ajarnell Ittioctattg Bhrary 
 
 att)ata. ^tva fork 
 
 LIBRARY OF 
 
 LEWIS BINGLEY WYNNE 
 
 A. B..A.M.. COLUMBIAN COLLEGE.'71 ,'73 
 WASHINGTON. D. C. 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 MRS. MARY A. WYNNE 
 
 AND 
 
 JOHN H. WYNNE 
 
 CORNELL '98 
 1922 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 2355.M12G5 
 
 3 1924 022 498 814 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022498814 
 
TH|: GLE.NNS;' 
 
 A F A M I.L Y H^I S T R Y 
 
 BY 
 
 J. L. M'CONNEL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "TALBOT AND VERNON," " GRAHAME," ETC. 
 
 ' The bad man's cunning still prepares the way, 
 
 ~For4ts awn-outwitting.'— Coleridge. 
 
 Njpw YORK: 
 
 GHAULES SCRIBNER* 
 
 1851. 
 
Entered according to Act of CongresB, in tb.o year 18S1, by 
 CHARLES SCBIBNER, #^ 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District 
 ol New York. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I can easier teach twenty what were good to he done, 
 Thiln he one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. 
 
 Mkhohant or TeniAz. 
 
 The outline of the following story, when sketch^, was de- 
 signed to illustrate certain mental and moral laws by which 
 characteristics are transmitted from parent to offspring — and 
 thus to show how " the sins of the father are visited upon the 
 children, even unto the third and fourth generation." The 
 physical laws were not included in the design, except as their 
 results contribute to the mental and moral development — be- 
 cause such an inquiry belongs more properly to a scientific trea- 
 tise, and could not be embodied in a fiction without impairing 
 its interest. 
 
 The design has been, T fear, but indifferently executed ; but 
 in this statement of it is intimated my opinion of what the nov- 
 elist's vocation is : to instruct and improve men by pointing to 
 the sources of evil, and go to preserve consistency in his char- 
 acters with their fates as not to violate the rule, that virtue shall 
 have its reward and trangression its punisljment. 
 
 ' The proper study of mankind is man,' 
 
 and in order that we may the better understand what we see — 
 and thus be able to vindicate th^ justice of God's government — 
 human character should be studied and displayed, not only in 
 the individual, but also in its various relations, responsibili|u|is, and 
 penalties, of parent and child, husband and wife, andnffrother 
 
•police forces have too often been the very men against whom 
 they should have been directed ; and almost invariably, corps 
 of "Regulators,'' from being the defenders, have some to be the 
 oppressors of the peaceful citizen.*^ And moreover, fugitives 
 from justice, and those whom their example and conversation 
 have corrupted — with the impatient, fiery temper produced by 
 education and mode of life — are sometimes very prominent in 
 th* "history of frontier communities. But a book, which should 
 depict such characters only, would give but a partial and incom- 
 plete account of the society, of which tliey in fact form but an 
 inconsiderable division. Yet, that they furnish the staple of 
 most " Western Stories," is as undeniable as that all such pictures 
 are absurd caricatlires. 
 
 A NewYork journalist, who properly reprobates the libels 
 of whiol^'e speak, in noticing a recent work on western man- 
 ners, has the following true remark : " Quite enough of the hor- 
 rid and romantic may be found, ready made to the author's 
 hand, without his indulging in such ridiculously stupid and out- 
 rageously improbable fictions, as many have done, who, know- 
 ing nothing of the ground, sit quietly in their chimney corners, 
 and deluge a credulous world with a careless strearh of sense- 
 less trash — enjoying the pseudonyms of ' "Western Stories,' at 
 only twenty-five cents per copy." And though it may possibly 
 be true, that the extravagance of the characters depicted — as 
 compared with the aspects of human nature in oldfer communi- 
 ties — may lead eastern people sometimes to mistake a true 
 story for a false, it is unquestionable that the thino- has been 
 lamentably overdone. But the error is easily traced to its 
 source. In contemplating the racy and projecting points of 
 western life, writers are led to forget that there are other men 
 besides the outlaws whom they paint, and other pursuits, be- 
 sides horse-stealing and throat-cutting, which in reality contri- 
 bute not a Uttle to both the elements and developments of west- 
 ern society. ^ 
 
 That men may retreat to the solitudes and romantic adven- 
 tures of a lately-peopled, or thinly-peopled, frontier, from causes 
 
PREFACE. VI 1 
 
 independent of either social or legal necessity, seems utterly to 
 have been forgotten ; that restlessness, enterprising spirit, or 
 reverses of fortune and the hope of retrieving them, may have 
 led even peaceful citizens tcf emigrate westward, is not remem- 
 bered ; and but few have entertained the supposition that such 
 men, actuated by such motives, may make good citizens, or lay 
 the foundation of a permanent community, even though sur- 
 rounded by, and mingling with, men of a very diflFerent stamp. 
 Yet peddlars of clocks and tinware, hunting-parties in broad- 
 cloth and high-heeled boots, bloody-minded Indian-fighters, 
 thirsting for scalps, or organized bands of robbers and cut- 
 throats, are not the principal, or even the most " respectable," 
 characters to be met west of the Mississippi. In some places 
 they have built churches, and now and then the voice of prayer, 
 exhortation and praise may be heard ascending from among the 
 primeval solitudes. Courts of Law — feeble, indeed, in the first 
 years of their establishment, but waxing stronger as the citizen 
 gradually awakes to the importance of securing his rights — ex- 
 tend occasionally to the very borders of the wilderness. Mar - 
 rying and giving in mai riage: — rearing and educating children 
 tilling the ground — buying and selling — making and execut- 
 ing laws — electing officers, determining controversies, punish- 
 ing criminals — helping the needy, visiting the sick, burying the 
 dead, educating the orphan, and exercising all the charities and 
 amenities of life — ^these things are a part of the practice and his- 
 tory of western men, as well as cutting throats, stealing hor- 
 ses, shboting Indians, and circumventing each other. All this 
 is common-place, it is true, and does not '■ tell" so well in a story 
 as the more violent and romantic phases of the same society. 
 But if such things are not delineated, their existence should at 
 least be remembered and recognised ; and a picture of western 
 life and manners should not be so painted as utterly to preclude 
 everything natural, civilized or tame. 
 
 Doubtless, we must expect that in works of fiction, the most 
 prominent characteristics of the society portrayed, will receive 
 the first and 'greatest attention. I only complain that they have 
 
PRBFACJS. 
 
 Men so depicted as to exclude even the supposition of less ob- 
 Tppusiye but equally important aspects. And accordingly, in th« 
 following story — where it relates peculiarly to south-westein 
 life — I have endeavored, while £Vng some of these salient 
 points of local manners, to keep in view the fact that the char- 
 acters indicated are only the more remarkable ; and .that the 
 great body of the population, even at that, comparatively early 
 period, was made up of very different sorts of people. Yet — 
 even wiih this caution — the reader must not conclude that San 
 Antonio de Bexar was, at that period, anything like a fair spe- 
 cimen of our western towns. Many causes, fresh in the mem- 
 ory of every one, had concurred to make it a peculiarly wild 
 aftd lawless place. It was'so as late as 1 846-.— as will be recol- 
 lected by all who were there during the gathering of General 
 Wool's column in that year — when the police of this able dis- 
 ciplinarian probably preserved better order than had ever been 
 known there before. 
 
 .AH who are acquainted with w^estern scenes and manners 
 will, I think, perceive that this is in every part a western story ; 
 for I have endeavored to delineate only such scenes and char- 
 acters as have from time to time come under my own observa- 
 tion in the western country. Whether faithfully drawn or not, 
 they are, at all events, not eosaggerated. 
 
 I do not make these remarks \vith a view qf disarming criti- 
 cism ; for I know my own interests too well to desire to escape 
 it. Nor do I wish to avoid a fair trial by a just standard, upon 
 th« question whether I have drawn my characters truthfully. 
 But I wish it to be remembered, that wJaat would be natural in 
 the older States of our Union, may be very unnatural Ueyond the 
 Mississippi ; and since I have not attempted t6 delineate cha- 
 racter as developed in the East, it is but fair that I should be 
 judged by the social laws of the western country. Nor must 
 I be understood to claim, that I- have made no mistake in refer- 
 ence to this code : I only ask that the ■• lex fori" may not be 
 substituted for the '' lex loci." 
 
 As to the position I have assumed in relation to ciroumstan- 
 
PREFAdE. iX 
 
 tial evideiKp, I feel that I need say nothing. A system so fre- 
 quently and so fearfully vindicated — resting so iramedi^t^y 
 upon the course of human 'events and the progress of God's 
 providence — needs no boflHpring beyoiid a simple reference to - 
 facts. ^r * 
 
 And, in conclusion, I can only hope that ray pictures of we&^, 
 te-rn society will not be misunderstood ; or the Jessons 1" have 
 endeavored to teach be perverted or neglected. And if anyone 
 should 'disagree with my positions — (the stori/ 1 must, of course, 
 abandon to the mercy of the reader) — I beg to refer him to 
 Pope — who, whether a poet or not, was certainly a philoso- 
 pher : — 
 
 ' 'Tis with OUT judgments as our watches ; none ' 
 
 Go just alike, yet each belieTes his own.' 
 
 New York, March, 1851. 
 
BOOK* FIRS t'. 
 
 CHAPTEE, I. 
 
 ■*' 
 
 How complicate, how wonderful, is man !— Young. 
 
 s 
 
 Family, resemblances are among the most capricious p 
 nomena of human nature. Between every two of each fam 
 in the world, there is a striljing resemblance in some one or t 
 particulars — some likeness which may exist between perse 
 not related by blood or marriage ; but which is most frequen 
 found among the members of the same family, and is therefi 
 referable to consanguinity. . A peculiar feature of the face- 
 singular oijtline of form---the shape of a hand or a tone of t 
 voice — may mark the common origin ; and either one of th( 
 or other like characteristics may always be observed. 
 
 We have said these signs are capricious, and by this ■ 
 mean, Aat they depend upon causes ^vhich we cannot tra 
 A family BOW living may have been marked for many gene 
 tions, by the peculiar form of the nose or hand ; the childi 
 of those now with us may not havelt — nay, they .may be nol 
 for a totally different mark, say the shape of the foot, or a c; 
 of the eye. The first point of ancient family likeness shall 
 sunk for many generations — appearing in none — marking no; 
 until it shall be almost forgotten. And then at some rem( 
 future period — like the fabled river that runs under the sea- 
 shall reappear among the posterity of those who had it not, c 
 tinguishing each in the absence of those marks which dist 
 guish the families of those now living. And in the remote a 
 forgotten past, there probably lived many generations wh( 
 affinity was determined by the same peculiarities — the sha 
 of the foot, or the cast of an eye — which are now reappearii 
 after having been sunk for centuries. These things, physic 
 
12 THE GLENNS. 
 
 gists may tell us> depend upon accident — a convenient word, 
 including millions of phenomena, as completely within the 
 course of nature as birth and deat h^w hijih arq, fortuitous only 
 for t^he reason that their causes' a'rjli^ton^ our knowledge. 
 
 The human race is distinguisheHBll every other by tokens 
 which are unmistakeable^general^raii's (corresponding in 
 generality with the extent of the class circumscribed), confine 
 and grotect |he domain of intelligence. Between nations and 
 subbiligateadvisions of manlUnd^thejre are similar lines of sep- 
 aration — lines which time, climate, diet, and mixture of blood 
 cannot wholly obliterate. The high cheek bones and sandy 
 hair gS the Scotchman will reappear, after many generations of 
 mixea*blood, under the binrning sun and on the parched plains 
 of the tropics. The glassy, black skin of the negro wjlU stand 
 for cen-turies among>the red men of the North ; and the thick 
 lips and flattened nose will be found when the amount of Afri- 
 can blood is so small as not to tinge the skin. Upoii the Jew 
 there rests a curse of fearful import, and wander as .fee may, to 
 the north or the south, the remarkable physiognomy of the 
 scattered people is never changed. And it would seem that a 
 similar law governs .all other lineage ; for in the motliest assem- 
 blage, one skilled in national appearance, will be able uner- 
 ringly to select all who have Scotch, Irish, Spanish, German, 
 or Eastern bloodi Among families, too, even where frequent 
 intermarriages, with others have obscured the disfinction, the 
 prevailing characteristics of blood will always be seen. No 
 lapse of time, no change of climate, no reverse of fortune, and 
 no succession of crosses, can wholly obliterate it or produce the 
 slightest inconsistency with the originally appointe^Apuliari- 
 ties of the race. These causes may modify, or even<taTiporarily 
 conceal, the marks; but in some -future generation, Vhen the 
 posterity has almost forgotten its lineage, the reappearance of 
 the ancient badge of blood may remind, them of their fathers ; 
 and they may learn from dim tradition or aoeidental record 
 that their remote progenitors were, for many ages, remarkable 
 for the same thing which now so strangely reappears. The 
 characters of race, written with invisible ink upon the page of 
 family history, are brought into contact with the test that brings 
 them out, and the lineage is again revived and proven. ■#* 
 
 Around subordinate divisions lines are thus drawn, whicH, 
 like those about the aggregate race, are commensurate with thte 
 space enclosed. And if we knew nothing of individuals, but 
 were acquainted with these facts, we should reason from them 
 to the conclusion, that this law obtains quite as distinctly in 
 
4 FAMILY HISTORY. 13 
 
 the separation of uiito; and what reflection would anticipate, 
 observation confirms ; that contrary to all mathematical princi- 
 ples, the same lines are hotti parallel and divergent ; or, more 
 intelligibly, that, tho^^jj^^limits which bound races and 
 families necessarily "encit^Hpiiany individuals within each sub- 
 division, yet those "■jiidiViQiials are alike only in reference to 
 those extreme lines ; aftd that within these enclosures there are 
 yet other divisions, eaqh covering one individual and no more. 
 The only reason, then, why we cannot read a man's whole 
 character in every action he performs, is because our acquaint- 
 ance with the language of human action is not sufficiently 
 thorough, and not beeau-se he does not exhibit a-11 he is in 
 everything he does. For if those things which pertains to tne 
 man as an individual, belong to him exclusively, it follows — 
 since effects vary only as their causes differ. — that all his actions 
 must be consistent with but one nature, and that, his individual 
 composition. It follows also that " inconsistency," when applied 
 to'huroan action, is a word, like "accident" and others of a kin- 
 dred ""character, which has no meaning, except such as we 
 attach to it through ignorance of the subject to which it is ap- 
 plied. Were our knowledge 'of human character and of the 
 springs of human action complete, the idea of inconsistency, 
 with many other groundless notions, would be exploded, and 
 men would be viewed as they are — incapable of doing anything 
 not perfectly consistent with, and inferable from, any other ac- 
 tion which they may or can do. 
 
 Men are, then, alike and yet unlike — similar and yet totally 
 different — alike in general classes, and entirely unlike in units ; 
 and the family resemblances, of which we spoke in £he' begin- 
 ning, are" the points of similitude in generals. No family is 
 without them, and yet no two members of the same family ever 
 were otherwise than totally and, so to speak, infinitely different. 
 
 But though beneath the surface all families are alike in their 
 
 dissimilarity. — we occasionally see one in which the likeness 
 and the diffeifcnce are so combined as to 'be equally perceptible : 
 not to be mistaken at a glance, and giving, in the first momeiit of 
 acquaintance, a complete family history. Those persons who 
 are most alike in generals are often least alike in details, as if 
 iNature meant to compensate herself for partial monotony with 
 increased variety. A striking physical resemblance is therefore 
 no ground for inferring mental or moral likeness ; but, upon the 
 principle just stated, rather the reverse. If you' put into two 
 vessels of equal size a solution of ten drugs in equal parts, the 
 contents of each vessel will be precisely liKe those of the other : 
 
14 THE GLENNS. 
 
 then throw into one of them a single drop of another drug, or -a 
 single additional drop of any one, and' the whole compound will 
 be changed. The two, originally alike, are now totally differ- 
 ent, there is not a single point of'^Smblance between them, 
 except in the general characterisMphat they are both liquid. 
 So among men, and particularly at^ng rHembers of the same 
 family : alike in ten points, one of them may have an eleventh 
 which, pervading and mingling with Jhe otliers, changes the 
 whole character, and makes them totally unlike. And this is 
 perceptible, too, at a glance, however great the physical resem- 
 blance, however little we know of the persons observed. One 
 may go as a stranger into a family whose likeness to each other 
 physieally is very obvious, and though he may not know 
 precisely what the difference m, he will be at once convinced 
 that there are no two among them all in the least alike. 
 
 Every one can recall such examples. We remember one 
 now ; and it is of this one that we are about to write. 
 
 So far as history informs us, the Glenn family never had a 
 daughter among the many births of a progeny by ho means 
 scanty. They have been the sons of sons for many generations ; 
 and, notwithstanding mixture of blood, the Glenn form and the 
 Glenn face have never been absent in a single generation. 
 Thpy have been uniformly tall, invariably handsome. All have 
 been distinguished for more than ordinary intellectual power, 
 but none has ever risen above a private station. This fact may 
 be accounted for by the circumstance that they have almost all 
 inherited wealth, and, excepting one, all have at some pe- 
 riod of their lives, been spendthrifts. Abram Glenn, the 
 exception, — at the opening of our story approaching threescore 
 years in age — was the eldest of three brothers. The two 
 younger, Arthur and George, were twins, born some months 
 after the death of their father. By the decease of their mother, 
 which occurred but a few years after, the three boys were made 
 orphans when Abram, the eldest, was not twelve years of age. 
 But, young as he was, he had already been placed by his 
 mother in the mercantile house of a friend, whose chief excel- 
 lences were stern integrity and unswerving constancy .to his 
 business. In his society Abram had, perhaps, corrected what 
 slight tendency he might have had to prodigality or indolence,,, 
 before he reached the age of eighteen — the period of his 
 majority, as fixed by the will of hi^, father. In his twentieth 
 year he waS admitted as a partner of an old and respectable 
 firi^ — a step which his diligence encouraged, quite as much as 
 his share of his father's estate — and soon afterwards was 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 15 
 
 appointed guardian of his younger brothers. Abrarh had as 
 much worldjy wisdom and asmuoh natural discretion as usually 
 falls to the lot of a man so young ; but for some reason — perhaps 
 the family recklessness aritoroclivity to scatter worldly goods — 
 his guardianship apparenl^did little for his wards. For five 
 years had not elapsed, after 'the day upon which they attained 
 their majority, and assumed the management of their own 
 affairs, before both had been married, each had spent the last 
 dollar of his inheritance, and both had " gone to that undis- 
 covered cou;ntry from whose bourne no traveler returns." 
 Each left one son in infancy, and of these children, also, Abram 
 was appointed guardian, Tlie mother of Henry (the younger 
 of the nephews), and the widow of Arthur, survived her 
 husband scarcely two years. The widow of George (the 
 mother of James, the elder of the children,) was married again 
 within twelve months : closing a dashing widowhood with an 
 im.prudent and mercenary marriage. 
 
 Richard 'Shelton,- her second husband, — of whom we shall 
 have more to say hereafter — was the son of another family who 
 had. emigrated to the West at about the ' same time with the 
 Glenns, and, like them, had acquired wealth by the rise of real 
 esta.te. A worn-out Yirginia plantation had been sold for 
 enough to purchase large tracts of the rich lands of the Missis- 
 sippi valley, and the tide of emi^i^tion flowing in had raised 
 its value several hundred per centum. Richard's father, 
 however, — a bluffi Virginian of the genuine stamp, half cava- 
 lier, half backwoodsman, — had only lived long enough to know 
 that he was fast growing rich ; and when he died, he left his 
 son that most easily squandered of all possessions, a landed 
 estate. Richard was recalled by the event from an Eastern 
 college, where he was about closing a career in which he had 
 gained distinction for many other things besides the talents and 
 habits of a student. He was, in fact, what is called " a wild 
 young man," and at once- launched into the tempting dissi- 
 pations, and perhaps vices, which are so easily yielded to by 
 young men in his position. These habits grew upon him, until 
 he became enamored of a Miss Eversham, the only sister of a 
 man to whom we will introduce the reader anon. Her family 
 were the very essence of exclusiveness, but at that time, 
 unfortunately, very poor. Shelton was rich, for as yet his 
 dissipations had not impaired his inheritance, and they were 
 soon married. It was, however, a marriage of affection as well 
 as convenience, and Miss Eversham, though somewhat haughty 
 and extravagant, was a very lovely woman. 
 
