"Yes; and he came home and related it all to me,--the whole affair,"

interrupted Mrs. Burrell. "I was dreadfully provoked; I a.s.sure you, I sympathized with him very much. I became deeply interested in the whole affair; I was looking at my little boy,--for I have a little boy," said she, with matronly dignity,--"and I thought, suppose it was my little boy being treated so, how should I like it? So bringing the matter home to myself in that way made me feel all the more strongly about it; and I just told George Burrell he must take him, as he is an engraver; and I and the baby gave him no rest until he consented to do so. He will take him on the same terms offered by Mr. Blatchford; and then we came down to tell you; and--and," said she, quite out of breath, "that is all about it."

Esther took the little woman's plump hand in both her own, and, for a moment, seemed incapable of even thanking her. At last she said, in a husky voice, "You can't think what a relief this is to us. My brother has taken his disappointment so much to heart--I can't tell you how much I thank you.

G.o.d will reward you for your sympathy and kindness. You must excuse me,"

she continued, as her voice faltered; "we have latterly been so unaccustomed to receive such sympathy and kindness from persons of your complexion, that this has quite overcome me."

"Oh, now, don't! I'm sure it's no more than our duty, and I'm as much pleased as you can possibly be--it has given me heartfelt gratification, I a.s.sure you."

Esther repeated her thanks, and followed them to the door, where she shook hands with Mrs. Burrell, who gave her a pressing invitation to come and see her baby.

"How easy it is, George Burrell," said the happy little woman, "to make the hearts of others as light as our own-mine feels like a feather," she added, as she skipped along, clinging to his arm. "What a nice, lady-like girl his sister is--is her brother as handsome as she ?"

"Not quite," he answered; "still, he is very good-looking, I'll bring him home with me to-morrow at dinner, and then you can see him."

Chatting merrily, they soon arrived at home. Mrs. Burrell ran straightway upstairs to look at that "blessed baby;" she found him sleeping soundly, and looking as comfortable and happy as it is possible for a sleeping baby to look--so she bestowed upon him a perfect avalanche of kisses, and retired to her own peaceful pillow.

And now, having thus satisfactorily arranged for our young friend Charlie, we will leave him for a few years engaged in his new pursuits.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

Many Years After.

Old Father Time is a stealthy worker. In youth we are scarcely able to appreciate his efforts, and oftentimes think him an exceedingly slow and limping old fellow. When we ripen into maturity, and are fighting our own way through the battle of life, we deem him swift enough of foot, and sometimes rather hurried; but when old age comes on, and death and the grave are foretold by trembling limbs and snowy locks, we wonder that our course has been so swiftly run, and chide old Time for a somewhat hasty and precipitate individual.

The reader must imagine that many years have pa.s.sed away since the events narrated in the preceding chapters transpired, and permit us to re-introduce the characters formerly presented, without any attempt to describe how that long period has been occupied.

First of all, let us resume our acquaintance with Mr. Stevens. To effect this, we must pay that gentleman a visit at his luxurious mansion in Fifth Avenue, the most fashionable street of New York--the place where the upper ten thousand of that vast, bustling city most do congregate. As he is an old acquaintance (we won't say friend), we will disregard ceremony, and walk boldly into the library where that gentleman is sitting.

He is changed--yes, sadly changed. Time has been hard at work with him, and, dissatisfied with what his unaided agency could produce, has called in conscience to his aid, and their united efforts have left their marks upon him. He looks old--aye, very old. The bald spot on his head has extended its limits until there is only a fringe of thin white hair above the ears.

There are deep wrinkles upon his forehead; and the eyes, half obscured by the bushy grey eyebrows, are bloodshot and sunken; the jaws hollow and spectral, and his lower lip drooping and flaccid. He lifts his hand to pour out another gla.s.s of liquor from the decanter at his side, when his daughter lays her hand upon it, and looks appealingly in his face.

She has grown to be a tall, elegant woman, slightly thin, and with a careworn and fatigued expression of countenance. There is, however, the same sweetness in her clear blue eyes, and as she moves her head, her fair flaxen curls float about her face as dreamily and deliciously as ever they did of yore. She is still in black, wearing mourning for her mother, who not many months before had been laid in a quiet nook on the estate at Savanah.

"Pray, papa, don't drink any more," said she, persuasively--"it makes you nervous, and will bring on one of those frightful attacks again."

"Let me alone," he remonstrated harshly--"let me alone, and take your hand off the gla.s.s; the doctor has forbidden laudanum, so I will have brandy instead--take off your hand and let me drink, I say."

Lizzie still kept her hand upon the decanter, and continued gently: "No, no, dear pa--you promised me you would only drink two gla.s.ses, and you have already taken three--it is exceedingly injurious. The doctor insisted upon it that you should decrease the quant.i.ty--and you are adding to it instead."

"Devil take the doctor!" exclaimed he roughly, endeavouring to disengage her hold--"give me the liquor, I say."

His daughter did not appear the least alarmed at this violence of manner, nor suffer her grasp upon the neck of the decanter to be relaxed; but all the while spoke soothing words to the angry old man, and endeavoured to persuade him to relinquish his intention of drinking any more.

