielded up the point. Edith having ascertained his address in London, persuaded the invalid to spend one day in town on their homeward route, urging that it would render the journey less fatiguing. Leaving her cousin to rest at the hotel, the courageous girl hastened to fulfil her resolution, and presented herself before the astonished eyes of Edward Gardiner. She frankly told him her errand, laying all the blame upon herself: at first he was cold and incredulous, but as she proceeded the eloquence of truth prevailed, and he was only too happy to be convinced of what he would have given the world to believe. Edith enjoined secrecy on the young clergyman, whom she found it difficult to persuade not to accompany her back to the hotel, but to wait a few days and then follow them home. It is unnecessary to say that he did so; and when, some months after, Edith knelt as bridesmaid at the wedding of her happy cousin, most thankful did she feel in having been able to make full reparation. But a short time had passed away since this event when a heavy trial came upon the family. Dr. Hylton was seized with a disorder from which he never recovered. It was hinted among his friends that the attack was partly brought on by the extravagance of his sons, who had both entered the army in preference to their father's profession, and whose debts he was called upon to discharge. During her father's illness Edith was his constant nurse; the inward suffering she had endured had strengthened her mind to bear outward sorrow. Death came at last, and then the poor girl felt all the agony of grief which her active employment during her father's sickness had somewhat distracted. When Dr. Hylton's affairs were examined, it was found that a bare competency would be secured to his family: his youngest son was still at school, and it appeared impossible to pay for his education from their scanty funds. Mr. Gardiner offered at once to take him, but this Edith would not hear of; she resolved to turn her education and talents to some account, and knowing herself to be justified in asking a large salary as a governess, she determined thereby to pay her brother's expenses, and at the same time lessen those at home. Nearly three years had rolled away, during which Edith, in a constant round of duties, experienced a calm happiness, which might have been envied by many who had every wish fulfilled. One day, about this time, Lady Allmaigne called upon an intimate friend, who entered with an apology for keeping her waiting, as she said, "Miss Grey, my children's governess, has left me, and my time is much taxed by her absence. Your governess, I suppose, is not leaving," added Mrs. Robinson, "or I would have engaged her." 66 "No, I hope not," replied Lady Allmaigne. My house would hardly seem like home, either to myself or the children, without Edith Hylton." Here both the ladies started, for from the next room, which communicated with the one in which they sat by folding-doors, there proceeded a sound as if a book had been hastily dropped. All being quiet again, the conversation was resumed. Lady Allmaigne was a warm friend, one who delighted in speaking of those she loved; and in Mrs. Robinson, who knew something of Edith, she found a willing listener, while she spoke of Miss Hylton's talents, her beauty, and elegance of manner, and above all of her strict principle, together with the reverence with which she taught the children to look upon truth. When at length she paused, Mrs. Robinson asked a question which most ladies would have put: My dear Clara," said she, "how is it that you have been so fortunate as to keep such a paragon to yourself; how can it be that she has not been wooed and won before now?" 66 66 "Not because she lacks admirers, certainly," replied her friend; but she will give encouragement to none. I have not liked to press the subject; it is the only one on which she is not communicative." "Poor girl!" sighed Mrs. Robinson, who was of a sentimental turn. Perhaps she has been disappointed in love!" Lady Allmaigne made no answer, and her friend rejoined, “I think, Clara, your Miss Hylton must have been born perfect." "I thought so at first, Mary," was the answer; "but now it is my opinion that she has made herself what she now is; minds of a high order have, generally speaking, great imperfections, and are subject to great temptations; if these can be conquered, such a character becomes most wonderfully perfect." Some conversation of a general nature passed, and at last Lady Allmaigne rose to leave, when Mrs. Robinson detained her, saying, Now, Clara, you must stay to luncheon; it is ready in the library; and then," added she, lowering her tone, "I will introduce you to a very agreeable friend Mr. Robinson met with at Matlock. Allan soon found him out to be the son of a distant relative, Colonel Glenville, of whom you must have heard him speak; he is a barrister, and rising fast in his profession. We found he was likely to come into the neighbourhood for a few days, and insisted on his being our guest." Saying this, she threw open the door, and they entered the library, where certainly the luncheon awaited them, but no Frank Glenville! Mr. Robinson, who came in, appeared surprised, declaring that he had left him reading only an hour before; and after waiting in vain they lunched without him. But where was Frank, our old acquaintance? Happy Edith! one conversation overheard formed her character-the next made her happiness! Frank had never loved another, and after long years of absence had been to her birth-place to make inquiry for her. He found the family gone; he heard of their misfortunes, but as their circumstances were changed their summer friends of G- "knew them" no longer. The Stauntons too had removed from Bournfield, and were unacquainted with Edith's present residence. Now, when he almost despaired, what intense happiness did he feel on coming thus suddenly on her track! It could not be a mistake-no other would be so described; he remembered Mr. Staunton's words, and felt they had been fulfilled. After listening with breathless eagerness he had rushed out of the house, enquired of Lady Allmaigne's servants, who were at the door with her carriage, the residence of their mistress, and walked, or almost ran towards it. "The magic music of his heart, beat ever quicker" as he heard her step-another minute and she stood before him. There is no need to depict what passed, nor to describe the astonishment and delight of the kind Lady Allmaigne, when on her return she heard from the blushing girl what had taken place. The wedding followed in due time, and, on the first anniversary of that happy day, Edith told her husband of the conversation she had overheard, and its influence upon her. She ended by placing on his finger a ring, in the inside of which was engraved "Sweet are the uses of adversity!" THOUGHTS. BY ROBERT H. BROWN, ESQ. Thoughts cradled in their infancy Like new-born planet in the night, That gives to space another realm, A light, a guide, a future helm, By which mind seeks the infinite. knows When Sea and Air are clothed in crimson vest, |