16 THE GLENNS. 
 
 Though the match was well assorted in many respects, 
 unluckily neither possessed the qualities which the other 
 needed in a partner. Both were social, careless of money, 
 thoughtless of the future, and fond of display. A few years 
 wore on, and she sickened and llfed ; and scarcely was she 
 buried ere Shelton discovered thatV'besides being a widower 
 with a young child, he was almost penniless, and without the 
 resource of business or profession. He had nothing but his 
 dexterity upon which to depend. Reasonably well educated, 
 accomplished and thoroughly versed in human nature, he felt 
 that he had no reason to despair ; but, unfortunately, his 
 confidence was not based upon a manly self-reliance or firm 
 integrity of purpose. The nature of his life at college — afar 
 from all the wholesome and restraining influences of home — 
 might perhaps have impaired his principles, and, at the best, 
 had taught him unconsciously to rely for success upon adroit- 
 ness and management, rather than upon honor and truth. He 
 had always been extremely popular in society, where no one 
 ever considered him depraved by dissipation or corrupted by bad 
 habits. This social position he was unwilling to lose; and yet 
 the expenses growing out of it were far beyond his means. 
 The absence of more honorable sources of supply, and perhaps 
 the want of moral courage to use them, had they been present, 
 led him to the gaming table ; and, in its turn, this, though 
 understood to be pursued only for amusement, gradually under- 
 mined his respectability. Had it been known that his fortune 
 w'as consumed, and that he was depending in a great measure 
 upoii chance for his subsistence, he would at once have been 
 excluded from society ; and it was the knowledge of this fact, 
 with perhaps the consciousness that his pursuits and situation 
 were unworthy of his character, which made, hini desperate 
 and reckless. 
 
 His fortunes stood thus when George Glenn died, and his 
 widow almost directly afterwards threw off her half-worn weeds 
 and reappeared in society. She gave out that her husband had 
 made a settlement upon her before their marriage, of twelve 
 hundred a year, and the story was accidentally strengthened by 
 misconstrued words that had fallen from Abram. It was still 
 very generally believed that Shelton was wealthy ; and he was 
 yet in great request among all who prize good-fellowship above 
 good morals, and a welcome guest at the houses of many who 
 forgave his irregularities for the sake of his talents. He was a 
 widower, she was a widow — each had the reputation of mode- 
 rate wealth — neither had anything but the reputation. Shelton 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 17 
 
 was determined to rescue himself from eqjiivoc'al paths, even at 
 the risk of domestic misery. She was determined to have an- 
 other wealthy husband at the same risk. Identity of design 
 brought them together — eaatj;. courted the other — and of course 
 they " married in haste to repent at leisure." But a short time 
 sufficed to discover the poverty of both ; but each had the good 
 sense to feel, the justice of the punishment. Shelton consoled 
 himself with the thought that at least he had a comely wife ; 
 and she, upon reflection, was content, since at all events she had 
 a. husband. This was better than could have been expected. 
 But residence there was no longer to be thought of — the mask 
 must soon be stripped from both. Without delay they made 
 their preparations for departure. 
 
 But a difficulty arose in the outset of their arrangements ; 
 the child of her former marriage must be either taken with her 
 or provided for before they teffi the place; and Shelton told her 
 rather roughly, that " he had married her and not her child." 
 In truth, however, could she get the boy once off her hands, she 
 was as little inclined to burden her new husband as herself; and 
 she agreed with him that his little Margaret, (scarcely so old as 
 her boy,) would be quite trouble enough for one so little mater- 
 nally' inclined as she. It was, therefore, with but moderate 
 show of regret, and perhaps still less real sorrow, that she ac- 
 ceded to Abram's request that she would leave the child with 
 him — palliating" her want of natural affection to others by the 
 consideration that Abram, who was a confirmed and wealthy 
 bachelor, would doubtless amply provide for him. Soon after 
 this unnatural transfer, she went away with her husband, none 
 knew and few cared to enquire whither. 
 
 Abram, we said, was a confirmed bachelor. 
 
 Now the'Glenns were never noted for celibacy, but rather the 
 reverse ; and the singularity in this case was rendered more re- 
 markable by the fact that he was rich ; for it would seem to be 
 as hard for " a rich man " to go through the world unmarried, 
 as it is, according to Scripture, for him " to enter the kingdom 
 of Heaven." He must be utterly insensible to female charms : 
 to a dislike of matrimony, he must add rare sagacity in detepting 
 wiles and avoiding "man-traps" of every conceivable kind ;■ or, 
 he must early meet with some experience which acidifies and 
 turns his stomach against everything of the sort. This last 
 was Abram's ofse. A few years before the death of his brothers, 
 he had met with a young lady of great personal attractions and 
 of corresponding poverty, of whom he had become enamored 
 after the manner of all the Glenns — desperately and impa- 
 
18 THE GLENNS. 
 
 tiently. He was" disappointed ; how, the reader will learn here- 
 after. He had at once and forever abandoned all thought of 
 love or marriage, and was, as we have said, at the period of 
 Mrs. George Glenn's second union, .p. confirmed bachelor. 
 
 In a merely worldly view, the reasoning of the last mentioned 
 lady, that her son would- probably be better cared for by his 
 uncle than by her new husband and herself, was not far from 
 correct. 'For no father ever watched more carefully or guarded 
 more scrupulously the education of his son, than did Abram 
 that of both his nephews. His want of experience and solitary 
 habits may, in a measure, have unfitted him for the task of 
 guide and protector ; but so far as his knowledge and ability 
 e:5tended, no parent could exceed him in zeal and vigilance. 
 If he erred culpably in anything, it was in allowing both his 
 wards a rather free command of money. He thought, and very 
 correctly, that denying them could but produce one of two re- 
 sults, it would either lower their standard of self-respect, thus 
 dc^ng their characters an irreparable injury, by the comparison 
 they would not fail to make between their own stinted allowance 
 and the more liberal supply of their companions — ^or it would 
 tempt them to equivocal and perhaps criminal means of obtaining 
 that which their boyish feelings represented as indispensable. 
 In either event their characters would be seriously, perhaps per- 
 manently injured, and in the one case probably as vitally as in 
 the other. He knew the pride of the race, and he was too sen- 
 sible a man not to know that what would ruin a boy of one 
 temperament, would only develope and improve one of another. 
 He had never fallen into the stupid, pedagogical mistake — 
 founded upon the astonishing wisdom of the truism, that " boys 
 are boys" — that all children must be subjected alike to the same 
 discipline. He was accordingly sensible that refusing his wards 
 the means of gratifying their harmless, boyish wants, would so 
 touch their pride and heat their naturally warm blood, that they 
 might be hurried into faults for which years of repentance could 
 not atone. 
 
 In all this he was perfectly right ; but he did not reflect that 
 the very same natures upon which these results were predic- 
 able, might,, by having the means of unlimited indulgence at 
 command, be led into errors of another sort, scarcely less per- 
 nicious. He erred in not stopping at the medium between the 
 two extremes — where they would have enough to prevent them 
 being humbled in the presence of their companions, and yet not 
 enough to lead them to excess. But it was not in Abram 
 Glenn's nature to stint any one ; neither was he of that class 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 19 
 
 of cent-per-cent dealers, who, owing you a dollar, will endeavor 
 to dischasge the debt with a five-franc piece. "Wihat he owed 
 he paid punctually and in full — what he gave, was given freely, 
 and with no ungenerous, or hesitating hand. 
 
 He erred likewise, perhaps quite as seriously, in not varying 
 his government according to the character of each of his wards. 
 For, though in some respects alike, no two boys were ever 
 more nearly each other's opposites. Each partook liberally of 
 the characteristics of his mother. Henry was calm, gentle and 
 docile, except when ruffled by imposition or roused by insult. 
 At such times the hot blood of the family showed itself, and ' 
 while the paroxysm continued, nothing could govern him. He I 
 was passicfnate by nature, but this trait w^as accompanied an.d. 
 qualified by a remarkably clear judgment and a quick sense of 
 justice. His attacks of passion though violent were generally' 
 evanescent, iisually ending in h earty repent ance afid s incere 
 atonement. He would sternly wTthsiaria encrc^ohment upon 
 His rights, even in the smallest affairs, and in his resistance not. 
 one was more doggedly resolute. His sense of justice, as we 
 shall see hereafter, sometimes made him exacting to those who 
 had wronged him ; and his demands were not unfrequently out 
 of proportion to the injury done. Yet, if in passion he wronged 
 another, not a -single step would he go beyond what his judg- 
 ment pointed to as adequate reparation. This might have been 
 called an inconsistency in his character ; but could we explore 
 the recesses where lie hidden the springs of human action, we 
 should doubtless find, that the very same cause which prompts 
 unreasonable exaction from others, also incites resistance to 
 their exorbitant demands. As might be expected in such a 
 character, he was warm and steady in his attachments, and if 
 not equally warm quite as steady and perfectly decided in his 
 resentments and dislikes. He could not very easily forgive an 
 injury, without proper acknowledgment and reparation irom the 
 wrong-doer, for the very same reason for which he could not 
 lightly forget a benefit or forsake a' friend. He was liberal and 
 generous though not ostentatious or profuse in his social inter- 
 course, simple, straight-forward, and void of pretension in his 
 manners, and open, engaging and entertaining in his discourse. 
 Added to these traits of character, (properly so classed,) he pos- 
 sessed a brilliant though'' perhaps not very profound intellect ; 
 and at the age of twenty-four, when our immediate concern 
 with him commences, his intellect was developed by every ad- 
 vantage- lyhich flows from a complete education and extensive 
 intercourse with' good society. He had been bred to the law — 
 
20 THE GLENNS. 
 
 a profession which enforces more rigid reflection arid more rapid 
 perception than all others. This discipline had in some degree 
 corrected his tendency to diffuseness, but still his talents and 
 habits of thought were rather those of the declaimer than the 
 debater — (the word logician is not in the legal vocabulary.) 
 ■#ith a fine voice, a handsome figure, and an open, manly coun- 
 tenance, (adding immensely, as these things do, to the power of 
 oratory or conversation,) he was well fitted to make his way at 
 the bar and in society. 
 
 In the latter sphere he was assisted no little by the conside- 
 ration, that as equal heir with his Cousin James of his uncle's 
 estate, he would probably inherit some fifty or sixty thousand 
 dollars. The only wonder was how, with his pleasing manners 
 and engaging appearance, heightened as they both were by his 
 expectations, he had lived to the age of twenty-four in single 
 blessedness. Perhaps a partial explanation might be found in 
 the hale appearance and erect carriage of the uncle, upon whose 
 demise only the aforesaid money was to come. Perhaps dis- 
 tance instead of " lending enchantment to the view," in this, 
 rather dimmed the splendor of his expectations. - Be this as it 
 may, at the age of twenty-four he was still unmarried, though, 
 as we shall see anon, at least on the road which leads to another 
 condition. 
 
 In pursuance of the mistaken system which had led the 
 guardian-unole to avoid even the appearance of a distinction be- 
 tween his wards, Abram had also bred James, who was nearly 
 two years Henry's elder, to the law. In many respects we have 
 said, he was like his cousin. In form and face they were, so 
 far as physical feature and outline go, almost counterparts. 
 But even the most superficial observer could not have overlooked 
 the fact that James possessed a character as nearly the opposite 
 of his cousin's, as human character could be. His temper was 
 haughtjk intractable and stubborn; his anger was easily kind- 
 led, andMiis resentments never died except in revenge'. What 
 his cousin would exact as a reparation due to justice, he would 
 seek, and by fair means or foul obt^, as a vengeance. He 
 never forgave an injury, not because of the warmth of his pas- 
 sions merely, for he could desert a friend as coldly in the hour 
 of need, and laugh him to scorn as heartlessly as the veriest 
 Round-head. His selfishness was intense, and his pride in due 
 proportion. In his boyhood he was remarkable for the daring 
 and hardihood pf his exploits, and the perfect unscrupulousness 
 he exhibited whenever obstacles to his wishes were .to be sur- 
 mounted. Gifted with both physical and moral courage in an 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 21 
 
 eminent d^egree, the almost total want of conscientiousness, (a 
 trait inlierited fromr his mother,) made it a dangerous endow- 
 ment. A .fierce temper accompanying it, there was scarcely 
 anything which he would not dare. 
 
 Notwithstanding these dangerous quallities, his open-handed 
 generosity, or rather prodigality, in matters of money, a free, 
 dashing spirit, and the ability to make himself extremely agree- 
 able to almost any one, had, at the period of which we have 
 spoken, rendered him a great favorite, in the very same circle 
 wh«re his gentler cousin was also admired. His unlimited com- 
 mand of money, (while the temptations in its train had de- 
 stroyed what little conscience he ever possessed,) had drawn 
 arotind him many such friends as always buzz about. one who 
 has money and spends it freely. He was, moreover, an equal 
 heir-expectant with his Cousin Henry, Of all his uncle's mode- 
 rately large estate, and prbbably had his faults been far more 
 glaring than his adroitness and plausibility allowed them to ap- 
 pear, Jie would still have been received ad eundem, by all who 
 bowed down before the shrine of Mammon. Like his cdusin 
 he was still unmarried, althougli nearly two years older ; and 
 for this perhaps the same reason may be given which we as- 
 signed for the bachelorship of the former, with also this other, 
 that, notwithstanding his expectations, the marriageable could 
 not but argue badly of an union with one of so violent a char- 
 acter. Not that theTe were wanting many, both mothers and 
 daughters, who would gladly have taken '.'him for better or for 
 worse." Far from it! There were not a few who would wil- 
 lingly ha.ve embraced a proposition from him, just as they would 
 have accepted Satan, could he have exhibited title deeds to a 
 fair landed estate in the lower world, and agreed to live " in 
 good style," in the upper air.of Fashion. 
 
 Still James remained single, though his twenty-sixth birth- 
 day was past and he was rapidly rising at the bar — nay ! though 
 Uncle Abram had of late exhibited unfailing .signs of- declining 
 health! Many persons, having the same knowledge of James 
 as the reader now has, would have assigned as one reason for 
 his celibacy, that he was hunting g, fortune, on the ground that 
 one of his selfish character would of Qourse seek wealth with 
 his wife. But it was not so. It far oftener happens that men 
 of his temperament marry and get no portion but beauty^for 
 beauty, being physical, is what attracts them most forcibly. 
 
 We shall see hereafter its influence over James. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 \ 
 
 To let the wretched man outline his wealth, 
 To Tiew with hollow eye and wrinkled hrow. 
 An ago of poverty. Mehchawt of Venice. 
 
 To lose hope, care not for the coming thing.— Festxjs. 
 
 We have said tjiat Abram Glenn had been disappointed in 
 early life. He had been enamored of a face and form of no or- 
 dinary loveliness. Miss Grant had beauty, but unluckily she 
 had little else to justify Abram's attachment. In those days the 
 young merchant was not so wealthy as he afterwards became, 
 and accordingly Miss Grant married Mr. Vincent, a man some 
 ten years Abram's senior, and forty or fifty thousand dollars his 
 superior. Whether this was a -thorough sale of herself for so 
 much money, or was prompted by attachment to Vincent, we 
 presume not to say ; we shall see hereafter what Abram thought 
 of it, andjn the mean time let us hope for the best. She was 
 a giddy, thoughtless girl, who, having been raised in the lap of 
 luxury, had been reduced to the strait of poverty. In her com- 
 position there was nothing decidedly good, and probably not 
 much that was absolutely bad. Her character, if she had any, 
 was negative, and almost the only clear notions she had ever ac- 
 quired, were of the advantages of having plenty of money. 
 Whatever she might have been, if properly trained, as it was 
 she was .susceptible of few higher or nobler impulses than those 
 which actuated the devotees of fashion. Mr. Vincent was a 
 weak, uxorious husband, as fond of display as his wife, and 
 possessed of no higher ambition than a desire to see her better 
 dressed and more fashionable than any one in her circle. Im- 
 mediately after their marriage she launched into the expensive 
 stream of fashion, and was borne upon the current buoyantly 
 by the large fortune of her* husband. 
 
 Home, except for the reception of " company," was no place 
 for her. The endless round of dissipation in which she lived, 
 left her own fireside gloomy and deserted. The lapse of a year 
 or two began to open Mr. Vincent's eyes, but he was too weak, 
 indeed it was too late to effect a change. He found his fortune' 
 rapidly melting away, but he had not the energy to grasp it back.' 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 23 
 
 It would be cruel, he thought, to check a light-hearted woman 
 in the only course which could satisfy her nature ; and, pa- 
 tiently and indolently, he allowed his ruin to come upon him. 
 
 Th«y. lived childless f(w three years, but at the end of that 
 period a daughter was born to them. Now to this event Mr. 
 Vincent had looked forward, with the hope that the new duties 
 and new relations thus imposed would recall liis wife to her 
 home, and at last domesticate her by his side ; ■ and for a few 
 months it seemed that his hopes were about to be realized. 
 During that time, njothing eould tempt her from home ; she was 
 so wholly wrapped up in her phild, that her husband began to 
 repent his unreasonable wishes, and to fear that a change so 
 .sudden and so radical might injuriously affect her health. But 
 had his penetration been equal to his fondness, he would have 
 seen that her interest in the ehild was of the species exhibited 
 by little girls in a new doll — continuing only so long as the 
 novelty might last, and fading vnth the lapse of tim«. For the 
 first three or four months she would bajdly allow the child to 
 leave her arms ; the mirse provided months before had nothing 
 to^ do and was discharged. Her silks and satins, her ball dresses 
 and street costumes lay untouched- in their well-filled drawers ; 
 plain chintz wrappers and loose dressing-gowns usurped the 
 place of fashionable walking-dresses and party outfits. When 
 her former friends called upon her, she always had an apology 
 to make for her dishabille/ and, to enforce it, she generally 
 brought " the baby" into the parlor, if it happened to be awake, 
 to show her visitors the justification of her seclusion. 
 
 If " the baby" was asleep, no one was allowed to speak 
 except in a whisper, on pain of instant banishment; the piano 
 was closed, the guitar was tabooed, boots, were interdicted, and 
 the bell was muffled. ' If Mr. Vincent wished to enjoy a quiet 
 cigar, he must go out of the house, lest the smoke might hurt 
 " the baby" — and, lest the street-door might disturb its slumbers, 
 he must make his exit by the back way, and reach the street by 
 the garden-gate. The Doctor was scarcely ever out of .the 
 house ; not because "the baby" was ill— ^for indeed it was most 
 alarmingly healthy — but because she was " afraid it might be 
 taken with some dreadful disease, and no doctor near." If coal 
 was to be placed in the grate, either Mr. Vincent must put it in 
 lump by lump with his fingers, or " Thomas" must come in on 
 tiptoe, leaving his boots below, lest the noise should disturb " the 
 baby. " Mr. Vincent might lie in one posture until he 
 was full of aches " from the crown of his head to the sole of 
 his foot," he must not move or turn over — for fear of waking 
 
24 THE GLEHNS. 
 
 " the baby.'' And yet he must not take a bed in another part 
 of the house, because " the baby" might be attacked by the«. 
 croup, or might cry to have some one walk up Srad down the 
 floor with it in his arms, and then he would not be wfhin call. 
 In short, when "the baby" slept the whole hous*was under a 
 spell, whose enchantment consisted in profound silence and 
 unbroken stillness, and all who came within the magic circle 
 were at once laid under its influence. 
 
