'And pray who was poor George?' said I.
'Ah, Sir, his is a sorry story, too; but of that anon; he was a gentleman born, Sir—bless his dear soul!—but before he was barely out of his teens, study and such like turned his wits, and poor George was placed in our care, an idiot. Oh, how he would watch and wait upon his young mistress, as he used to call the dear child; and 'Harri,' for so we called our little Harriet, for shortness, seemed to look up to him for all her amusements and happiness. Good heart! to see him racing round the garden, till he was fairly tired and beat for breath, trundling her in the wheel-barrow, and fancying himself her coachman; and then how he'd follow her wherever she went, as if to protect her; always at a distance, when he fancied she did not wish him with her, but never out of sight. She appeared to be his only care; his poor head seemed filled with nothing but thoughts of her. His friends used to send him trinkets and money, and baubles to amuse him; and his greatest pride was to take little 'Harri' into his room, and show her his stores, hang his gilt chains and beads about her neck; seat her in his large arm-chair, and stand behind it, as if he were her footman; and play all kinds of pranks, to make her laugh; for he seemed pleased when she laughed at him, though he would not bear a smile from any body else at the same cause. His senses served him at times, and then he would fall into fits of the bitterest melancholy, as he sat looking in our sweet child's face, as if reflecting how much he loved her, and how little his wandering mind was able to prove his affection. Ah, poor fellow! it's well his sufferings ended when they did, for they would have been terrible indeed, if he had lived till now; but all who loved her best, fell off from her, either by death or desertion, when her day of trouble came.'
David's resolution was plainly wavering, as to the application of his handkerchief, when Bessum gave it the turn in favor of the picture, on perceiving her husband's emotion, by adding:
'As for David and myself, you know, Sir, we are nobody; it would be strange indeed if we could ever have turned our backs upon the dear child.'
'God forbid!' said David, and little Harri's portrait received the extra polish breathed upon it by a deep sigh previous to the ordinary one, emanating solely from the handkerchief, 'God forbid!' repeated David, and Bessum added a hearty 'Amen!' as she resumed her story.
'As the sweet child grew up,' continued she, 'she was the talk of all tongues, far and near; and before she was fifteen, Sir, gentlefolks came from all parts to see her. A fine time we had of it, surely; first one pretence and then another kept us answering questions and inquiries about her, all day long. As for Dame Beetle, who kept a little shop, and sold gloves over the way, just facing this window, she made a pretty penny by the beauty of our dear child; though the old simpleton thought it was the goodness of her gloves that brought her so many gentlemen customers. Why, I have known no fewer than five or six of the neighboring squires, ay, and lords too, so difficult to fit, that they've been standing over the little counter by the hour together; but I warrant not to much purpose, as far as the real object of their visit was concerned. No sooner did horse, or gig, or carriage stop in the village, than dear Mr. George—that is him that was with the Doctor, you know, Sir——'
'Oh, his name was George too?'
'Yes, Sir, that it was; and down here he would run as fast as legs could carry him; and his first question was always, 'David, where is little Harri? Take her into the garden.' And here he would sit till the gentry opposite were gone away. If ever one creature did doat upon another, Mr. George loved that sweet child. Ah! would to heaven he had lived to make her his wife! But it's all fate, and so I suppose it's for the best as it is; though I would have died, sooner than things should have fallen out as they have, if that could have prevented it.'
'A thousand times over,' responded David, with a fond glance at the picture; 'I'd rather never have been born, than have lived to weep over the ruin of such heavenly beauty and goodness.'
A chill of horror struck upon my heart, as I repeated, with inquiring emphasis, the word that had produced it. 'The ruin?' said I; 'impossible!' and as I raised my eyes toward heaven, at the thought of such a sacrifice, they caught those of the victim in the picture. I could have wept aloud, so powerful was the influence of the gaze that I encountered. There sat the loveliest creature that the world e'er saw; an artless, careless child; health, hope and happiness beaming in her sweet fair face; her lips, although the choicest target for his aim, the foil of Cupid's darts, so pure, so modest was the smile that parted them. Her eyes, the beacon lights of virgin chastity; her joyous look the Lethe where pale care could come but to be lost, it scared off wo. And were these made for ruin to write shame upon? Oh man, monster, ingrate, fiend! Heaven, pitying the dull clod of nature's 'prentice work, sends an ethereal solace to your aid, and when the blessing comes with three-fold charms, to make the bounteous gift more welcome still, you seek, with whetted, graceless appetite, to abuse it, and know no bounds that limit less than infamy, to make up the mortal sum of your ingratitude.