"You don't respect your old father," he cried, in a whining tone--"you take advantage of my helplessness, all of you--you ill-treat me and deny me the very comforts of life! I'll tell--I'll tell the doctor," he continued, as his voice subsided into an almost inaudible tone, and he sank back into the chair in a state of semi-stupor.

Removing the liquor from his reach, his daughter rang the bell, and then walked towards the door of the room.

"Who procured that liquor for my father?" she asked of the servant who entered.

"I did, miss," answered the man, hesitatingly.

"Let this be the last time you do such a thing," she rejoined, eyeing him sternly, "unless you wish to be discharged. I thought you all fully understood that on no consideration was my father to have liquor, unless by the physician's or my order--it aggravates his disease and neutralizes all the doctor's efforts--and, unless you wish to be immediately discharged, never repeat the same offence. Now, procure some a.s.sistance--it is time my father was prepared for bed."

The man bowed and left the apartment; but soon returned, saying there was a person in the hall who had forced his way into the house, and who positively refused to stir until he saw Mr. Stevens.

"He has been here two or three times," added the man, "and he is very rough and impudent."

"This is most singular conduct," exclaimed Miss Stevens. "Did he give his name?"

"Yes, miss; he calls himself McCloskey."

At the utterance of this well-known name, Mr. Stevens raised his head, and stared at the speaker with a look of stupid fright, and inquired, "Who here--what name is that?--speak louder--what name?"

"McCloskey," answered the man, in a louder tone.

"What! he--_he_!" cried Mr. Stevens, with a terrified look. "Where--where is he?" he continued, endeavouring to rise--"where is he?"

"Stop, pa," interposed his daughter, alarmed at his appearance and manner.

"Do stop--let me go," "No--no!" said the old man wildly, seizing her by the dress to detain her--"_you_ must not go--that would never do! He might tell her," he muttered to himself--"No, no--I'll go!"--and thus speaking, he made another ineffectual attempt to reach the door.

"Dear father! do let me go!" she repeated, imploringly. "You are incapable of seeing any one--let me inquire what he wants!" she added, endeavouring to loose his hold upon her dress.

"No--you shall not!" he replied, clutching her dress still tighter, and endeavouring to draw her towards him.

"Oh, father!" she asked distractedly, "what can this mean? Here," said she, addressing the servant, who stood gazing in silent wonder on this singular scene, "help my father into his chair again, and then tell this strange man to wait awhile."

The exhausted man, having been placed in his chair, motioned to his daughter to close the door behind the servant, who had just retired.

"He wants money," said he, in a whisper--"he wants money! He'll make beggars of us all--and yet I'll have to give him some. Quick! give me my cheque-book--let me give him something before he has a chance to talk to any one--quick! quick!"

The distracted girl wrung her hands with grief at what she imagined was a return of her father's malady, and exclaimed, "Oh! if George only would remain at home--it is too much for me to have the care of father whilst he is in such a state." Then pretending to be in search of the cheque-book, she turned over the pamphlets and papers upon his desk, that she might gain time, and think how it was best to proceed.

Whilst she was thus hesitating, the door of the room was suddenly opened, and a shabbily dressed man, bearing a strong odour of rum about him, forced his way into the apartment, saying, "I will see him. D----n it, I don't care haporth how sick he is--let me go, or by the powers I'll murther some of yes." The old man's face was almost blanched with terror when he heard the voice and saw the abrupt entry of the intruder. He sprang from the chair with a great effort, and then, unable to sustain himself, sunk fainting on the floor.

"Oh, you have killed my father--you have killed my father! Who are you, and what do you want, that you dare thrust yourself upon him in this manner?"

said she, stooping to a.s.sist in raising him; "cannot you see he is entirely unfit for any business?"

Mr. Stevens was replaced in his chair, and water thrown in his face to facilitate his recovery.

Meanwhile, McCloskey had poured himself out a gla.s.s of brandy and water, which he stood sipping as coolly as if everything in the apartment was in a state of the most perfect composure. The singular terror of her father, and the boldness and a.s.surance of the intruder, were to Miss Stevens something inexplicable--she stood looking from one to the other, as though seeking an explanation, and on observing symptoms of a return to consciousness on the part of her parent, she turned to McCloskey, and said, appealingly: "You see how your presence has agitated my father. Pray let me conjure you--go.

Be your errand what it may, I promise you it shall have the earliest attention. Or," said she, "tell me what it is; perhaps I can see to it--I attend a great deal to father's business. Pray tell me!"

"No, no!" exclaimed the old man, who had caught the last few words of his daughter. "No, no--not a syllable! Here, I'm well--I'm well enough. I'll attend to you. There, there--that will do," he continued, addressing the servant; "leave the room. And you," he added, turning to his daughter, "do you go too. I am much better now, and can talk to him. Go! go!" he cried, impatiently, as he saw evidences of a disposition to linger, on her part; "if I want you I'll ring. Go!--this person won't stay long."

"Not if I get what I came for, miss," said McCloskey, insolently; "otherwise, there is no knowing how long I may stay." With a look of apprehension, Lizzie quitted the room, and the murderer and his accomplice were alone together.