 On the other hand, when "the ba;by'' was awake, the. house- 
 hold was equally subject to the tyranny which seemed to be a 
 condition of its existence. If Mr. Vincent's watch-chain 
 attracted its attention, the watch must come from the pocket 
 and be delivered over, at the imminent risk and to the frequent 
 smashing of crystals and face. If '• the baby" cried for the 
 porcelain vases on the mantel", or the little Sevres card-baskets 
 on the table, they were immediately on the floor or in the 
 " crib" beside it, and were, soon afterwards, in many pieces. If 
 it wanted " papa's" papers, either they must be forthwith given 
 up, or both baby and mother would concur in raising a domestic 
 storm. If an important paper, or anything else of peculiar 
 value was missed, when_inquiry was made for it, the chances 
 were twenty to one that it had been given to ''the baby,". — and 
 on all such occasions, Mr. Vincent's chagrin or vexation was 
 treated with merited indifference. If, as often happened, after 
 obtaining everything within its mother's reach, and breaking 
 everything that coald be broicen, " the baby" still cried immo- 
 derately and annoyingly, it was quite as much as Mr. Vincent's 
 life was worth to express the least vexation or impatience. He 
 might be roused from a sound sleep, and forced to get up in the 
 cold ten times in a night for something for " the baby," and yet 
 a murmur or a natural wish expressed to know the necessity for 
 all these things, was high treason to the household sovereignty. 
 The lawful master of the premises had sunk, like a deposed 
 monarch, to utter insignificance, and become the lowest servant 
 of the young usurper. The mother was the Grand Vizier of 
 the little Sultana, and in hef name ruled every one, herself, 
 included, with an iron rod. There was no law but the will and 
 pleasure of the despot, and no appeal from her determinations. 
 And this was the woman whom Abram Glenn had loved ! 
 
 But after a time — fortunately for the peace of all concerned — 
 the novelty began to wear off. The faot that " the dear little 
 thing,'' so strangely come into the world, had fingers and toes 
 and eyes and mouth like- other -people, began*to be less sur- 
 prising : by degrees, less enchanting. In,the nftisic 'of its tiny 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 25 
 
 voice occasionally mingled a note of discord, and in its extrava- 
 ^ga,!lt deman^ for everything which caught its eye, even its 
 •teiotiiherii&uld now "and then faintly .discern something rather 
 * ^nadmissiBle, ^nd most especially when it wished to rumple 
 some of her own peglected finery. Now and then she would 
 become ctimly cotfscious that the fond exhibition of her *' pretty 
 darling" to her fashionable acquaintance, slightly bored them ; 
 and she could even see — astounding penetration ! — that " the 
 baby's" desire to handle lace caps and carefully arranged 
 jewelry and collars, annoyed the ladies, as its tendency to 
 disarrange shirt bosoms alarmed the gentlemen. First the bell 
 was disenthralled ; then her lady visitors were sometimes invited 
 to the piano, and the gentlemen to thrum the monotonous guitar, 
 and at last she even yielded to the earnest solicitations of both, 
 and now and then consented, herself, to play and sing. And, 
 finally, the long-neglected fashions began again to share her 
 attention ; invitations and cards were scrutinized more closely, 
 and not, as before, thrown aside unnoticed. About this time 
 she suddenly discovered tftat she needed the nurse, who had 
 been sent away, — t^at she had neglected her friends too long,-*- 
 that her health was suffering from her seclusion, — that it was 
 " a bore to be confined at home forever," — -that " a woman in 
 her position owed something to society," — and, in short, she 
 Was satiated with the novelty of " the baby," and was pining 
 for her ancient dissipations. And now, peace began to reappear ; 
 the nurse was brought back, and with h^r the little dragon 
 vanished to a remote wing of the house, — Mr. Vincent "^ight 
 smoke a . cigar without retreating through the garden-gate, — 
 the morning calls^ began to be returned,— the dresses were 
 drawn frqpi their reoiptacles,; — and Mrs. Vincent reappeared 
 in the scenes of her former triumphs. ; *' 
 
 At the end. of five year's Mr. Vii^oent found himself a 
 bankfupt : a consummation he had had'the sagacity to foresee, 
 Jhough apt the energy to avert. It was with no little trouble 
 — and- perhaps at the the expense of some tdrtuous convey- 
 ancing — that he saved from the wreck of his estate enough to 
 support .himself and his .imall fanlily in a style extremely 
 modest. Even this would have been stripped away from him, 
 had it not been for a composition which he succeeded in making 
 with some generous' creditors, the chief of whom was Abram 
 (3-lennj»^for they pitagd his weakness, though not his misfor- 
 ttmes. His wife -v^^' perhaps, .imperfectly conscious that sh# 
 had not been wttl^iwithout agency in producing the catas- 
 trophe, and, for n'^fffy a yeaT after their removal from their 
 - 2" 
 
26 THE OLENNS. 
 
 I 
 
 former elegant residence to a modest cottage, she was almost as 
 mnoh secluded as she had b^n in the first months of her^ 
 daughter's life. . ^ ^-^ 
 
 What were the secrets of that domestic circle, we will not 
 undertake to say: how many tears of vain repentance, how 
 many sighs of weak repining that year knew,- we cannot 
 estimate. Nor can we tell how much or how little peace was 
 found within the lines where dwelt the consciousness of many 
 follies and the petulance of disappointed frivolity, where not 
 even the recollection of a well-spent hauj could come to 
 alleviate the bitterness of altered fortunes. During that year 
 but few of her ancient friends could recollect her, except to 
 " patronize" and pity her : she drank to the dregs the cup 
 commended to her lips by her own folly. And though at the 
 end of that period she mingled again among those by whom she 
 had been deserted, it was with a wofully altered mein. Her 
 step had grown heavy and her voice was deeper, — the joy had 
 faded from, her eye and the grace had left her form. Her 
 unfailing good nature had vanished, too, and many of those 
 who had not been blown away by the blasts of misfortune, were 
 now estranged by her petulant and unequal temper. Her home 
 was as little a home as ever — perhaps, if possible, even less — 
 and had it not been for the modesty of her establishment, and 
 the attention necessary to be paid to her chiW, probably her foot 
 would have been but transiently within its threshoJi Abroad, 
 she met little but insulting coldness or pity, still more offensive, 
 and at home there was only that which constantly reminded hex 
 of the change in her fortunes. 
 
 Four miserable, comfortle^ years rolled away. The constant 
 efforts to regain her 'opposition insaciet^^ Hd the siirnal failure 
 of all her attempts^told fearfuUyiflpon her health,^ theyjhad 
 already ruined her tertper. She chafed and repined at her"' lot 
 as ioipatiently as if she had not brought it upon herself. "%he 
 believed that the loss of her wealth was the sole cause of her 
 diminished consideration, and; while, she courted society she 
 despised it. But she forgot the loss of her cheerfulness, thg 
 change in her temper, the flight of her goo'd nature and the 
 dulness of her spirits.— she nevei dreamed that she was ilof" 
 so fascinatmg as when the smiles of fortune rested on her and' 
 she blamed -others for not seeing charms which one look at her 
 glass might have told her were gone forever. Sickness came 
 yi the tram of disappointmerit, and pdverty was accompanied by 
 d:scontejit. ' • •* , ' 
 
 In the eleventh year of her marri^e she gave ufThe strub'gle." 
 
A FAMILY HISTOBY. 27 
 
 She came home one night fiom a ball, heated and out of humor, 
 ' and laid aside her finery without speaking a word. She had 
 rnet witjikeven more jieglect than she had of late been accus- 
 tomed t^experience, and it seemed to have given the finishing 
 blow to her failing spirit. Her husband endeavored to soothe 
 her evident depression, but she turned away from himjn silence. 
 He inquiired anxiously about her health, and in his voibe there 
 thrilled a . tone of by-gone tenderness ; but it called up no 
 answering expression from his stricken wife. She was carefully 
 foldijig and laying away a skirt of ■ white satin with its over- 
 dress of pink tarleton — her only remaining party attire — and she 
 ansvpered briefly, " she was well." Having softly closed the 
 drawer in which the dress was deposited, she went into the next 
 room where her daughter, a child of seven years, was sleeping. 
 Bending over the couch, her mother gently kissed her forehead, 
 and disposing the bed-clothes carefully around the slumbering 
 child, she returned to, her own room with a quiet, noiseless step. 
 Her husband watched her uneasily as, with a look of exhaustion, 
 she threw herself upon her pillow. He made- several attempts 
 to cheer her, but she turned her face to the wall and seemed4o 
 sleep. From that bed she never arose : when she left that room 
 it was to be carried to the churchyard. Her physician could 
 discover no disease, no fever seemed to be consuming her, no 
 vital function had lost its power; but. the iron liad entered into 
 her soul, ^^ the flame of life went out. 
 
 The spectacle of a funeral brought many around her grave ; 
 many who had known her in her days of pride, but had for- 
 gcfljten her inj)Overty, until recalled to the past by the announce- 
 ment of her death.,, M.Ht'WS ^k t heldhis little daughter by the 
 hand as they lowe!Sd,)ier mo^^r to ^r fijial resting-place ; and 
 Abj^^ Glenn fee^^hjs. eyes upon ' the ^jcofEn, though, a tear 
 obscured his sight, while #coriections ibf his boyhood's love 
 caiis floating up from by-gone years. ^ The clods fell in upon 
 thepjoffin as the cold^and careless trampled on the margin of the 
 grave, and the'souna came chill and hollow on the ear. They 
 turned away and left her alobe, the most of all who stood 
 around forgetting jher before they reached their homes. The 
 widowed father aijd the g^^-erless daughter went weeping 
 back to theii: desolate firqsi^;fand they mourned for her who 
 was gone as, truly as if she 'had been all that a wife and a 
 motlief can bit And Ateram Glenn, the lover of her youth — 
 the mantla.9f mournjngl^cep^ed upon his spirit, the shadow 
 of death, felia^?oss his path, and the gloom sank into his heart 
 foreVer ! * 
 
28 THE GLENNS. 
 
 Time rolled on, and Mr. Vincent's morbid habits of solitude 
 and bitterness became confirmed and hardened. Even whe«j 
 he was married his youth had long been passed, and now years 
 pressed-, hea-vily upon him, and disappointment and repining 
 were thickening the frt)sts upon his brow. He was never a 
 strong-minded man, and his reverses had weakened him more 
 than ever. As he had but one pleasure, so he had but one hope 
 left, and these were centred in a single object. Having once 
 possessed wealth and then lost it, he had an exalted idea of its 
 value. He was growing old too rapidly to leave him the hope 
 of retrieving his fortunes by his own exertions, even if he had 
 had the energy to make thq effort. He felt that his weakness 
 had deprived his daughter of an inheritance, and his only hope 
 in life Was. that he might Ije able to discharge the debt thus due 
 to her. This might have been a laudable ambition, had it 
 prompted him to go forth into the world, and by energy, and 
 industry to grasp bank from the bands of cupidity what folly had 
 lost ; but it was not so. He sat moping at home, or walked 
 feebly and repiningly among the haunts of his former life, a 
 broken, disappointed man. He looked anxiously forward to the 
 period when his. daughter should grow to woman's estate ; for 
 he believed that, if he could secure to her a husband whos6 
 wealth and social position would compensate her for the lost 
 fortune of her inheritance, he would fully acquit himself of 
 obligation. ^ 
 
 With this view, he denied himself" every dispensable gratifi- 
 cation, raked together every disposable dollar of his broken 
 fortune, and lav-ished it upon her education. She had every 
 advantage which wealth could have procured her, — she was 
 educated and reared as if to inh&rit'miltions,-^was taiio-ht to 
 look upon wealth as the source of all good,— learned to ^hink 
 that poverty was a disgrace, and riches alcjne respectable, and 
 was even encouraged in comparing thb scanty furnishin* of her 
 own modest home with the splendid appointments and trap'pings 
 which her yoling companions delighted in exhibiting to her 
 envious view. As early as the age of ten years 'these pernicious 
 teachings began to show themselves in her character and 
 behavior. She would inquire concerning those who came 
 within her knowledge, "Is he rich?" — " Has he money?" and 
 always, on receiving an answer in the affirmative, you might 
 have observed a wondering look of mysterious interest in her 
 eyes, as they followed the subject of her childish ifiquiries. 
 
 All this did not indicate anything mercenary in the child's 
 heart; for, like her companions,, she had her boy-lovers, about 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 29 
 
 whose expectations or possessions she never inquired or thought. 
 #Ht to tell her that a man was wealthy excited in h«r mind 
 much the same sort of interest as that which she would have 
 felt, had she been told that the same man was a great traveler, 
 and could speak twenty languages. It was a wonder to her 
 how he could have acquired so much, and wonder is near akin 
 to admiration. She was quick and intelligent, also, and she 
 had observed that her father always spoke respectfully of a man 
 who was announced wealthy, and always slightingly of those 
 who were 'poor. He particularly contemned those who, like 
 himself, had oiKie been rich but now were poor; whether, in 
 his self-abasement, he believed that all who had met the same 
 reverses must have committed the same follies and were, there- 
 fore, equally contemptible with himself, or whether this 
 aversion was attributable to some other cause, we cannot say ; 
 but, at all events, he made a decided difference between the 
 rich and the poor, and Fanny had observed it ; and without 
 knowing the reason why, but blijidly receiving the opinions 
 and expressions of her father, she respected the one and despised 
 the other. 
 
 Before her mother's death, the weak repinings of that lady 
 had not been without effect upon her daughter ; and her 
 frequent references to the present poverty and former affluence 
 of her position pointed but too plainly to the source of her , 
 discontent. The importance of wealth was, therefore, one of 
 the first ideas which entered the young girl's mind, and the 
 tendency to ov-errate its advantages grew with her growth and 
 strengthened with her strength. She had, moreover, inherited 
 some of the lighter traits of her mother's character, though in a 
 degree softened and less dangerous. The circumstances of her 
 early years had combined tc^keep tihem down until the growth 
 of mQre-substantial'*qualities bad, in a measure, overshadowed 
 themf. Still, she was giddy, capricious, and fond of display ; 
 and though she probably reflected more -at twelve years old 
 thaij her mother had done during her wholg life, her moments 
 of serious thought were brief and fragmentary. She had 
 inherited, among other things, a warm, hasty temper ; and this 
 the indulgence of her father had done little to correct. Her 
 acquaintance, called her fickle; and she was certainly wayward ; 
 but thSse-^rho knew her best believed that her apparent levity 
 was, in a great measure, high spirits, and that beneath that veil 
 was concealed a warm,«eaEnest heart. 
 
 Excepting these equivocal traits she was, at the age of 
 seventeen, when we first^^Ttroduce her personally, in ail 
 
30 THE SLENNS. 
 
 respects a lovely girl. Eather above the medium height, she 
 was proportionably slender. Inheritmg all the grace and ease 
 which had so eminently distinguished her mother in her 
 younger years, she possessed a face even superior to that which 
 had so enamored her father. Large brown eyes looked out from 
 beneath a gracefully pencilled brow with a deep, tender and 
 fascinating light ; and their long, dark lashes hung over them, 
 half veiling their beauty, but adding depth to their expression. 
 Above these rose a brow of the purest white, retreating slightly 
 from the perpendicular, and terminated by a mass of wavy, 
 light-brown hair ; and this, arranged in plaits or curling loosely 
 down, set off a neck and shoulders as white and smooth as her 
 marble brow. Her mouth was small, and full of those even, 
 brilliant teeth, which give so much expression to a beautiful 
 face. Red, full and rather ponting lips^ a small round chin, 
 smooth, faintly-tinted cheeks, and an exquisitely chiselled, 
 rather aquiline nose, completed a face equalled in fascination by 
 none within her circle. Sroall, thin, but not emaciated hands, 
 round hmbs and beautifully shaped and well arched feet, made 
 up the outline of a figure perfectly in keeping with her face. 
 To add to her attractions, she always dressed in perfect taste, 
 not gaudily nor with an affectation of expeii'siveness, but plainly 
 and chastely. 
 
 With all these personal attractions, she possessed a clear, 
 well trained and sparkling intellect — a mind neither profound 
 nor very firm, but brilliant and acute. With fresh, natural 
 manners — not unformed, but unrestrained — and, while not 
 crossed by imposition or ruffled by intrusion, the most unfailing 
 good nature, she was in appearance all that heart could desire. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Aa affectioned asa tUat cons state witHont liook and utters it by great swarths. 
 
 Twelfth Night. 
 
 For love, thou knowest, is full of jealousy. — ^Two G-ektlemen or Verona. 
 
 Wbat ! gone without a word. — Idem. 
 
 Thu little inland city (as it now is) where the characters of 
 this story lived, is connected with the neighboring country-on the 
 west by two roads. One of these pursues its course directly 
 westward for about a mile, which is as far as we shall have 
 occasion to follow it. At that distance- it crosses a gentle- 
 eminence, or rather a gradual rise in the ground, and after 
 sending off a by-road towards the south, itself bends away in 
 that direction, — still, however, verging west^vard through a 
 beautiful agricultural country, among green fields and scattered 
 groves and smooth pasture lands. The eminence thus crossed 
 slopes gently away in every direction, and is covered on the. 
 northern side by a stately growth of oak and elm and walnut. 
 In the midst of a group of .these and directly upon the highest 
 point of the eminence stood, and yet stands, a large stone bouse 
 with a broad, majestic front, enormous windows, and a flight of 
 huge stone steps leading to a wide door in the centre. The 
 main building is of three stories, resting upon a massive founda- 
 tion raised several feet above the ground. Its elevation thus 
 gives it a peculiarly lofty air, while two wings flanking it on 
 eacli side, built of the same material and retreating a little, in 
 some measure relieve the repulsive aspect of the hard, square 
 front. A light wooden cornice, utterly out of keeping with the 
 character of the edifice, was, when erected, the special admira- 
 tion of all the builders in the country, while the small, stone 
 palisadoes (perhaps, since the architect was a religious man, 
 intended as a compliance wiih the direction given in the 
 twenty-second chapter of Deuteronomy, for " parapets") sur- 
 mounted the wall, like gravestones out of place, and delighted 
 all the lovers of the ornamental. Yellow Venetian blinds hung 
 
32 THE GLEKNS. 
 
 inside and always partially closed, gave to the place that myste- 
 rious air of privacy which those who never " enter in'' are 
 pleased lb see in the residences of the rich. A broad gate 
 opened from t"he road upon a gravelled walk of equal width, 
 and along this you passed between two rows of shrubbery, 
 brought promiscuously from the frozen and the torrid zones. 
 So far. from terminating with the walk, these rows of tender 
 plants were continued in large stc ne pots quite up the stately 
 steps, and only terminated at the door. The ground on each 
 side of the walk was laid out with a precision most mathemati- 
 cal; and some of the graduated ranks of little flower-beds 
 reminded one most forcibly of the military invention at drill- 
 rendezvous to teach awkward recruits the regulation step.- 
 Here was a little square enclosed by well-shaved sod, and here 
 a tiny circle of the same description; and when you saw one 
 of these or any other figure on the right, yon might be sure that, 
 turning to the left, you would find a corresponding ornament of 
 the same shape and dimensions, bearing precisely the same 
 relation to everything arc und. In every circle stood a vase, and 
 in every square a cedar; while, standing in accurately measured 
 stations, were growing lilacs, pines, juniper, laburnums and 
 palms. Had it not been for the noble old elms and oaks, which 
 towered where, centuries before, their seeds had been wafted by 
 the winds of Heaven, spreading their strong arms up towards 
 the sky., one might have supposed that Nature had brought 
 forth twin garden-plots, and placed them side by side as contrasts 
 to the glorious variety of her usual works. 
 
 Around the house in both directions ran other gravelled 
 walks, each describing half a circle, whose centre would 
 probably have been found exactly in the centre of the building. 
 On every side there was the same appearance of angles, circles 
 and squares — perfectly straight lines, parallel rows and corres- ' 
 ponding spaces. The eye was fatigued by this mathematical 
 niouotony far more than it would have been by a bare unbroken 
 surface of sand. It was a positive relief to turn from all this 
 misdirected taste to the sweep of the hill as, covered and 
 crowned by the growth of a thousand years, it stretched away 
 in the majesty of its original variety. The green sward, dotted 
 here and there by wild flowers; the aged trees whose gnarled 
 roots pressed up the sod, or rose in many arching bends above 
 the ground ; the strong limbs bearing up their burthen ■ of 
 luxuriance and gently waving In the wind ; the long, dim vistas 
 between these monarchs of the forest, broken by the young and 
 graceful saplings, growing beneath the elder patriarchs" like 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 33 
 
 children under the protection of their parents ; — all these 
 diversified features of a wooded landscape, cnmbined to form a 
 scene of rare and tranquil beauty. Through the skirts of ■ this 
 forest, and near the foot of the slope, flowed a narrow rivulet, 
 whose sparkling waters reflected, in multiplied and fragmentary 
 images, the deep green foliage above; while, the silvery sound 
 of its playful waters mingled ple&santly with the murmuring of 
 the wind among the trees. With the wood terminated the 
 lands of Mr. Eversham, the owner of the house above described ; 
 and between him and others ran the second road mentioned in 
 the beginning of this description. 
 
