BY ALICE B. NEAL.
PART I.
"Ah, lonely, very lonely, is the room
Where love, domestic love, no longer nestles,
But, smitten by the common stroke of doom,
The corpse lies on the tressels!"—Hood.
Yes, there was death in the house. The closed windows told it to the passers-by; and the crape which hung heavily from the door, tied with a black ribbon, denoted that one in the prime of life was laid low. Strangers looked at it with a glance of curiosity and hurried past, forgetting the next moment, in the bright sunshine and busy avocations of life, that they had received a solemn warning to prepare for a like mysterious change. Acquaintances walked with a slower step, as it caught the eye, and thought of the sad scenes that must be passing within that house of mourning.
Friends said it was "a great blow," and wondered vaguely what would become of the wife and children; and some knelt at night surrounded by unclouded happiness in their own homes, but nevertheless praying with a full heart for those who had so suddenly been left desolate.
The day of the funeral came, and the husband and father was carried from the home that had been almost an earthly paradise to be laid beneath "the cold clod of the valley," and the weeping family clung to each other, and sobbed and prayed as that first dreary night came on, and they recognized all the vacancy of hearth and heart. Such scenes are daily passing; yet the world goes on as ever, and some dance to the music of gay revelry, while others put on the "garments of heaviness" with breaking hearts.
And then the return to actual life! How harassing it is when our thoughts are with the dead and the living claim our care! Mrs. Burton found the sad truth of this as, with well meant, but harsh kindness, she found her brother waiting one morning, scarce a week from the day that had made her a widow, to talk over her future prospects. He had an ungracious task before him; for he was forced to communicate what was galling to his pride, as well as distressing to those more nearly interested in the intelligence. Mr. Burton's affairs were left in almost inextricable confusion; a pittance, a mere pittance, of some two hundred a year was all that would remain to his family; and what was this when their annual expenditure had been thousands? He was luxurious in taste, and had not hesitated to gratify every whim. He was an indulgent father, and had lavished uncounted sums upon his children. He had not intended to be unjust to them or his lovely wife; but he was one of those who seem to think a long life secured to them by present health, and, being in excellent business, thought it time to "lay by" when the children were educated and his boys began to "look out for themselves." Besides, he belonged to one of the oldest, proudest families in the city, and he was not to be outshone by any of them.
But how did matters stand now that, by an unalterable decree, he had been suddenly removed from them? Let us see if he had been "a just man," as was pompously stated in his epitaph. Lucy, the eldest daughter, was but nineteen, beautiful, accomplished, and betrothed to the son of an old friend. She was provided for, said the world, and, of course, their relatives could take charge of the younger children—Grace, ten, Willie and George, the one just entered at a classical school, and the other almost ready for college, although only fifteen. Mrs. Burton would have enough to maintain her, no doubt, and so the matter was charitably settled and quietly laid aside for a discussion of the last opera night by the ladies, or a sudden rise in stocks by the gentlemen, upon whose feeling, sensitive minds it had obtruded itself.
Such a conversation was passing that very morning, as Mrs. Burton sat listening to a hurried account of the pressing liabilities that would sweep away even her own marriage portion when, for the first time in a shielded, prosperous life, care and business anxiety came upon her. It is not strange that she was completely bewildered by the new aspect of affairs. She had thought her domestic loss too great a sorrow to bear up under, and now all this crushing weight added to it! What was to be done? Her brother-in-law had but one thing to propose. Lucy would probably marry soon, and Mrs. Burton would no doubt find a comfortable home with her, and be of great assistance to the young wife in managing her domestic concerns The children would be distributed among Mr. Burton's relatives. He himself would take George into his counting-house. He was old enough to be of some service.
Mrs. Burton was a devoted mother. With all her thoughtlessness, she was both fond and proud of her children, and to have them taken from her was to bereave her of every earthly happiness. And George, with his quick mind and high ambition, to be tied down in a counting-room, when he had talent for anything in the profession he already looked forward to, the law! Willie, proud, spirited, affectionate Willie, and her beautiful Grace, dependents upon the bounty of relatives! She could not bear the thought.
But she was not alone in this. Lucy had been summoned to join the deliberation, and astonished her uncle not a little by the firmness with which she said—