 This joad, starting from nearly the same point, ran almost 
 parallel with the first for half a mile. It then gradually 
 diverged, assuming a more northerly direction, until opposite or 
 in the rear of Mr. Eversham's house, the two were a little more 
 than .half a mile apart. This was a far more quiet road than 
 the other, leading to no place of great importance, and was 
 bordered foi^ a mile or more by neat and tasteful cottages, 
 summer retreats from the heated air and dusty precincts of the 
 town. It was a retired, green lane, indeed, except where it 
 touched the. unenclo.oed. lands of Mr. Eversham, and even there, 
 upon the northern side, it was bordered by flower-surrounded 
 cottages, lovely in their peaceful look, and almost concealed by 
 vines and shrubs and trees. .It is with one of these cottages, 
 which stood about one hundred yards from where the little 
 stream above described flowed sparklingly across the road, that 
 we have most concern. And here w^e . may say that we have 
 not been thus particular in this description for nothing ; on the 
 contrary, we beg the reader, if he has not the locality well 
 fixed in his memory, to turn back and read again, for reasons 
 which he will hereafter understand. 
 
 This cottage, then, which stood a little ofl" the road, embow- 
 ered among trees and vines and creeping plants, was a plain 
 white frame building, one story in height, with green Venetian 
 blinds. It was approached from the little gate by a clean, 
 sanded walk ; and you entered through a light verandah, over 
 which eglantines and honeysuckles were tastefully festooned. 
 Around the narrow grounds were planted various kinds of trees, 
 not placed as if to fill up every space and keep the air and 
 sunshine out, but growing up in profusion, as if cast by Nature 
 on the genial soil. The choicest flowers were scattered round 
 in carefully-weeded beds, and the beds themselves were evi- 
 dently made only for the flowers to grow in, and not as things 
 of primary importance. Specimens of everything beautiful or 
 2* 
 
34 THE GLfiNNS. 
 
 ornamental which the climate could afford were here collected ; 
 and over and about all 'here hung an atmosphere of tasteful 
 elegance. Peace seemed to dwell among the flowers, aiid 
 repose was beckoning you from every side. It is to this quiet 
 retreat that we now invite the reader. 
 
 It was a still afternoon in the latter part of May. It was 
 Sunday, too, and the Sabbath stillness which always hung 
 around the scene, was now more quiet and serene than ever. 
 There was hardly wind« enough to stir a leaf; and at the 
 cottage window could be heard the many voices of the twitter- 
 ing birds upon the trees across the road. The notes of each 
 were answered from the foliage round the house ; and from 
 among the creepers on the green verandah came an echo, soulid 
 for sound'. A mocking-bird was sitting on the perch within 
 its cage, and, with its head a little bent towards the trees, was 
 pouring forth its own deceptive imitations of the little songsters 
 who were free. Immediately beneath the cage stood Fanny 
 Vincent; and as«he raised on tiptoe and extended her arm to 
 draw aside some bending vines which hung around "the wires, 
 from the gate you might have seen a form unmatched for round 
 and graceful contour, unequalled for lithe and graceful propor- 
 tions. The piquant little foot and ancle thus revealed seemed 
 fit to typify her figure, and the fingers which gently drew 
 aside the vines were not less delicately perfect than the tendrils 
 they were busy in removing. Her upturned face revealed its 
 chiselled features charmingly; and her small and ivell-shaped 
 head, from which hung back upon her sculptured shoulders a 
 mass of rich brown hair, was supported by a neck and tliroat as 
 white as alabaster. Her eyes were sparkling with their native 
 gayety, and her rosy lips were parted in unconscious pleasure. 
 Altogether, hers was a figure upon which the passer would 
 have longed to stop and gaze; and on his memory, as he passed, 
 a single glance would have impressed an image not speedily to 
 fade. 
 
 While she stood thus unconscious of all observation, a youno- 
 man — of three or four and twenty — walked quietly along the 
 road and, pausing, placed his hand upon the gate as if to enter ; 
 but his glance fell upon the tableau before him and he stood 
 motionless fot several minutes, his fine figure bent slightly 
 forward and his speaking features eloquent of admiration. - He 
 was somewhat above the medium height, erect and graceful as 
 a young cedar. His face combined the gentje with the manly, 
 though from' his dark blue eyes there beamed a spirit quick, 
 passionate and generous. His hair was of light auburn, as if. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 35 
 
 in his boyhood, it might even have approached the flaxen, and, 
 worn rather longer than was then the mode, it betrayed a 
 tendency to curl in masses on his neck. There may have 
 been a little vanity in this — for it was as fine a suit of hair as 
 even that before him ; and there is no feature of physical beauty 
 of which a larger nuniber of both sexes are vain than handsdme 
 hair. -However this may have been with Henry Glenn, he was 
 certainly not thinking of it now ; he had not a thought or feeling 
 for aught but the magic beauty of Jhe form before him. He 
 gazed thus motionless until Fanny, the tendrils now arranged, 
 turned, without observing him, to walk away; and, as she did 
 so, the graceful, airy motion of her floating figure made him 
 reluctant to disturb the spell by speaking. But before she 
 vanished he laid his hand upon tiie latch and spoke : 
 
 " Fanny I" he said, in a tone of not-to-be-mistaken tenderness. 
 She turned quickly towards him, and his voice had called the 
 blood in glo'^ing blushes to her cheeks. 
 
 " What I yon here I" she exclaimed in a voice as clear and 
 ringing as a silver beil ; " I did not hear you come to the gate." 
 
 " I have been standing here for some minutes," he said, as 
 she stepped down uporj the walk and moved slowly towards 
 him. 
 
 " Watching me, were you 1" she said, laughing gaily. " Do 
 you think me handsome ? Come, now, tell me the truth." 
 
 ," Handsome is not the word," said he, with a look whicli 
 attested his sincerity. 
 
 "What is the word, then? Come, confess: I'll have no 
 secrets kept from me I" She raised her flnger with a gesture 
 of playful imperiousness ; but, before he could answer, sha 
 changed her tone and resumed : " Come in — I ought to have 
 said so sooner." 
 
 " No," he replied ; " I can* to ask you whether you would 
 not walk with me this beautifBl afternoon ; so, go in and get a 
 sun-bonnet, and let us walk over to the old trysting-tree." 
 
 " It is very improper," she answered, " for a young lady to go 
 a-maying with a young gentleman on a Sunday, all atone." 
 Yet, as she spoke, her clear, glad laugh rang merrily amopg the . 
 trees, and echoed beyond the road. '" But," she resumed with 
 mock solemnity, " I will .go with you this time, if you will 
 never ask me to do so again." 
 
 " Agreed," said he ; " and I will make the same pledge 
 every Sunday till " 
 
 " Till when ?"^She demanded, with a look vyh.ich could qnly 
 be denominated quizzical. • 
 
36 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " Till the time," he answered, " when there will no longer be 
 any impropriety in our being alone in any place at any time." 
 
 " And, pray, when will that be 1" she asked, with a flash in 
 her soft, brown eye, which manifested that her question was 
 superfluous. 
 
 " When we are married,'' said he. 
 
 " Oh !" she exclaimed, with a well-acted start, as if suddenly 
 enlightened. She laughed as pleasantly as if that time had 
 come already ; and tripped, cheerfully awiy to get her bonnet. 
 
 '' Now," said she, coming out with a little orauge-colored 
 sun-bonnet, its hue contrasting with the lilac of her dress, as 
 she threw it carelessly over her head, " we Ifeust not be gone 
 more than an hour, father says ; for Mr. Eversham is coming 
 over to take tea with us, and you know I must be back in 
 time." 
 
 " Why should you go back to meet him ?" asked Henry 
 quickly, as they crossed the road and entered the wood. 
 
 "I hardly know," she replied. " But father says he wants 
 me to be at home when he comes ; and that is reason enough. 
 You know Mr. Eversham is a man of great wealth, and withal 
 a gentleman ; and such a man father would not like to treat 
 otherwise than politely." 
 
 " Right enough," said Henry ; " but suppose Mr. Eversham 
 were only a gentleman and not wealthy," how then?" 
 
 " Even then,'' she replied, " he could not refuse to treat him 
 politely ; but you know he would not be entitled to so much 
 consideration." 
 
 " Why so ?" he asked. 
 
 " I do not know that I can tell you precisely why — " 
 
 '' So I supposed," he laughingly interrupted. 
 
 " But," she continued, " you know the world acts very much 
 upon the principle of respecting men in proportion to their 
 power to do good — " 
 
 '' And," he again interrupted, '' not in proportion to the 
 amount they actually do." 
 
 "Perhaps so," she replied. "But so far as I know, Mr. 
 Eversham is a very good man, and certainly he is a very rich 
 one. Besides, father respects him very highly, and of course I 
 must treat him wel)," 
 
 " So far as respecting him because he is a very good man," 
 
 said Henry, " I will go with you very cordially ; and, of course, 
 
 , rich or poor, you are bound to treat him politely in your, own 
 
 house. But If he had the wealth of CrflBsus.tnd were not what 
 
 you say he is, he would only deserve thp greater reprobation, 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 37 
 
 because he has more than ordinary power to do good and fails 
 to do it." 
 
 "One would think you a poor man," Fanny answered, laugh- 
 ing, " to hear you speak thus." 
 
 " And so I am," said he ; " but jt is not for that reason that I 
 protest against the worship of mammon !" 
 
 " You do not think," she said in manifest surprise, " that 
 paying a proper respect to the gifts that God has given, is a 
 worship of mammon V' 
 
 " If God has given them as the reward of virtue," he replied, 
 " certainly not ; though, even then, the respect should be given 
 to the virtue andtiiaot to its reward. All I mean by what I say, 
 is, that w^ealth is neither respectable nor the reverse, except 
 with reference to the manner of its use." 
 
 " And I think,'' said she, with some emphasis, " that wealth 
 is always to be respected, since it cannot but be givem for a 
 good purpose." 
 •'' The same might be said of poverty," said he. 
 " Well, well," she rejoined a iittle impatiently, " all the 
 wealth in the world is not worth a single harsh thought or 
 unkind word between us ; so let us dis»niss the subject, and 
 speak of something else." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Henry cordially ; and the slight 
 asperity which had appeared in his manner during this conver- 
 sation vanished, " I have no idea that Mr. Eversham or any 
 other rich man can affect our happiness, and nothing else is 
 worth a thought." 
 
 "At all events we will not quarrel about him, will we?" 
 she said, turning to him with her wonted mixture of affection 
 and levity. 
 
 " No, nor about any one else." As he spoke, he drew her 
 arm gently within his; she leaned lightly and gracefully upon 
 him, and they walked on for some minutes in silence. No one 
 w^ho had seen them thus, side by side, could have doubted that 
 the air of satisfied affection visible in their attitude and move- 
 menE^was the result of a love as deep as it was warm ; and 
 even the coldest heart could not but have been touched by the 
 confidence and contentment of two spirits, thus infinitely trust- 
 ful of each other. None could have augured anything but hap- 
 piness for them in the future, and all would have said that the 
 ends of Heaven were answered when they met and loved. 
 They followed fp^some distance the course of the little lavine 
 through which the rivulet was running, sparkling^with glimpses 
 of the sunlight which came dropping through the leaves. 
 
38 THE GLENNS. 
 
 Turning then to the left, and ascending the gradual slope which 
 was covered by large trees, without speaking a word, and as, 
 by previous arrangement, they approached the loot of an elm of 
 great size, whose stately trunk rose nearly fifty feet into the air 
 before it put forth .a single branch. At that height the strong 
 limbs shot forth adventurously, and interweaving their luxuriant 
 foliaae with the verdant drapery of surrounding trees, a canopy 
 ■ of leaves was formed through which the sky was never seen. 
 Nor could the sun, except in straggling rays, pierce through the 
 screen ; and here for hours one might stand protected from' the 
 heaviest rain. Around its base the sod was elevated by the 
 wreathing of the hidden roots ; and here and there upon the 
 liitle hillock they arched above the sward, presenting many a 
 pleasant seat or pillow for the wanderer in the wood. 
 
 It was beneath this tree that Henry Glenn and Fanny Vin- 
 cent had been pliglited^ — upon a sunny autumn evening, when 
 the shadows were lengthening and the birds were flying home 
 to rest. Whenever since that time they had walked together 
 in the wood, their steps had naturally tended to that spot, and 
 many a quiet afternoon had they lingered near there, gathering 
 the bright flowers, 
 
 ' That strew the green lap of the new-come Spring.* 
 
 or talking, forgetful of all else, with hope founded upon love, 
 of their happy prospects. They virere now at the well-remem- 
 bered shrine once more. 
 
 " I am almost afraid to sit down in the old place, Henry," 
 .said Farmy, pausing with her foot upon the b'Bnd of a root, 
 which was so arched as to present a support to one 'sitting be- 
 low it. • 
 
 " Why so ?" asked Henry. 
 
 " We may forget to return home in time for tea,'' she an- 
 swered. 
 
 " Are you afraid of losing Mr. Eversham's starched compli- 
 ments?" 
 
 " No," she said, seating herself a little pettishly ; " but I 
 think I shall not forget this time." 
 
 " What is there to" remind you this time more than at ano- 
 ther 1" he asked. 
 
 " Your jealousy, I think, will not allow me to forget," she- 
 replied ; and the waywardness of her nature was audible in her 
 voice? 
 
 " Jealousy J" exclaimed Henry with a blush of offended pride. 
 
 " Ye.s, jealousy," she pursued. '' Yon do not wish me even 
 
A FAMIiY HISTORY. _ 39 
 
 to be polite to Mr. Eversham ; and 1 can see no other reason 
 for sireh a feeling than a groundless jealousy I'' 
 
 " If I know my own heart, Fanny," said he, gravely, " you 
 are mistaken." 
 
 "But, Henry," she persisted, "you do net know your own 
 heart. You misconstrue ray motive in wishing to return home 
 at the time when my father desires it ; you think, I dare say, 
 that it is a desire to meet Mr. Eversham, and to get away 
 from you." 
 
 " Indeed, Fanny, you mistake me ! " he exclaimed earnestly, 
 rising from his recumbent position, and seating himself beside 
 her. But she turned her head away. 
 
 "You doubt me — I know you do," she said; "and since 
 there is no other reason for it, it must be because you feel your 
 own truth giving way." 
 
 This accusation astounded him : it was so unexpected and so 
 groundless. He had not a word to say; he sat gazing into her 
 averted face in pained silence. 
 
 " I may be wrong, Henry," she said, after a pause, slowly 
 turning towards him ; " but you know this is not the first time 
 you have spoken to me in this way about Mr. Eversham, and I 
 get tired of it." 
 
 " BecEiflse, Fanny, this is not the first time he has come 
 between us. It is not even the second, nor the third. But 
 almost every time I have walked out here for two months, I 
 have either found Mr. Eversham with you, or have stayed till he 
 arrived." 
 
 " Yes," she said quickly, " and you have always left me as 
 soon as he came, as if you did not wish to see him with me." 
 
 " True ; because I thought that your father looked upon me 
 coldly at all. times, and that his coldness has increased since 
 Mr. Eversham became a frequent visitor. I sometimes even 
 thbught that your manner changed, upon his entrance, more 
 than was necessary. At all events, his presence and your 
 father's coldness made me uncomfortable, and I left accordingly." 
 
 " It was all jealousy, Henry ; you never had reason to think 
 anything of the sort." 
 
 As she spoke she rose, as if offended, from her seat and 
 walked a few steps from him. Here she stopped and plucked 
 a Common flower which, at another time', would not have 
 attracted a glance, and stood with. her back to Henry, slowly 
 picking it to pieces in silence. For several minutes he remained 
 in the same posture, with his eyes fixed mournfuUy upon her as 
 she stood a few yards from him, apparently unconscious of his 
 
40 THE GLENNS. 
 
 presence. He was about to rise and go to her, when she 
 suddenly turned and exclaimed — • 
 
 " How fortunate that I got up ! " 
 
 '' Why fortunate?" he asked. 
 
 " Here are father and Mr. Eversham oomhig down the path: 
 They would have- come directly upon us unawares." 
 
 " And you consider it fortunate that we were not seen so close 
 together ?" he asked somewhat bitterly. 
 
 Her only answer to this was a look of reproach, which, had 
 he been less engrossed by unpleasant suspicions, would have 
 satisfied him that he bad done her injustice. But he either did 
 not understand the look, or did not feel disposed to notice it ; 
 and, before he could speak again, she advanced to meet the 
 gentlemen who were approaching from the direction of Mr. 
 Eversham's house. Henry knew they had not seen him, and 
 he was unwilling, especially at the present moment, to meet 
 them. He rose hastily from the ground, walked rapidly down 
 the hill, jumped across the little rivulet, and plunged into the 
 tangled undergrowth on the other side. When Fanny turned 
 to look for him, he was gone ; nor could he be anywhere seen, 
 though she gazed anxiously down the ravine and in every direc- 
 tion through the wood. She was surprised and hutt ; and, 
 though she could not feel wholly blameless; she felt that she 
 had not given him cause for thus abruptly leaving her. She 
 tried to attribute it to his unwillingness to meet Mr. Eversham; 
 but even on that supposition she was not without blame. She 
 began, then, to accuse herself of having wilfully offended him ; 
 aind, in proportion as she blamed herself, she excused him. 
 This, however, did not last long. She soon returned to the 
 belief that he had been causelessly offended ; that he doubted 
 her truth without ground ; that he had shown a hard, dictato- 
 rial dispositqn. In her turn she became displeased with him ; 
 and, proudly raising her head, she walked home between her 
 father and Mr. Eversham, talking and laughing with the latter 
 as pleasantly as if his presence had • recalled her wandering 
 spirits. 
 
 Near the road there was a thicket of hazel-bushes, and in this, 
 discovering that he could not cross the road without being seen, 
 Henry paused to let them pass. The exercise of walking a 
 few hundred yards had brought back his usual eqi/animity, and 
 he had begun to think that he had acted hastily and ibolishly. It 
 was, however, too late now to repair the wrong; and as he stood 
 penitently and patiently awaiting his opportunity to escape 
 unobserved, they turned from the ravine and passed within a 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 41 
 
 few feet of htm. The excitement of ofFended pride was beam- 
 ing in Fanny's animated face, and her voice was as free and 
 clear as it ever was to him. She was looldng into Mr. Ever- 
 sham's face, and laughing playfully at son^e compliment of his ; 
 and from his concealment Henry could see in her countenance 
 the expression which he took for interest. His heart sank 
 ■within him. 
 
 " I was right to leave her as 1 did," he thought. Waiting 
 till they had all crossed the road and entered the house, he came 
 slowly from the wood, and taking the direction which led from 
 the town, walked swiftly away^ 
 
 Who was this Mr. Eversham ? 
 
 Two families — the Evershams and Mortimers — had been the 
 undisputed aristocracy of the neighborhood for several genera- 
 tions. They had, of course, intermarried, and thirty years 
 before the period of our story, the tangled cousinhood was quite 
 inexplicable. Death, however, soon made all things plain; for, 
 in the course of twenty years, he had carried off nearly every 
 branch of both the ancient stocks. The family property of the 
 Mortimers, which had been a Jittle scattered, was drawn again 
 imto a smaller space ; and, by some strange caprice of the ruth- 
 less skeleton, one old woman alone was spared to inherit all the 
 wide-spread lands. She was, moreover, a widow, sour and proud, 
 and rich and forty. It so happened about the same period 
 that the race of Evershams was likewise nearly extinct ; but, 
 unluckily, the family estates had not accumulated as they had 
 done in the kindred line. The only female representative of the 
 family had been married, as we have related, to a Mr. Slielton 
 and had died young, leaviiig a daughter ; and her brother, the 
 only scion of the stock at that time known to be alive, was the 
 same gentleman (Mortimer. Eversham, Esq., as he was styled,) 
 whom we introduce to the reader some twenty years after the 
 time to which we now refer. At that time he was poor and 
 proud and handsome : the widow, Mrs. Mortimer, was rich and 
 proud and fair. She was captivated by his fine person, his 
 blooming youth and aristocratic blood :' he was attracted by the 
 extent of her property and the prospect of outliving her. None 
 of the Mortimers had been long lived, and all the Evershams 
 had lived to three score. He thus might calculate upon surviv- 
 ing her at least a quarter of a century ; and he accordingly 
 offered himself upon the altar. He was twenty-three and she 
 was forty, if not more ; she could not expect another offer of so 
 young and unexceptionable a husband ; and, therefore, he was 
 at unce accepted, and they were married 
 
42 THE GLENNS. 
 
 He waited patiently for her to die ; but, though a false alarm 
 or two occurred within the first ten years, at the end of twice 
 that time he found himself apparently as far from widowhood as 
 ever. He was groining old, she was already so ; but still she 
 refused to take her departure. The last five years of their life 
 had been passed in continual broils, and Mr. Evershara paid 
 dear for his venality. She accused him of wishing her dead, 
 in order that he might enjoy her property, which, ye^s before, 
 he had succeeded in converting to his qwn use ; audJhe scarcely 
 took the trouble to deny the charge. Twenty years disparity 
 in age and three hundred thousand dollars' difference in property, 
 and the advantage in both respects on the side of the wife! 
 What better could have been expected ? ;• ■ 
 
 But Death at last 'had pity on them both and took her from 
 him, after the best part of his liflNiad been wasted on an Old, 
 ill-tempered; wpman. But he got the property at last; and at 
 the opening of our story, having been twq years a widower, he 
 was, at the age of forty-five, seeking a better mat^ionial fate. 
 He was a man of distinguished appearance and unexception- 
 able character. His manners were rather more youthful t,han 
 his years ; and with the help of his large property, aefcumulated 
 by a life of seclusion and economy, would have pl^ented a 
 greater age than his <a|jpearing in ^he least repulsiv*. His 
 desire again to tie the silken knot was therefore far from absurd ; 
 for there were not within the cifcle where he moved" a dozen 
 ladies Who would Jiave hesitated to accept his earliest demon- 
 stratijon. Indeed, he could have married almost any of them, 
 maids 6r widows, and especially the latter ;-".but with the usiM 
 
 , perverseness of both sexes, he turned from the fruit that would 
 fall from the tree " without shaking," to almost the only one he 
 knew who was unwilling to accept him. He instinctively 
 desired to " shake the tree" himself. He desired to marry Fanny 
 Vincent, in the first place, because she was the most beautiful 
 girl he knew ; and, in the second, perhaps for the same reason 
 for which Mrs. Mortimer had married him, on account of her 
 
 ''.youth. His advances, though cautious and stately, had been 
 well received by Fanny's father, and, he believed, by her 
 likewise. But the tnith^was that she had never conceived the 
 lidea that he had any such designs. She saw him frequently at 
 her father's house and received him politely ; she knew that he 
 was wealthy, — and we have seen what her education on this 
 point had been. She treated him deferentially, not only on 
 account of his personal respectabUity, but also by reason of his 
 possessions ; and it was this deference which he was in danger 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 43 
 
 of mistaking for a warmer feeling. And yet there was little, if 
 aiiy, of the coxcomb in his composition. He ^yas grave, digni- 
 fied, and even pompous, notwithstanding a certain youthful 
 grace of manner, which twenty years ai married life had not 
 fr'ightened out of him ; hut he coiifld not be called vain or 
 presuming. He was a man of' excellejat sense ; but, unluckily, 
 his judgment was not so clear in matrimonial as in other things. 
 He accordingly beljeij/Bd that he had inspired a tender interest 
 in Fanny's breast,- when, in fact, her defereijce to him as a man 
 of wealth was only a part of her education. 
 
 On the other hand, Mr. Vincent, if not absolutely deceived 
 into the same belief, was sufficiently blinded by his own wishes, 
 and perhaps by Fanny's rnanner, to hope, that, ere long, his 
 wealthy neighbor might be ^lis gpn-in-Iavs^j It was a consum- 
 mation to which he had looked forward for many years-: his 
 daughter the wife of a man who cop.ld restore her all the advan- 
 tages lost by the puin of her father I It was his first and 
 highest — nay, his only^am.bition for himself and for her. He 
 understood and had approved the relation in which Fanny stood 
 to Henry Glennv and had'been ted to acquiesce in the arrange- 
 ment chiefly by the consideration that Henry was the heir- 
 expectant of a good estate. H6 had done so,, relilctantly, 
 however, because the property was in expectancy and not in 
 possession; and wheia^'this new suitor mad« his appearance, 
 with wealth, not only in ftis own hands, but also ten times 
 larger than Henry's could ^fver be, he felt disposed a#once to 
 violate the former treaty, and enter into a n^ compact." ■ This 
 ■he had not as yet formally done^but, by every means in his 
 po'ever, except candidly telling him so, he had endeavored tQ 
 make Henry understand that his feelings were changed. Henry 
 had observed his coolness, and referred it to the proper cause. 
 It had made hi-ra uncomfortable, and, at times, almost petulant; 
 but he endeavored to hide the truth even from himself, and still 
 continued to visit the house, because it would cost him too 
 great an effort to remain away. This state of TOings had 
 produced its natural effect upon both him an%Fanny ; he had 
 delayed the explanation so long, that when it came it coiild not 
 fail to produce sore feelings, if not ati^absolute exploMon. 
 
 We have seen what was the result; and now let us follow 
 the father and daughter, with their guest, into the cottage, where 
 the three were seated in a neat little parlor. The furniture of 
 the room ■w;as plain and modest; the floor waS" covered by a fine, 
 though well-worn carpet, and the narrow windows opened 
 down to the floor. 
 
44 ■ THE GLENNS. 
 
 Mr. Eversham was taMting to Fanny in the SEime tone and 
 manner which Henry had observed in the wood,, while Mr. 
 Vincent seated*hiraself, and «lowly turned over the leaves of a 
 large family Bible that .la|r upon the end of the piano. In this 
 attitude, the ravages'oT time and ^misfortune ► were but too 
 plainly visible. All bis features were mucli^liarpened, and 
 about the mouth could lie observed a querulous imbecility, iiot 
 such as prod|eds from the fading of 4^ piental fap^ies, but 
 that produced by habiMial repining. HiF cheeks' werepale and 
 Jiollow, his nose, though finely cat, was hard and angular in 
 outline, and his -eyes, originailly expressive, looki^dry and 
 faded. The skin upon his forehead was smootli^and voidnf 
 ■wrinkles, but its color was that faint bronze tint produced u^ft 
 the cheeks by long weeping HJB''.hair was thin and gray — 
 about the temples almost white-^-ahd his overhanging ejabrows 
 were grizzled ;and uneven. The hand with which- he tu|^d 
 the leaves was thin and \»hite, and every .cord was thoroug^y 
 "defined as in 4he act. of grasping. , WherfTie stoo# or, walked, 
 his form was a little bent ,■* about the fhoulders yoi^aw a ^rt 
 
 ■of stoop, such as is produced by, carrying bu^eusj a^d ifiifes 
 bearing, though his step, was -firm an(t well asfewred, thelre 
 was an aij^ of weakness, Sometimes sef^'ln those.jvho have 
 ■wasted years in dSs^fetion. , ..His voice was sharp andWestitute 
 of music, and throughc'every sound Wmoh he articulated there_ 
 ran an Undertone of impotent con^laining. 
 
 He <(^peared^to be reading; an4 yet a clgse observer Miigfat 
 have seen t,l4p.tUhe conversation between his daughter .and.his' 
 guespKSd foi^ him more interest than the pag^s'sbf the book. -A^- 
 
 i^iitervals h.©-4iB0lied up furti^ly, or turned 'his head to one side,^ 
 more clearly to catch some remark of Mr ."Eversham or the repFy 
 of Fannyjand as they seemed to 'grow, rfiore confidential land 
 mo'^ed towards the window, a well-pleased smile flitted over 
 his face, as if he savv a promise that his liopes were about to be 
 realized. I^e gazed at ^e destined pair for a few moments as 
 they stodi'&side each other at the window, and- then closing 
 
 ithe book (it had Jong been too dark to read), he ■goftly left the 
 
 iroom. --^^ T» " 
 
 They Ippained .silent for a few minutes after. being left alone, 
 j^id .then he, took j her hand in his and addre.ssed her in a low, 
 eari^^^voiee^^Some one opened the door and placed a lighted 
 candle on. thgf^ble ; he ceased speaking until it was closed 
 again, but still retained her- hand. She made an effort to with- 
 draw it,T)ut be entreated her to allow it to remain until he had 
 spoken. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 45 
 
 " I cannot permit it, Mr. Eversham^," she ^id, earnestly ; " 1 
 can listen just as we^U without it : pray, let it go I " As she 
 spoke, she JJlaced her other hand on his, endeavoring to loosen 
 his graspi and looked imploringly up into his face. . 
 
 ShB^did not see a figure which waia^lssing at that moment, 
 nor was she cSlj^scious of the quick gmnce that^Henry Glenn 
 threw upon her as he passed. Though she succeeded in 
 disfengaaing herself almost immediately, it was nojamtil he had 
 hurried' on and was^'out gf view. He had walkea far into the 
 country,- and was returning home caln;ier and more reasonable, 
 when, on jjpasting his eyes tQ tth% window jgithin which stoost 
 all thai was most dear to him, he saw her hand in his, — be saw 
 hetr-eyes tjjtoed up with, asi he thought, a look of confidence 
 and afi'ectiOn ! He allowed himself but one glance — one was 
 quiteAiou^h! — and then huifried away, to^turn.no more'. 
 
 Ifow Itfr. ^versham said what ire had t«^^fcr does not 
 concern us; it is sufi)ci«nt thait he iKered his ^nd and was 
 riveted'. i^^^ , ^ • 
 
 " 1 doj^t wieh forgive you piiin, Mr. Eversham," said 
 Ysi^ny; 'C^t I must beg jjpu to say no more." 
 
 '' I w|I|(*ot piess you now," he replied, after a long pause; 
 "but yeu must nofe'^,nsider my suit|\yith(flrawn." * 
 
 She was'^lent. >-.Her deferenc^for'his character^ his wealth, 
 and his superior years, combined t'o keep her so. She "knew, 
 moreover, that a perem{ii;or;gi(lfe^fusal now would mortally oflend 
 b^^^her, and she hoped- th,at she had said empugh toj relieve 
 herself of furthel?!"eiattbarra^i^ent", by inducing^im in,.6atpre to 
 a^id the subjebt^ ' Vain hope ! •He soon afterwards took his 
 leave; and as heS%alked away, m thought how soon — how 
 very soon — she would be his ! 
 
s CHAPTEE, ly. 
 
 Put money in thy purae — put but money in thy piirae.—OTHaLLO. 
 
 There is no vice so simple, hut assumes 
 
 Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. — Mzbohant or Vemce. 
 
 The deed you undertalcc is damnable. — Richard III. .(3. 
 
 There's something inlme that reproves my faijlt. —Twelfth Night. 
 
 As soon as Eversham was gone, Mr. Viacent entered the 
 room, and, drawing Fanny ^to a sdfa, sat down beside her. She 
 knew from his nervous and fluttered manner that he»had some- 
 thing to say of more than ordinary importance, and she there- 
 fore waited in silence. This did not'test Iqng, however; for 
 Mr. Vincent was one of these weali, timid men, who must 
 either spealc upon the spur or^ot at all. 
 
 " Fanny,'? he commenced, " you are api)roac,hing-an.age at 
 which it is well to begin to think of marriage." 
 
 " You know I have thought of itj fathelr," sh« replied quietly : 
 " we have conversed on the subject more than once." 
 
 " True, true," he rejoined hurpiedly ; ',' but it is time we 
 should begin to act as well asto talk." •, »_g(, 
 
 " How do you mean '.'" she asked, looking at'him inquiringly^ 
 
 " I mean," he answered, still more hastily, " that you should 
 make up your ,mind definitely what you are going to do." 
 
 " Is therd anything you w^ish me to do, father 1" 
 
 "No — or, rather, yes — that is," he said confusedly, "I 
 meanJW wish you to please yourself — and will be very glad 
 if you please me, too." 
 
 '' If I please you, father," she said, " I shall certainly please 
 itfyself; and, inkany event, I shall do nothing for my own 
 gratificatipn which shall displease you." 
 
 4' Will' you not, indeM?" he exclaimed eagerly. " Will you 
 take care to please me, too ? Promise me that you will think 
 of ng» vaishes be^re you act, Fanny ?'' 
 
 " Wlilin^lyJ^'. she ..said, placing, her hand in his; " willingly, 
 and more : I will promise you not to' do anything averse to 
 tfcem — at least knowingly. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 47 
 
 " Bless you !" he exclaimed, .kissing her fondly.; "'fDu are the 
 best of daughters !" 
 
 " Good fathers make good daughters,'' she said, returning his 
 c&ress. " But you must not let me err thrpugh ignorance : 
 I must know what your wishes- are b'aifefe I can observe them." 
 
 " True, true,if he replied, " you shall know them very soon." 
 
 " But father," she pursued, "I ought to know them now, for 
 you haye just said that it is time for action. And, if your 
 opinioni(De|.porrect, delay might be dangerous." 
 
 " I l^go'w, I know," he said ; ." but, before I explairi, I want to 
 know w%iat your vsrishes are." , 
 
 " I have' but one," she hastily replied, " — to please you." 
 
 He drew»her close to him and kissed her again, as if to gain 
 time to collect his thoughts. 'f^-- 
 
 "Yes," he then said ;'?J|ju*. you have some particular wish 
 — you have some special desires — in a word, yoiir afiections are 
 fixed upon-fome one ip particuTar ? Is it not so V' 
 
 " If it be so," sheyeplied quickly, " and if I loved ten times 
 more than I do or can, I- would never marry against your 
 wish." ' f* 
 
 " But," %aid he, "that is only a. negative pledge, my 
 daughter^ you said awhile ago that, you would do whatever 
 I wishdir?- . »-^" '%» . 
 
 " So I did," said she, 'land So Twill;' but I know you will 
 not ask. me to do anything that I ought not to do." 
 
 " Certainly -n^t," said he,^" certainly not — not for the world'. 
 But answer nie a questioA : what "is the relation existing 
 between you and ^Henry Glenn, now ?" 
 
 " The same that has existed for Several monti^'" she replied, 
 ''and you know what that is." 
 
 '' Yes, I suppose so," said he, .hesitatingly. " And what do 
 you intend to do '!" 
 
 " What do you wish me to do?" she asked quickly. '■ ■ 
 
 ■" Nothing that would do violence to your feelings," he said ; 
 " but " 
 
 " But what, father ?" * 
 
 " Do you not think," he continued, '-< that you could form a 
 more eligible connection 1" ^ -f'. 
 
 " You allude to Mr. Evei-sham?" she asked.,., * '\ 
 
 " Yes," said he. " He is evidently inclinecl^that is, he has," 
 hinted to me — at least I have reason to believe, that he wishes 
 to make yoa his wife. And," ha hurried on as if afraid of 
 interruption, " I think him a more eligible match for you, in aU 
 respects, than Henry Glenn. He is wealthy; indeed, he iij* 
 
48 ^ THE GLENNS. 
 
 very rich ;''he is of very high family, is thoroughly a gentleman, 
 has fine manners, an amiable temper, and an unexceptionable 
 character." * 
 
 " But, father, he is so much older than I am." 
 "Ol" said he, encouraged by her docility, "age is nothing. 
 And, besides, he is not so very old : he is scarcely more than 
 forty, and that is just the prime of life. A man of his age and 
 wealth, Famny, is far better calculated to make you happy than 
 a stripling like Henry Glenn. He has experience erTough of 
 life to understand what is due from him as a husband, and 
 wealth enough to answer every requiremeht, to supply your 
 wants in the amplest manner, to secure you the respect and 
 envy of all your circle, and to restore you to the social 
 position to which yon were born and for which yOu are fitted 
 Your fancy may be taken by Henry Glenn more forcibly than 
 by him : that is natural, because Henry is yOnno-e^^t ray 
 daughter, a mere fancy is not a sufficient foundatio^ft^vhich 
 to build for life. Henry is all yOu can wish inVlover, no 
 doubt ; but you know the family temper of all the Glenns— you 
 have even observed it in Henry. They are irascible, fiery and 
 vindictive ; they never forgive a fault, and have no considera- 
 tion for even the mo#t natural Weaknesses. They are all 
 jealous and suspicious; and though Henry may not appear so 
 much so now, yet, when years have sorhewhat cooled his 
 devotion, you will find the family temper showing itself in him 
 as It has done in all the others," 
 
 The old man did not k^ow how powerful an ally he had to 
 his reasonings in Fanny's recollections of that afternoon,— he 
 was not aware how much of this very "family temper" Henry 
 had exhibited withm a very few hours. But he observefteiat 
 
 =^Lf^°,r'^T"*®."^°°^°^'^"S^'^'^'^^° heraentioned.it; he 
 saw that he had made an impression, and. though ignorant of 
 Ihe cj^e, talked on with freat rapidity and earnesTness Fanny 
 made no reply-knowing, indeed, that it would be useless- 
 and occupied with thoughts whose bitterness her father did 
 
 when Tfr^ ■ r '®'?- ^"' ''''"°'''' "^'^ »°' convinced; .nd 
 When, after repeatmg every argument over and over a^ain. 
 la|ng especial stress upon Eversham's wealth and the socia 
 
 Cdnr-H rT^^' ^^ ^"""y '^^' ^^^' ^^« buried her face in 
 hands and burst into tears. He had not directly expressed a - 
 wish that she shouW give Henry up ; but she sa Jvery pSly 
 whither his argun^ts tended ; she felt that he would exact a 
 jnore literal co«y,liaace than she had intended to promise. She 
 was confused, tbtf, by the Coincidence of Henry's^acrions a few 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. - 54 
 
 hours before with tbie view he| father took of his character, and 
 though she knew that view was harsh and unwarranted, it yet 
 distressed her exceedijjgly. She w^s uncertain, moreover, what 
 were Henry's feelings, when she would see him again, or how 
 they would meet. Sorrows seemed to- be thickening upon her 
 fast ; and when, after, a long, time given to tears, she took a 
 candle from the piano and retired, her eyes were red and her 
 step infirm and uncertain. Could Henry have seen her then, or 
 could he have known what was passing through her mind, all 
 doubt would at once have been dispelled. But upon his pillow, 
 as upon hers, that night witnessed little sleep. Agitation and 
 uncertainty made the slumbers of each fragmentary and brief; 
 and the morrow arose upon I wo hearts loaded with affliction, 
 which, but the day before, had been as light as the morning air 
 and as gay as the early sunshine. ^ 
 
 One QL|hsJollies of Mr. Vincent was, as we have intimated, 
 to depoj^Kmself of many necessary things, in order to give 
 his daugHpr advantages above her fortunes ; and, as an 
 instance-The had always contrived to keep a maid whose chief 
 employment was attendance upon Fanny. It was by this girl, 
 Maria Bates by name, that, after a brief and troubled sleep, 
 Fanny was awakened on the morning following ; and, as she is 
 by no means an unimportant character in our story we must ask 
 the reader to pause for a description. 
 
 Her figure was short and rattier full, but withal well-formed 
 and comely. Her face was round and, perhaps, a little too 
 highly colored for delicacy or beau^; but its features were 
 regular and symmetrical, and its expression was in no small 
 degr^j improved by the vivacity of a large blue eye. This 
 anim^on was abated, however, by a downward look ; and 
 sometimes, when she raised her head, there was a fiirtive 
 cast in her glance which detracted nq^.little from the pleasant 
 expression of her face. There was, moreover, in her ^it j,nd 
 movements a stealthy sort of quietness, and in her voice a Sub- 
 dued tone as of deference, — not the humility of a gentle nature, 
 but the repressed softness of compelled but rebellious respect. 
 She moved about the room without the least noise, not because 
 she feared to disturb others only, but as if she had entered 
 clandestinely through the window, and was afraid of detection. 
 She seldom looked steadily at any one without first casting a 
 glance about her to discover whether she was watched. If the 
 eyes of the object of her scrutiny were turi^d away, her gaze 
 rented upon him furtively and watchfully^,,a8di^|[^ihe first sign i, 
 of consciousness, her wiconcerned or deferential manner was 
 3 
 
50 Tte. GLENNS. 
 
 reassumed. On the morning in/question,' when she ent;©red the 
 room her eye sought first the .heSside ;'and, findfeg Fanny- 
 asleep, she gazed for many minutes at ]|^,iCeverish and troubled 
 face, as if she -would fathom the dept^of bfr dreams. She 
 closed the door, however, and busied hersaf in noiselessly 
 arranging the disordered room. * 
 
 But her movements, stealthy as theywere, disturbed Fanny's 
 already broken sleep. She raised herself upon her arm and 
 looked around the room : 
 
 '' What hour is it, Maria 1" she asked. ( 
 
 ' " Eight o'clock, Miss," replied the maid, in that deferential 
 tone. " I did not intend to disturb you." 
 " I will get up, I think," said Fanny. 
 
 " Perhaps, Miss, you had better take your breakfast in bed," 
 said the obsequious Maria ; " you do not look as if you had 
 had sleep enough." 
 
 " I believe I have not," said Fanny, <' but still I will get up. 
 I could not slsep more if I should try." ^ 
 
 ■' Has anything happened to make you feel badly, Miss 
 Fanny 1" inquired the maid, in a tone the most tenderly depre- 
 cating and sympathetic imaginable. 
 
 '' Nothing of any consequence/' said Fanny, simply, as she 
 stood in her snowy night-clothes before the mirror, and arranged 
 the disordered masses of her rich brown hair. 
 
 " If I could do anything to serve you. Miss " hesitatingly 
 
 and respectfully suggested the maid. 
 
 " You would do it I know, Maria," said her mistress, throw- 
 ing the masses of hair back upon her smooth white shoulders, 
 and flushing with a sudden thought : " But there is nothing you 
 
 can do for me now, unless " she hesitated. T 
 
 "Anything at all, Miss Fanny, that I can do: " 
 
 " Unless," continued Fanny, " you could carry a note for me 
 to— to a gentleman in town. I cannot trust any one else, and 
 
 indeed I do not know whether I should send it at all " 
 
 " I can get it to him if you wish it. Miss," said the maid, a 
 httle too eagerly, one might have thought. ''My brother 
 William, you know, lives with Mr. Eversham. I can take it 
 over to him, and I am sure he will deliver it faithfully." 
 
 "I do not think I will send it to-day, on reflection," said 
 
 "ianny : '' I will wait and see " 
 
 "Is it to Mr. Henry Glenn?" asked the maid, softly. 
 "Yes,' said Fanny. " But I think I will wait— till to-mor- 
 row at all -events- and then, Maria, I will be glad if you 
 
A FAMILY HISTOHr. 51 
 
 " Oh-! Ill do it, Missjt" ^id jtfee maid. " N?ver fear me, nor 
 Billy either — you can^ trust/we I am sure ;. and I will let Billy 
 believe the note is Mrajpnyself, or- 
 
 ' Better tell him th^%ruth," said Fanny, quickly; "if you 
 cannot trust him^ttfiici^ntiy for that, better not trust him at 
 all.'' ' . 
 
 ''Of course, Miss," hastily replied Maria; " but I thought 
 you would not like to let any one know but me. Billy can be 
 trusted as safely as I can ; and if you wish, Miss, I will go 
 over to-day and prepare him for his errand. I want to see him 
 to-day, any how." 
 
 " You can go and see him," said Fanny, " but perhaps you 
 had better say nothing definite to him till to-morrow. I may 
 not want him, you know.'' 
 
 "Very well. Miss," replied the maid; "I will just tell him 
 that I may want him to go into town to-morrow." 
 
 It was ^o arranged. Fanny finished her toilet with the help 
 of the assidwous Maria, and passed out to breakfast. The maid 
 opened the windows of the chamber to let the air in, dusted 
 and re-arranged the furniture, placing each article softly where it 
 should lie, hastily shook up and smoothed the bed, and left .the 
 room. Soon afterwards she . issued from the front gate, and 
 crossing the road, entered the wood near the place where 
 Fanny and Mr. Eversham had come ont on the evening before. 
 She walked rapidly along the lavine we have before described, 
 gradually ascending the slope, and plunging deeper into the 
 wood. She passed the tree at whose base Fanny and Henry 
 had reclined, and turning to the right, that is, westwardly, en- 
 tered a maze of thickets which surrounded the head of the 
 ravine."' Passing directly through the skirts of one of these, she 
 found herself in a little open space, covered with the greenest 
 grass, and quite concealed by the undergrowth of hazel-ljushes 
 and green briers. _, 
 
 The May morning sun was shining cheerily down over the 
 top of a lofty elm, and the shadows of the highest leaves were 
 dancing merrily' upon the deep-green sward within the little 
 covert. What little dew had been permitted by the trees to 
 fall within was already dried up ; and the birds were even at 
 that early hour beginning to leave off their songs and seek the 
 shade. The vibrations of the leaves and swinging of the limbs 
 were momently becoming less, as the beams of the rising sun 
 enchained the quiet breeze. The hum of bees and insects in 
 the sunshine was growing louder, and the,man^colored flies 
 were flashing in the rays and buzzing round the flowers. High 
 
52 THE GLENNS. 
 
 over all was arched the calm blue sky af opening summer, visi- 
 ble in grand serenity between the stately trees ; while larger 
 birds of firmer wing were sailing in subWme and graceful cir- 
 cles far up within the depths of the ethereal. ^ 
 
 But Maria Bates, if at any time a lover of the beauties of 
 nature, was not in the mood to pause upon them on that bright 
 May morning. She ^vas bent upon a purpose touching her far 
 more nearly than the glory of the golden sun, or the loveliness 
 of the green earth ; she was hastening to meet one whom she 
 loved far more than all things else in earth or heaven — far more 
 than father or mother, or duty, or honor, or virtue. She drew 
 aside the bushes, and found the little area, as she had expected, 
 already tenanted. Jarnes Glenn stepped forward and received 
 her in his arms ; and as he stooped to kiss her, she threw back 
 her head and allowed her bonnet to fall off, revealing a far from 
 uncomely face, flushed and radiant with pleasure and excitement. 
 There was nothing stealthy in her manner now^ — the most 
 unclouded confidence, the sincerest trust and mtftt unaffected 
 pleasure were visible in aM her features, and in every movei- 
 ment; It was evident that a higher, though perhaps not holier, 
 passion had repressed the treacherous envy of her nature ; or 
 that the pressure of a sterner spirit was upon her, requiring and 
 receiving every thought and all devotion. 
 
 James's countenance might not be so expressive ; indeed, one 
 might have observed a slight curl of scorn upon his haughty 
 lip as he took the humble girl to his arms. But she did not see 
 this ; for James was an able dissembler, and was assisted in dis- 
 simulation now by an intensely sensual nature. He caressed 
 her as if there had been no disparity between their stations — as 
 if it was not a degradation to them both — and drew her to his 
 bosom with as much apparent fondness as if he had loved her 
 with a pure affection. 
 
 She did not remain there, however, as long as she could have 
 wished, or as he seemed to desire. Gently disengaging herself, 
 she wiped, away the tears she had paid as a tribute to her erring 
 love, and taking up her bonnet, hurriedly sa.id : 
 
 ''I cannot stay with you long this morning, James ; I must 
 hurry on to Mr. Eversham's." 
 
 " To Eversham's 1 For what purpose 1" said he, sharply ; 
 and the suspicious glance of his eye showed the jealousy of his 
 nature. He in fa,ct cared very little for tliis lowly girl — per- 
 haps, apart from his sensual and selfish purposes, not at all ; but 
 he was of that unreasonably exacting nature, which, when it 
 deigns to waste a thought upon an object, however humble, 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 63 
 
 cannot endure that another shall even think of it. Had she not 
 been Fanny Vincent's maid, she would never probably have 
 received a look fron^him, because she could not have served 
 him. But James had long loved Fanny, though with little 
 hope ; for notwithstanding the violence of his passions some- 
 what blinded him, he was far too clear-sighted to overlook her 
 attachment to his cousin. Baffled, or rather hopeless, in any 
 direct means of obtaining her hand, he was none the less 
 resolved to have it ; and with the industry characteristic of evil, 
 he applied himself to the spreading of his nets. To penetrate 
 the secrets of the household, by establishing between himsel f 
 and Maria an intrigue which would give him power over her, 
 was, for one of his skill, the work of a very short time. This 
 was the spring of their connection; but had this been with- 
 drawn, it is probable that, having once interested himself in 
 her; he would still have manifested the same jealousy of any 
 action which he did not understand. It was that feehng which 
 caused his uneasy start and quick demand. 
 
 " Miss Fanny," said Maria in reply, " wants my brother to 
 carry a note to your Coitsin Henry, and I am going over to see 
 him this morning, because I cannot go in the evening." 
 
 " You were not going to do so without telling me ?" said 
 James. 
 
 " O, no !" she replied. '' I came here first on purpose, because 
 I thought you would like to know it. But, Janaes, what do 
 you care about it ? You question- me so closely about Fanny 
 and all her doings, that I sometimes think " 
 
 " What 1" said James sternly, as she he.sitated to go on. 
 
 "I know you love me, James,' she continued, "because you 
 tell me you do ; and if you did not " 
 
 " I would not come here to meet you so often," he interrupted. 
 
 " Yes," she continued ; " but " 
 
 " But what ?" he asked again, still more coldly. 
 
 " I sometimes think," she said beginning to sob, " that you 
 only meet me to talk about Fanny, — you will never talk about 
 
 ourselves, — you will never tell me when — " she broke down 
 
 in a torrent of tears, and shrank before his cold, hard eye, as if 
 she would sink into the ground. . 
 
 " Maria," said he, taking her hand in his and placing the 
 other calmly upon her shoulder, " Maria," — and in his voice 
 there was a determined sternness which made her tremble, — 
 '' you have said this quite often enough. It is not the first time 
 yau have spoken to me in this way ; but it must be the last. I 
 have told you, over and over again, what my feelings are, and 
 
54 THE GLENNS. 
 
 what are my purposes : I will now repeat them once more, and, 
 remember, for the last time. I will not endure to be accused of 
 falsehood, Maria " 
 
 " Oh, James I" she exclaimed, '' T did not mean that, indeed." 
 
 " Then, Maria," said he, suddenly changing his tone and 
 drawing her closer to him, with well-feigned tenderness, " let 
 us think no more of it. Kiss me, and let us have done with 
 it." 
 
 She threw her arms about his neck with a fondness which, 
 lowly as wa« its source, flattered his vanity ; and, smiling com- 
 placently, he continued: 
 
 " You know I have told you, Maria, that Fanny's mother 
 was a love of my Uncle Abram. She married Vincent after 
 discarding him ; but the scornful manner in which she treated 
 him did not cure him of his folly, he loved her very footsteps 
 until the day of her death, and now he dotes over her memory 
 with the weakness of age. I have seen him sit and gaze at 
 Fanny — who, I am told, resembles her mother in her younger 
 years — by the hour ; and, if he had any excuse for it, I believe 
 he wcJuld leave her all. his wealthy in preference to either Henry 
 or me. At all events, I am sure that if Henry should marry 
 her — thus giving him the exeuse he wants — he would give him 
 all he has to give, and cut me off with a paltry legacy of a few 
 dollars. And, Maria, all my expectations — indeed," he contin- 
 ued more rapidly, placing his arm fondly around her, '' the wealth 
 which is to enable MS to live happily together, which is to lift 
 you to a high rank in society — is to come from this very uncle. 
 As it now stands, Henry and I will share equally ; and this will 
 make us both wealthy, — at least, it will keep us from want. If 
 Henry should not marry Fanny, I think I would even get the 
 larger portion of my uncle's money, — indeed, I could use all of 
 it in doing the things which I wish to do for your benefit, 
 Maria." 
 
 The poison was too sweet not at once to be taken : she 
 looked up into his face with a smile of confiding openness, of 
 which you would have thought her features were not capable. 
 
 " Now I repeat," he continued, " if I should allow Henry to 
 marry Fanny, the probability is that I should be cut off almost 
 entirely from ' participation in my uncle's estate ; and I am 
 therefore determined that he shall not do it. It is your interest, 
 Maria, as well as mine, for your fortunes depend upon mine. 
 It is for this purpose that I want information about Fanny's 
 feelings and actions, — and in this view, Maria, you ought to te 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 55 
 
 willing to assist me without hesitation, and, above all, without 
 doubting me." 
 
 " I will never speak so again, James," she said earnestly. 
 '' You shall command me in all things ; indeed I have some- 
 thing to tell, now." 
 
 She detailed what she had observed on that morning and the 
 day before, — Henry's going away With- Fanny and her return 
 without him, — Mr. Eversham's visit, — and, finally, Fanny's 
 evident depression, and the traces of tears on her face. 
 
 "They have quarrelled," thought James;' " and this note is 
 to recall him. I must have that note, Maria," he said aloud. 
 
 " I will tell William to give it to you," she replied. 
 
 It was so arranged, and they parted. 
 
 It might be questioned how much of all he had told the poor 
 girl, James himself believed, it was so skilful a mixture of truth 
 and falsehood. So far as his uncle's feelings were concerned, 
 he was not far wrong : Abram had loved Fanny's mother, and 
 he still cherished her memory. James knew this, and, what- 
 ever may have been the stronger probability, he was sincere in 
 the belief that Henry's marriage with Fanny would divert a 
 large portion of his uncle's estate from himself. And this was 
 another and a stronger reason for his own anxety to secure her 
 hand. Love, cupidity and fear combined, every motive that 
 could influence a man like him, concurred to spur him on. 
 Probably, then, the only direct falsehood in the whole story was 
 that part which referred to the victim of his villainy to whom 
 he spoke. James was never prodigal of unmixed falsehood. 
 He was too dexterous in coloring the truth ; and he knew that 
 lies, like drugs, if given pure might be rejected from the 
 stomach, but, being "sugar-coated" with a little truth, were 
 more palatable and not less efficient. 
 
 Nor must it be supposed that he was so thoroughly a villain 
 as this side-view of his character would seem to indicate. It 
 was only in the pursuit of objects, in the possession of which his 
 passions became interested, that he would resort to tortuous or 
 sinister paths. The very violence of his nature, even unassisted 
 by a glimmering of honor which was still alive in his breast, 
 prompted him rather to open, than to concealed, courses ; and, 
 probably, had he always consulted his feelings alone, he would 
 oftener and more willingly have resorted to the power of the 
 strong hand, or to the force of open conflict. But he had, 
 besides " combativeness," that other faculty, by phrenologists 
 denominated " destructiveness," — and, whether it be situated as 
 mapped upon the skull or not, this is certainly a very distinct 
 
66 THE GLENNS. 
 
 trait from the first. The consequence of this combination was 
 a certain ruthlessness, entirely independent of a greater or less 
 degree of conscientiousness, and tending, still more than the 
 want of that faculty, to blind its possessor to the plainest 
 distinctions of right and wrong.' He was, moreover, intensely 
 selfish and very sensual. Like his mother, he could never 
 ulidSrstand how any one else could have rights or interests 
 paramount to his ;. and when he came in contact with others, he 
 was not only warmed by competition of interest and effort, but 
 he was also exasperated by what he viewed as the presumption 
 of his adversary in daring to assert claims opposed to his. In 
 his efforts, therefore, to circumvent or overcome another, he had 
 not only the excitement of the conflict and ambition to succeed, 
 but he felt, aiso, like an injured man, — as if his opponent were 
 endeavoring to encroach upon him, and he were standing 
 virtuously and bravely in defence of his rights. He even 
 congratulated himself, and bestowed upon his' firmness his own 
 approbation, and was, for this reason, infinitely more dangerous 
 than if he had been merely depraved. 
 
 These characteristics were, as we have hinted, hereditary — 
 faving been derived from a selfish and unscrupulous mother — in 
 whom they had, however, not been so dominant, because she 
 was destitute of the firmness and force of character which James 
 inherited from his father. 
 
 These last traits, also hereditary, had combined with those 
 transmitted by his mother, and added violence to all his feel- 
 ings. Had his education and circumstances been different, he 
 might have been, a mere desperado, though not devoid of hon- 
 orable and manly impulses. As it was, he was forced by the 
 necessity of his position to resort to left-handed and cunning 
 means to compass his ends, instead of going straight forward to 
 seize them by force. Although in those passages of. his life 
 Ai^hich most concern our story, his honorable impulses were sel- 
 dom exhibited, they were far from dormant. For when not 
 blinded by his selfishness,,or when satiated with success, misgiv- 
 ings and self-accusings frequently manifested in the privacy of his 
 chamber tiiat he was not, thoroughly hardened. In his schemes 
 against his cousin's happiness he was not seldom visited by 
 self-reproach ; and while alone, he more than once resolved to 
 repair the injury done, and abandon the conspiracy. These 
 promises, it is true, were never kept; his selfish and ruthless 
 nature always got the better of his virtuous resolution as soon 
 as he mingled again with the crowds among whom his schemes 
 were formed : but they were, nevertheless, indications that his 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 57 
 
 soul was not wholly corrupt, or his character altogether lost to 
 honor and conscience. 
 
 We. make this explanation here, because, in the hurry of the 
 marching history, we may not find time to pause upon the hours 
 or moments of virtuous misgiving ; and wish the reader to 
 understand in advance the character we are endeavoring to de- 
 pict. It is that of a man whose tendencies were rather those 
 of the outlaw than of the tamer villain — of one whose boldness 
 had been reduced to cunning by the exigencies of his position, 
 rather than of one originally inclined to crooked courses — of 
 one whose nature prompted him always to depend upon his 
 own arm, without regard to law, rather than of him whose 
 chief aim is to compass his ends without violating legal enact- 
 ments. 
 
 CHAPTER .V. 
 
 W&s not that letter from fair Jeftsioa T 
 
 Merchant or Teniok. 
 I will he correspondent to command 
 And do my spiriting gontlj. — TEMPasr. 
 I thank you, gentle unole. — Biohard III, 
 
 About an hour before noon on the following ' day, James 
 Glenn sat reading in a neatly furnished sitting-room at the 
 back of his office. He had been there for several hours, and 
 was evidently becoming impatient, for at intervals of but a few 
 minutes he laid down his book and walked to the front door, 
 gazing anxiously up and down the street, and then slowly 
 returning to his seat. He had passed between the rooms in this 
 way perhaps a score of times, and was endeavoring once more 
 to fix his attention upon his book, when the light which streamed 
 in at the front door was darkened by the entrance of a lad of 
 about fourteen or fifteen years. A sharp but comprehensive 
 glance around the room, and a quick, unhesitating step towards 
 the back room, indicated his decided character as plainly as his 
 physiognomy. Rather tall for his age, he was thin^and pale 
 
58 THE GLENNS. 
 
 and ills face was far older in appearance than his form. His 
 lar^ blue eye, in spite of a rather stealthy look, was firm and 
 decided ; while the lines about the mouth added materially to 
 the expression. A' straight, sharp-cut nose, its ridge forming 
 rather too nearly a right angle with the level of his face, wais 
 surmounted by a projecting brow of remarkable roundness ; 
 and beneath was an obstinate, straight upper lip. A full, reimd 
 chin and throat, hardly in keeping with the thinness of his 
 figure, completed a countenance remarkable for its expression 
 of mingled obstinacy, passion, and cunning. He wore a plain 
 suit of gray, neatly and jauntily put on, and his linen was of 
 spotless whiteness. Altogether, he was a handsome lad, bear- 
 ing a strong resemblance to his sister, Maria Bates, but appa- 
 rently more reliable. 
 
 He advanced without hesitation, and stopped before James. 
 The latter looked up as if surprised at his entrance ; but the 
 half-smile that flickered about the boy's mouth, seemed to .'i- 
 cate that he understood the acting. 
 
 " Well, Billy," said James, cordially, " what can I do for you 
 this morning?" 
 
 * <' Nothing, sir," said the boy, carelessly. " I have a note 
 that my sister told me to give you, from Miss Vincent." . 
 
 " Can you read writing V asked James, as he took the 
 letter. 
 
 " Not much, sir," Billy answered. " Mr. Eversham says 
 that is a part of my education which has been vely much neg- 
 lected." 
 
 "Has he ever attempted to remedy the neglect?" James 
 asked. 
 
 " Never, sir," said Billy, smiling ; " but he says there is time 
 enough." 
 
 '■ Did Maria tell you this was from Miss Vincent ?" he asked, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " No ; I knew it, because, so far as I know, Maria cannot 
 write." 
 
 James smiled, and thrusting his hand into his pocket drew 
 out a handful of small silver, and gave it to. the boy. 
 
 " You have done well," he said, " to bring it without delay ; 
 i see it was written this morning. I give you this now, and 
 every time you do me a service you may calculate upon a re- 
 ward quite as liberal. And mind," he added significantly, 
 retaining the boy's hand as he extended it for the money, "yoU* 
 ^re not to mention to any one but Maria that you have ever 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 59 
 
 spoken to me. If you do, I will reward you in a very different 
 way. Will you remember ?" ^ 
 
 "I will, if I don't forget,'' said Billy, smiling. 
 
 " Weil," said James, sharply, " you'll ndl forget, I think.'' 
 
 " Not as long as the change lasts,'' said the boy, jingling it 
 in his hand. 
 
 '' The change will last, said James, " as long as you serve me 
 faithfully, and no longer." 
 
 " And am I to serve you only till it gives out 1" asked the 
 boy. 
 
 ' " It will be your own loss, Billy," said James, confidentially, 
 "if you eease to. serve me at all We will be the best of 
 friends, for I know I can trust you." 
 
 " I will not betray you, sir," said Billy, drawing himself up, 
 " unless you wrong me first." 
 
 James saw that he had touched the right cord, though his 
 implied threat had nearly roused the boy's rebellious temper. 
 
 " I do not fear it, ray yaung friend," said James. " And 
 now at what hour can you come to me this evening ?" 
 
 " I can get away from home about five o'clock, sir." 
 
 '' Come at that hour then," said James. '' I may not have 
 anything for you to do ; but perhaps I shall want you to carry 
 the answer to this letter." 
 
 Billy smiled intelligently, and carelessly bowing, turned away 
 and left the room. 
 
 " I wonder if Maria can have told him,'' James muttered, as 
 he turned over the note and read the superscription. " He evi- 
 dently knows there is something wrong ; but I must attach him 
 to myself. He's a shrewd fellow. Humph !" 
 
 His reflections were cut short by the contents of the letter, 
 which he had opened, and was now deliberately reading. It 
 was addressed to " Mr. Henry Glenn," and ran as follows : 
 
 " You left me so abruptly on Sunday.. Henry, that I am afraid 
 something I said seriously offended, you. Yet I recollect noth- 
 ing that could justly have done so, though I have racked my 
 brain until I am really nervous. As for Mr. Eversham, from 
 him you have nothing to fear — I have never entertained ^ 
 for him a deeper feeling than belongs to his age and station.' 
 When I advanced to meet him on Sunday, I did so only because 
 I knew, he was coming to our house to spend the evening, and 
 because I knew my father wished me to treat him as he de- 
 «'serves. 
 
 " I am afraid, Henry, you are growing jealous, and I knaifi 
 you have no good reason for such a feeling. You havf, yourself 
 
60 THE GLENNS. 
 
 told me that jealousy should be guarded against, as the source 
 and origin of almost every other evil that can come between 
 those who love ; and you must forgive me if I apply your pre- 
 cepts to yourself. I will not deny that you are more nearly- 
 right in regard to my father's feelings than I supposed you 
 were; and my belief that- you did him injustice, may have 
 made me a little petulant. Since that time he has enlightened 
 me; but I know his affection too well to doubt that, on learn- 
 ino-'how distasteful his desires are to me, he will for my sake 
 give them up. If you desire it, Henry, I will let him know at 
 once. When he spoke to me, your inexplicable language and 
 bearing on Sunday had so cruelly embarrassed me, that I knew 
 not what to say. And even now I am at a loss how to write, 
 what to say, and how to say it. 
 
 " Sometimes I think you do not wish longer to occupy the 
 place in my heart which you know is yours ; and in connection 
 with this, one torturing thought occurs to me now : Do you 
 recollect once saying to me that when an engagement becomes 
 irksome to a gentleman, and he wishes to terminate it, it is still 
 his duty to wait and give the lady an opportunity of taking the 
 initiative'? And that he must even delay his action until he 
 has fully and fairly tried her temper, without success? Some- 
 tirhes I almost think you were endeavoring to exasperate me 
 into a breach of our engagement — that you were ' trying my 
 temper,' as you said. I do not fully believe this, Henry; if I 
 did, I should gratify you before tlie day were an hour older ; 
 but even to imagine the possibility of such a thing makes me 
 unhappy. I shall feel so, until I see yon, and hear from your 
 own lips, the assurance that I am wrong to fancy it. If, how- 
 ever, you cannot give me such assurance — if yon really wish 
 to terminate our engagement, Henry, and are only restrained 
 from doing so yourself by some extravagant punctilio, I do not 
 Wish to see you — your silence will be quite a sufficient hint — 
 it shall terminate at once. If you love niP, Henry — if I am 
 doing you injustice by exhibiting temper without cause, you 
 must forgive it. Just think of my position, and I know you 
 will do so — I know you will hasten to me, especially when I 
 (pay come, and assure you that you will find me, as in all the 
 pleasant days gone by. Your Fanny." 
 
 "P.S. — On reading this over, I have reason to fear that I 
 have exhibited too much temper. But if I have, and you lo^ 
 me, I know you will forgive me in consideration of my embai^ 
 rassed position ; if you do not love me, even this curt language 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 61 
 
 will be found too tender, and your forgiveness will be of little 
 consequence. But 1 cannot believe it I I know you Tnust love 
 me ! I will not believe otherwise, except from your own lips ! 
 Come to me then, dear Henry, this evening, if you cannot 
 sooner, and send me an answer to this announcing your coming 
 and assuring me that my thoughts are foolish. And yet — 
 remember — if you do not love me, send me no answer. I 
 would rather infer it from your actions, than read it in your 
 writing or hear it from your lips. I shall await the return of 
 my messenger at the foot of the old elm — and with how much 
 anxiety, (if you love me,) you can imagine. How different 
 will be my feelings to those I have so often known in the same 
 place I Can you not. come yourself with the messenger '! 
 
 ' F." 
 "He will hardly be there, I think," muttered James, as he 
 finished reading this characteristic letter. " I will take care of 
 that ; at all events, for a few days to come ; and then I have 
 the game in my own hands. I will have her yet! And, 
 instead of losing my inheritance to my cousin, let us see if I 
 get not the larger share of the old fellow's money I He hasn't 
 inore than enough for one man anyhow. A moderate fortune 
 will not bear division ; it makes one poor, by elevating him 
 above a mere competence, without making him rich. 1 must 
 have the whole of it, and this is the best way to get it. If I 
 can only keep my jealous cousin away for a few days, she will 
 act upon her suspicion decisively, and then — let her resist me 
 if she can ! " 
 
 Such were James' thoughts, as he slowly doubled up Fanny's 
 letter, and revolved its propable consequences. ' He at once 
 understood the allusions of the letter ; for he could readily com- 
 piehend a nature which, (like his own,) was easily betrayed 
 into jealousy ; and he decided, without a moment's hesitation, 
 to seize upon the advantage thus given. He was vain enough 
 to think that, if he could secure his cousin's absence for a short 
 time, Fanny must infallibly yield to his attractions. He only 
 differed from most men of his stamp, in the fact that his con- 
 fidence in his own personal advantages was not wholly without 
 foundation.' He had, as we have seen, no desire to injure ^g. 
 cousin, except as Henry might stand in his way ; he was^ 
 mosa|| by selfishness, not by any resentment for injury, or even 
 . by a wholly depraved heart. 'To him, the interests of James 
 * Glenn were all-important ; and the, rights or feelings of any 
 other person were not worth a thought. 
 
 After reflecting for a few minutes, he placed the letter in a 
 
62 THE GLENNS. 
 
 drawer beside him. Locking it carefully, find placing the key 
 in his pocket, he went out and walked aWay down the crowded 
 street. 
 
 About the same hour,-in an office of similar dimensions and 
 appointments, sat James' cousin Henry. He was paler than 
 he had been two days before, and his face looked haggard and 
 care-worn. But the stern compression about the white lips 
 and the determined energy with which he applied himself to 
 the writing before him, showed that, whatever might be the 
 cause of his depression, he was resolved not to yield to it. He 
 stopped from time to time, and leaning back took a book 
 from the weH'fiUed case behind him; afier consulting its pages 
 for a. few moments, he again addressed himself to his task. 
 Occasionally indeed, his pen halted in its course, and his eyes 
 wandered to the ceiling or rested listlessly and absently upon 
 the floor; but this was not permitted to last; with a sigh, 
 which spoke too plainly of a heavy heart, he forcibly recalled 
 his wandering attention. His writing, always clear, firm, and 
 ■well rounded, was now stubborn and positive in its lines ; and 
 when his pen came down with a lengthened letter, no extra 
 curve or graceful circle marked its close — a square, heavy 
 dash suddenly cut off, was all his burthened hand afforded. 
 
 He had been working thus since an early breakfast without 
 once rising from his seat; but, excepting in the increased 
 angularity of his hand, he exhibited no signs of weariness. 
 The sheets, w^ritten from top to bottom and bottom to top, 
 alternately, lay piled before him with the utmost precision, for 
 when he looked up, if the corner of a sheet projected from the- 
 rest, he pushed it carefully and neatly in; his mind was so 
 strung to effort that its power included attention to even minute 
 particulars. He had just finished a sheet, and was placing it 
 thus thoughtfully upon the others, when the door was opened 
 by'a tall, middle-aged man, who entered without ceremony. 
 
 He could not have been more than fifty ; and yet the thin, 
 fine hair, visible beneath his well-brushed hat, was white' as 
 snow. His erect carriage, however — though assisted by a stout 
 ^ane with a large gold head — seemed to indicate an age much 
 ,l6ss advanced. His face bore marks of many cares, and the 
 wrinkles on his forehead spoke of sorrows quite as plainly as of 
 years. The lines about his mouth were not numerous';^ and, 
 save the few gray hairs among his arching eyebrows, round his 
 eyes there was nothing that pointed to a late hour on the diaP 
 of his life. The eye itself was as piercing as ever ; but, in its 
 penetration there was nothing harsh or suspicious. Rigid 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 63 
 
 justice, perhaps, but in a much higher degree, the kindest, most 
 considerate benevolence, beamed out in its mild, though steady- 
 glance. It was one of those dark blue eyes which so frequently 
 preserve their power of vision to the very gates of the world of 
 spirits. In his younger years Abram Glenn had been an 
 eminently handsome man, remarkable alike for manly grace of 
 form and classic mould of feature ; and though years and cares 
 had somewhat sharpened both, detracting by imperceptible 
 degrees from each, he was even at fifty a man after whom one 
 would have paused in the street to gaze. 
 
 Henry rose as he entered, and gave him a chair. 
 
 " Why did you not come up on Sunday night V the old man 
 asked. '' It is the first time you have failed for twelve 
 months." 
 
 " You ought to forgive me then, uncle," said Henry, smiling 
 faintly. 
 
 " Good works are no excuse for bad, my boy," said his uncle 
 kindly. " But you do not look well : were you kept away by 
 sickness V 
 
 " I was not very well," said Henry evasively, " and I thought 
 James would be pleasanter company for you. He told me he 
 was going up.'' 
 
 " But he did not come," said Abram, a little sharply : " In- 
 deed, he scarcely ever comes, now. I am afraid he is becoming 
 dissipated." 
 
 "Oh, no!" exclaimed Henry, eagerly. "I think he reads a 
 great deal, of late'; at all events, I know he is much alone." 
 
 " That is no very good sign," said Abram ; '' young men 
 should not be too much alone. James is so much like his 
 father, that I do not like to trust him." 
 
 '' He is older than I am," said Henry, " and, I suspecS^tos 
 more discretion. I do not think he is in danger of contra^Ao- 
 profligate habits." 
 
 " It is right enough for you to defend him," said Abram, after 
 a pause, in which it was plain that he was not convinced. 
 " But you have not answered my question : have you been 
 unwell ?" 
 
 " Very slightly," said his nephew, " and I am now well 
 again." 
 
 " Your face is a very false index, then, Henry," said Abram ; 
 
 " for you look as if you had been sick a fortnight. And, my 
 
 ■ Doy," he continued kindly, drawing his chair closer to Henry, 
 
 " this is not the first time 1 have observed it, though it is more 
 
 perceptible now than I have ever seen it before. I did not 
 
64 THE GLENNS. 
 
 come here, Henry, to pry into secrets w'hich yovi do not feel 
 disposed to tell me voluntarily ; but I did come to give you a 
 little advice, which I know you will receive kindly as it is 
 given. Close the door — I have much to say.'' 
 
 Henry rose, and obeyed vsrithout speaking. 
 
 " I have been making inquiries for several weeks, Henry,'' 
 he continued, " about both you and James ; and it is the result 
 of these inquiries which leads me to think James is doing badly 
 and that you, Henry, are doing worse, I do not mean in the 
 same way," he added quickly, as Henry started : " far from it ! 
 James is w^asting his time and health, and frittering away his 
 character in idle and culpable dissipations ; and you, Henry, 
 are wasting your life, squandering the best feelings of your 
 nature upon an unworthy object, laying up misery and loneli- 
 ness and self-abasement for your age. You have been engaged 
 to marry Miss Vincent, as you told me — perhaps you are so 
 situated now ; and it is for this reason that I think you are doing 
 even worse than James — for yourself, I mean. James may 
 reform — I hope he will — I intend to speak to him to-day, and if 
 he does, his dissipation will leave but a slight sting in his 
 memory. But yours, Henry — " the old man laid his hand 
 upon Henry's arm, and his eyes filled with tears — " yours will 
 sink into your heart like lead, — the memory will haunt you even 
 to the grave, — sleep will give you no exemption, — no employ- 
 ment will alleviate your bitterness, — memory will unfit you for 
 society, — happiness will flee from you as from one infected, — 
 curses will fill your mind instead of blessings, — and you will be 
 a poor, forlorji, solitary, miserable man ! I know this but too well, 
 Henry : I speak from experience ! 1 know the blood of this 
 syren too well ; 1 feel it now, tingling to my very finger-ends I 
 I^played around th« flame too long, and was scorched. And it 
 is from such a fate that I would save you. I want to tell you 
 how it was : will you listen 1" 
 
 The old man's voice was weak as a child's, and his hand 
 trembled with emotion. His eye glittered and glistened through 
 his tears, and his nostrils were distended with excitement. 
 Henry had never seen him so much moved ; he was silenced by 
 astonishment. A sympathy, upon the origin of which he could 
 not reflect, filled his own eyes with tears and choked his utter- 
 ance. He could only bow his head in acquiescence ; and the 
 old man went on : — 
 
 " This girl's mother was as beautiful as her daughter — nay, 
 even more beautiful, — but she resembled her in everything : in 
 face, in form, in voice, in spirit — in everything, mind. I 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 69 
 
 was then a young man like you, Henry ; perhaps wealthier, but 
 with no greater expectations. I loved that woman with all the 
 fire of a passionate nature, and she loved me in return viiith all the 
 firmness that her character knew. She loved me, I say, loved 
 me quite as warmly as her daughter can love you, Henry — 
 quite as warmly. We were engaged to be married when she 
 met Vincent, who could offer her greater wealth and a higher 
 social rank than I could promise. She was as giddy and vain 
 as she was beautiful : I knew it, theii, though I loved her none 
 the less. She was dazzled by the prospect of boundless wealth , 
 and flattered by the preference ofa man who was the centre of 
 attraction to all the young ladies in his circle. Her father 
 seconded her mercenary ambition with all his power. She soon 
 began to exhibit impatience of my assiduity ; her temper 
 changed ; she became captious, exacting and inconsiderate. If 
 I spoke to her about Vincent, she declared me jealous ; and if I 
 •pressed the matter, she left me in anger. But why need I 
 detail each step of an alienation which soon became complete ? 
 I loved her more desperately than ever. Had I at once given 
 her up when I perceived the first signs of estrangement, I could 
 have done so witTiout a struggle. But the conflict entangled 
 me, 1 grasped -more and more wildly at what I felt gliding 
 away; and when she finally married Vincent, scarcely deigiiing 
 to inform me of her decision, it wrung my heart infinitely more 
 than it could have done had I felt no suspense." 
 
 She married him, then ; and I believe she repented it most 
 bitterly. But repentance in earthly things can never make 
 atonement ; for by its very nature it comes too late. I was 
 left alone with my own thoughts ; 1 have been alone ever 
 since ; and, my son, you know what it has made me 1 I do 
 not wish you, Henry, to be withered in this way ; and. it is to 
 save you from such a fate that I am now talking to you. 
 
 " I told you I had been making inquiries ; and the informatin 
 I have gained satisfies me that you are treading the same path 
 which I have trodden so unhappily. Fanny Vincent may be 
 all you think she is ; but I appeal to you now, Henry, whether 
 I am not right when I say she is treating you precisely as her 
 mother treated me, and for a similar purpose." 
 
 Henry could make no reply. He felt too forcibly the coin- 
 cidence. 
 
 , "I knew it was so," his uncle continued. " Mr. Eversham 
 is your rival, and, Henry, he will be successfal. The levity of 
 the mother has descended to the daughter ; and if you do not 
 at once save yourself, by profiting by my experience, you may 
 
66 THE GLENNS. 
 
 be tortured months uppil months, the victim of her caprices, and 
 at last be cast aside as no longer of value. Take my advice 
 now, Henty, while it is yet time ; prevent an endless sorrow 
 from seating itself in your heart, by casting it out while you 
 can ! 
 
 " I cannot stay with you longer now ; but comp up to the 
 ' Glen ' this evening, and we will talk further about it. I must 
 see James before I return home, so I had better make haste. 
 Think of what I have said^ and do not fail to come up early." 
 
 The old man. lingered a few moments as if he wished to say 
 more. But hi^' -Words had evidently sunk into Henry's heart, 
 and without disturbing his reflections he departed. Henry 
 leaned his head upon his hand and thought long and painfully. 
 
 " He must be right," be thought ; '' and yet " but the 
 
 doubt was checked by a recollection, and his resolution was 
 taken. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Bat there, where I had garnered up my heart. 
 
 To. he diaoardod thence ! — Othxli,o. 
 
 We'll put the matter to the present push.— Hamlkt. 
 
 So prosper I, as I swear perfeet love. — Richaud III. 
 
 That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, 
 
 If with that tongue he cannot win a woman. 
 
 Two Gentlemen or Vbhona. 
 
 Fanny- had gone out in the morning with Maria to wait in 
 the wood until the latter should go to Mr. Eversham's, dispatch 
 her brother with the note, and receive the answer. It would 
 probably require more than an hour to do this ; and with the 
 purpose of spending the time patiently, she brought a book 
 with her, and endeavored to read. But one page was quite as 
 much as she could conquer ; so, closing the book, she rose from 
 the root of the old elm where she had been sitting, and walked 
 uneasily up and down the path. The time hung very heavily 
 upon her spirits — for the uneertainty of her positioa, the doubt 
 which distracted her, and her uneasiness as to what would pro- 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 67 
 
 bably be the result of the step she had talj:eii, made her anxious 
 and impatient. 
 
 That she loved Henry there could be no question ; but it 
 was equally certain that she felt estranged and resentful for the 
 harshness of his bearing. She thought correctly, that his con- 
 duct had not been kind, and she was half inclined to believi 
 that his aflfection was cooling — that he had only seized upon 
 Eversham's attentions ^s a pretext for jealousy— that he wished 
 the bonds between" them broken. , When she thought of Ever) 
 sham, she could not avoid a comparison bet-«||gnhis assiduous 
 and considerate manner, and Henry's exacting' and impatient 
 spirit ; perhaps she even permitted herself to think how much 
 greater promise of happiness there would be with the tranquil 
 temper of the former,- than in the jealous nature of the latter. 
 But she dismissed the'thought, as a treason to her lover ; and 
 resuming her seat again, addressed herself to the book. 
 
 She had not read long, howevesc,. before she heard a quick 
 footstep approaching, and on looking tip perceived Maria. Her 
 eye sought the maid^s hand for a letter, but it was not there ! 
 " She has it concealed somewhere," thought her mistress. 
 But Maria came near, holding up both hands to signify that 
 she had no answer. 
 
 " He told Billy to come back at five o'clock," she said, with 
 a blush, which, however, Fanny did not observe. 
 
 " I will not come here again," said Fanny. " You may go 
 over in the evening, Maria, and see what answer he gets." " 
 
 She turned away with a quivering lip, and walked slowly 
 towards her home. Her heart was sinking fast. " Had he 
 loved me," she thought, " he would have sent me one line at 
 least. But I will' wait — a little fcnger." Her step was heavy, 
 as it had been two days before along the same path ; but now, 
 as then, when she emerged from the wood her bearing changed ; 
 she raised her head, and her eye flashed with the fire of wound- 
 ed pride. "Let him have it so, then," she said, almost aloud, 
 " if he will have it I And yet he evidently intends to answer 
 something ; I will wait till to-morrow at all events." She en- 
 tered the house, and, without speaking to any one, sought her 
 own apartment, and locked the door behind her. ' 
 
 She -passed the most of the day alone — how occupied we 
 cannot tell. But a spirit wayward as hers could not fail to 
 waver between the most opposite passions; How many times 
 Henry's letters and notes — even the most trivial of which were 
 carefuUy'^jeserved and religiously guarded — were that day 
 read and dast aside ; how many times the little tokens of his 
 
68 THE GLENNS. 
 
 affeGtion were altern^ly pressed to her heart and thrown 
 indignantly from her^how n^any tears of wounded affection 
 were that day shed, or how many resolutions to give him lip 
 were taken, we cannot know. When she came forth, a few 
 (ninutes before sunset, her eyes were red with weeping, but her 
 face was ^composed and her step firm. She sat down to the 
 piano, and began, to ?ing a low plaintive song ; but her eyes 
 filled with tears, ajid |feer loice began to choke. She hastily 
 rose and walked to the B^^ tfate. 
 
 Maria was just emer^igTfem the wood. She had been to 
 Mr Eversham'^^see her brother. As she slowly approached, 
 Fanny's eyes again sought the answer in her liand. It was not 
 there ! 
 
 " He says your note did not require an answer," said Maria 
 as she came up to the gate. 
 
 " He is right," said Faia^y ; but a deadly pallor overspread 
 her face, and her lips wer% livid ■with emotion. She turned 
 away, and without another ,vv%rd entered the house. Again 
 she sat down to the instrument ; but this time she finished the 
 song ; and though her voice was a little tremulous at first, 
 when she closed it was round and fulj. 
 
 As the last note of the air died away, a kpock was heard at 
 the door, and a moment afterwards James Glenn entered. He 
 was a little embarrassed as he walked towards her ; but this 
 did not prevent his looking keenly at her face, as she turned 
 and rose to receive hira. The signs of recent agitation could 
 not escape one so well prepared to see them ; nor was he blind 
 to the expression of wounded pride which sparkled in her eyes 
 and hardened her manner. " Women are like the balls of our 
 school days," he reasoned — " never so easily caught as upon 
 the rebound."* And with fiis accustomed promptitude, he 
 was here now to put his theory in practice. He expected to 
 be treated )srith more cordiality than ever before, and he was 
 not disappointed. "Many a wife has been won in this waj?;" 
 he thought; "for within^he first three days after a disappolftt- 
 ment, a woman is more susceptible to new attractions and n^^ 
 attentions, than at any other time. Making love' to her tMn, 
 seems like a more delicate kind of sympathy ; and her/eelj^ 
 of loneliness nialses her value it more highly than it deae)*v^r' 
 Wliether his reasoning was true or false in the general, on this 
 occasion it was perfectly correct ; it was a relief to Fanny to 
 ^e even hiiii; she thought, indeed, that it was very kind in 
 
 * This axiom I have heard used in conversation, and hav,# an indi^ 
 recollection of having seen it in print ; but where I cannot nowrecali.- 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 69 
 
 him to call at such a time. She recei\^ him, therefore, with 
 real pleasure ; though she did not like him, and at another 
 time would not have been pleased with his coming. His 
 presence relieved her from her own thoughts, gave her othe'r 
 things to think of; and the current once turned, her spirits 
 were soon apparently as high as if it had been Henry, and not 
 James, who sat beside her. T^iis- didiinot perfectly deceive 
 James, though his vanity prompt©^ hiW'londly .to' ascribe her 
 gaiety to pleasure in his society-^igjmew that a great part of 
 it was attributable to a revuiawrnot very^ttering to him ; 
 but he was glad to find her as she was, beranse in this mood 
 he could best prosecute his suit. He had, not more than an 
 hour before, taken a step which committed him thoroughly ; he 
 was bound to pursue the path, which it was too late to retrace. 
 Half his purposes were already .gj^wered ; all that was now 
 necessary was to secure the gjffl^M} he had gained— to insure 
 the complete separation of !Mnny and his cousin — and he 
 would then have leisure to proseciJte his plans to their consum- 
 mation. He commenced a conversation in light tones upon 
 indifferent topics ; and I believe I have already said his con- 
 versational powers were remarkably good. His natural bitter- 
 ness, how^ever, tinged everything he said ; the most unmerciful 
 satire was as common to his lips as it was to his thoughts. 
 .But in Fanny's present mood nothing could have pleased her 
 better. She l&ughed heartily at his severe sketches of charac- 
 ters around them, and joined him with a will, in characterizing 
 friends and enemies alike. Slie looked a little grave when he 
 attacked any one whose wealth or high social position shp had 
 been taught to venerate ; but the gall of his remarks was too 
 congenial to her present tempe^o be long resisted ; and in less 
 than half an hour, she even united with him in a laugh of 
 bitter ridicule, at the expejise of Mr. Eversham. He was too 
 dexterous to venture upon this at first, but he finally came to it, 
 wh^n he saw by repeated experiments that she would bear it. 
 He discovered that he was in the light vein, and pushed on 
 with ever-increasing brilliancy. He spared neither age, sex, 
 nfc' station — showering his caustic bitterness on all alike. 
 
 F^, example — speaking of a youiig lady about whom, at 
 aiic^^r time, Fanny would not have listened to a word, b.ut of 
 wtiom James designed presently to say more — " Miss Rayburn s 
 most commendable trait," said he, "is her economy — derived, 
 througWler father, from ' the land of steady habits.' " * 
 
 A^»"WlS^ih, for instance ?" asked Fanny, laughing. 
 »|5|,;^'^Ufc«-^rge companief, for example," said James. " You 
 
70 THE GLENNS. 
 
 usually see her wearina butone glove, the other being carefully 
 lodged under her belt' p'and if she wears the right-had glove this 
 evening, probably the next time you see her, she will have the 
 left hand covered, and the other glove respited to do duty on 
 some future occasion. However," he added, as if suddenly 
 recollecting, "I aught not to say anything to disparage iBfc for 
 she may soon be my relative." 'jIv^ 
 
 " How 1 Your ie\s,^i\e 1" said Fanny, suddenly growing 
 serious. ^ ' 
 
 " I "mean my Cousin Henry's wife,", he replied, carelessly. 
 ""I do nofknowynuch about it, except what liiy Uncle Abrani 
 has told me, — ^fof Henry never trusts me with a secret." 
 
 " What has your uncle told you 1" she aslied, almost in a 
 whisper. 
 
 James affected not to observe her emotion, and«went on : 
 
 '' Perhaps I ought to saynothing about it " 
 
 " You must " Fanny interrupted him, but checked her- 
 self, and, by a great effort, recovered her self-command. 
 
 " because," James continued, withoutseeming to observe 
 
 the earnest tone in which she had spoken, " my uncle may not 
 have meant it to be s|)Dken of, though he certainly gave me no 
 such injunction, and — at all events, it will do no harm to tell 
 you." -"■ 
 
 " None infhe world," she said : '' it may do very great good." 
 He ga^q^ at her as if surprised, but continued : 
 " After all, 1 have not much to tell you ; though 1 inferred 
 from what my uncle said, that Henry had consulted him about 
 the matter, — I suppose, because he was our guardian, and 
 because Henry's expeotatjons are all dependent upon him. He 
 gave Henry some such advice as, is embraced in the old prover- 
 bial couplet : 
 
 • 'Ti8 good to 1)6 merry and viae, 'tis good to, be honest and true — 
 'Tis good to l)e orr with the old love before you are o« with the new." 
 
 Though I am at a loss tg, conjecture who the ' old love' was, 
 unleiss it was yourself, which I hope it was not." 
 
 " Why, do you hope so ?" she asked. 
 
 '' Because," said he, plainly and at once, " if you were his 
 forra^ love, and really loved him, I fear you are doome.d' to a 
 disappointment, from which I would save you if I could. And 
 if you did not love him, you must have been insincere, and that 
 would have been a disappointment to me.'! 
 
 " But why a disappointment to you?" she asked calmly. 
 
 " Because," said he, lowering his voice, " I have always con- 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 71 
 
 sidered you as true sis you are beautiful ; and to be disenchanted 
 of a dream so happy wou]d be too much ." 
 
 She gazed full in his face for more than a minute. 
 
 " Can you believe me ?" he aslted softly. 
 
 " Bmt," said she, without altering her posture, " you have not 
 toldjm^hiow your cousin took his uncle's advice." 
 
 " That," said James, " he did not tell me ; but I inferred from 
 what he said that it was already'd'&ne,— qthat Jlenry was already 
 ' off with the ol(|, love.' " v> '*' 
 
 " So he is," said F^;gny, still gazing absently at hfm. 
 
 " My conjecture was cortrect, then'!" said James. f" 
 
 But she did not answer, and he went on : 
 
 " If I had known this, T would not have mentioned it foi 
 worlds : you will forgive me ?" 
 
 " You have, done me a service, not an injury," she said ; " and' 
 I am grateful to you beyond expression." 
 
 '"Such a service searcely deserves gratitude, I fear," said he, 
 feelingly.. " But if I do not require- forgiveness for that, I do 
 on another account." ' •' 
 
 " For what V' she asked, still without moving. % 
 
 ''For daring at such a time,"* said he, -in a voice still lower, 
 " to use expressions that must grate so harshly upon your ears 
 — for presuming to speak of my own feelings, which, Jiowejjif 
 intense, ought not now to be intruded upon you."^ - . 
 
 " I fear you are but too certain of your forgiveness," she 
 said, " else you would never have asked it.'.' 
 
 " I ask it in good faith, believe me, dear Miss "Vincent !" he 
 exclaimed, earnestly. " For I know how inappropriate are 
 such words to your present feelings. Indeed, I am sensible'%hat 
 my very presence must at such a time be irksome — and for that 
 also I must demand to be forgiven." 
 
 He rose as he spoke, and walked towards the door. 
 
 " I could very readily forgive both offences," said Fanny, 
 rising also, " if they were such ; which they are not." 
 
 " I ought not to stay longer now," said James, turning to- 
 wards her, "and yet I cannot reconcile myself to going with- 
 out^saying more. I am unwilling to leave you-without assuring 
 yofl'that my words were not the mere expreission of an ordinary 
 gallantry ; believe me, I am above such folly. I desire to feave 
 with 'you the certainty that I would not speak lightly^pon* 
 such a subject ; that if I should pour forth the most ardent ex- 
 pressions of love, I ■ should be but following the dictates'of a 
 heart whiehf is wholly yours — and forever! And," he ra.pidly 
 continued, attempting to take her hand, which, however^ she 
 
72 THE GLENNS. 
 
 drew back, "the onlyjreason why I do not do so, is because I 
 feel how cruel, how selfish, it would be to press you upon such 
 a subject, at such a time ! This, at least, you must^forgive me 
 for saying — if you can find in your- heart one spark%f ;kindness 
 •for me— rif even years of devotion can make you love me — let 
 me%onjure you to believe tha,ta truer heart you can never find 
 than that which I would now offer ! Will *you forgive me for 
 speaking" thus 1 Will you btlieve that I am sineiere — :and think 
 _<^.mag||enj: am goffe V __jft.; -^ 
 
 ^* '' lagnot fit to answer you now," MSjsaia; in a tone almost 
 "off rteproffch. "I would not even speak on the subject ; but you 
 must not conclude " 
 
 ■' I will conclude nothing," he interi'Upted, eagerly. " I wish 
 only to be understood.'' i, 
 
 '' Well, well,", said she,«impatie'ntly*aud^faitttly, for she felt 
 her strength giving w^y, " some other time, not not 1" 
 
 He priliBed her hand passionately, opened the door, and ^as 
 gone. She sank exhausted upoi^he sofa, and sBbbed jiolently, 
 "with he^- Trace buried in the cushion. Had he seen her then, 
 even James would have feltr^Tiorse ; but she*was alone — how 
 utterly alpne no o^,.knew but herself! J"|(pies walked com- 
 placently along the quiet road, and was soon within the pre- 
 
 '• It isipjlsafe now," he thought, as he entered his office, and 
 throwmgfcff his coat, dre^ton a dressing-gown. "Henry will 
 recefVe his dismissal to-morrow, I think, and then-she is mine — 
 Eversham to the, contr^y, notvi^'ithstanding. Uncle Abram 
 willjje.set right, and his ijispleasure on account of my dissipa- 
 tionltoill vanishigt Henry must have told him — no one else 
 could, but I canaffen^' to forgive him, for I shall be fully 
 avenged." 
 
 Already he was counting with certainty upon his succ^s — 
 already he was considering himself the possessor of the bulk of 
 his uncle's wealth. Yet he had no Ijitterness in his heart 
 against his cousin, whom he suspected of having caused the 
 severe ad-monition he had that day received. He vs^as moved 
 by selfishness almost alone — h;s heart had not room even for 
 enqpiity. 
 
 J^^es was no vulgar villain, who dares everything with a 
 ■ mere scoundrel's hardihood. His training had not been adapted 
 to his nature, and had consequently further vitiated a character 
 origiinally far from amiable. He had inherited from his mother 
 anjgitenSB selfishness; but he had also received from his father 
 — in addition to the traits «we have already mentioned, what 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 73 
 
 the never had — a certain refinement of mind, which, with 
 appropriate discipline, might in a measure have counteracted 
 his lower tendencies. Like her, h§, was a voluptuary in the 
 worst sens##f the word — eager in the pursuit of his own plea- 
 sure, and totally regardless of everything that. lay in hia way. 
 His free command of money while at college had enabled him 
 to develope all his tastes, almost without l^mit. Money could 
 procure him gralifioations of every sort, excepting those best 
 calculated to curb liis un§|f tunate propensities ; and the posses- 
 sion of the means encoiiraged their use. His vanity assisted 
 the process of corruption, and his turbulent spirit rejected all 
 restraints. The habit of instant gratification gfew upon him 
 until it became almost a necessi-ty. The gnawing of passion, 
 and his impatience of control, spurred him to ^elc his ends by 
 tortuous, when they were unattainable by direct means. Time 
 had ladled on in this sort of life, until the sparks of good.which 
 lay smouldering in his character were almost extinguished', and 
 he became "the 1 mere creature»i of his own selfishness. His 
 tastes, natural an^ acquired, weie expensive ; and it' yas to 
 gratify them that he desired wealtlj» His uncle's was a fortune 
 quite sufficient, he thought, if undiVided; bujhalf of it would 
 only aggravate the evil.;- it would give him the inclination 
 without the ability to live the life that pleased his faj^jte He 
 was therefore resolved to secure the w^ole of it if pOT^le> or 
 at least more than an equal share ; and he, sincerely ^||bved 
 that a union with Fanny Vincent, besides gratifying his love, 
 would secure that end. 
 
 It is frequently said that men exhibit, in' the pursuit of trivia.1 
 or evil objects, talents and energies which, usgi for honora^e 
 purposes, would secure thera>.^minent sWcess ; and it is often 
 lamented that great abilities should be thus wasted or debased. 
 But all to whom this is a source of sorrow may dry their tears, 
 for they are mourning without a cause. We are not author- 
 ized to infer from the fact that a man shows great acuteness in 
 one department of human effort, that he would be equally 
 remarkable in another; for the same ingredient in the composi- 
 tion of his pharacter which fits him for the one, may unfit him 
 for the other. Our intellectual philosophy is not, and perhaps 
 never can be, so perfect as to enable us to weigh with pi!|- 
 cision the exact influence which any propensity niay exercise 
 upon the strength and direction of the whole mind ; but we do 
 know that every faculty and passion which a man possesses goes 
 to make up a total whose manifestations are the external lines 
 of his character ; and, if we were right in the Cheory with which 
 4 
 
74 THE GLENNS. 
 
 we commenced this narrative, the withdrawal or diminution 
 of any one of these constituents would entirely change the man. 
 The tendency to evil, then, which we so much lament in some 
 men, may be the very force which gives them rnl' energy and 
 ingenuity they exhibit in its pursuit — if they had it not, or if it 
 were overcome, they might be very common men — and at the 
 very best, we should be disappointed in our expectations of 
 great good or great success to follow their change of life. 
 ThoSe%ho have been much about^" houses of correction for 
 youthful offenders," are familiar with' this truth; for hundreds 
 of instances are daily occurring, where boys who have, exhibited 
 great energy and ability in the prosecution of evil, have become 
 mere dolts upon the repres&ion of their vicious tendencies ; be- 
 cause it was precisely in these vicious tendencies, that their 
 energy and ability consisted. ■ * 
 
 It is unquestionable, that men who have 'exhibited great in- 
 tellectual power in the prosecution of evil, have sometimes 
 reformed their lives and displayed equal ability in the pursuit 
 of good ; but he who reasons correctly upon human character 
 — that is, arguesfrom what we do and can know, by analogy 
 to that which we cannot fathom — in all these cases will con- 
 clude, that the tendencies to good and to evil were originally 
 equal, and that accident of education gave the first develop- 
 ment. Or it may be, that the very life of crime and violence 
 wihich preceded the reformation, has served to give tone and 
 temper to energies afterwards so efficient for good. In none of 
 these cases can it be said with any probability of truth, that the 
 organization whose talents have been wasted on evil objects, 
 has been reclaimed by altering the direction of those same 
 tailents. Without the capacity for virtue in at least an equal 
 degree with the tendency to vice, a reformation involves the 
 necessity for a total subver^on of the ipi'tellectual powers — ira- 
 beciUty or even insanity would invariably follow such reclama- 
 tion. Gunpowder may be deprived of its explosive quality by 
 mingling water with it : it is thus incapable of doing harm ; but 
 you have attained that end only by depriving it of its energy, 
 rendering it also incapable of good. And so it is with the 
 human mind : a change in its nature — or a forced suspension 
 of its natural manifestations, which amounts to the same thing 
 involves the destruction of its force. And it may always be 
 safely decided, that if the energy continues no change has taken 
 place — just as, if after you had cast water on the gunpowder it 
 should still explode, you would correctly infer that the moisture 
 had not acted upon the composition sufficiently to change its 
 character. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ^ Our doubta ftr& traltoM, 
 
 And mfrke us loose the good we of e might win. — HbakvRk f OB Measitrx. 
 
 Let's take the instant; by thie.forward top.^Al.i.'0 Wli^ that Ends Wxli.. 
 
 I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs. — Richard II. 
 
 Strong reasons make strong actions. — KiRG JoHlr. 
 
 Om the morning after his cousin's visit to Fanny, of which he 
 of coiirse knew nothing, Henry was sitting as usual in the front 
 room of his office. He was alone, looking even more haggard 
 than on the day befor.e. As then he was endeavoring to force 
 his mind to pursue its ordinary course of thought. Papers and 
 books were scattered about the table by which he sat, and a 
 pen lay loosely between his fingers. Once or tw^ioe he»put it 
 to the paper ; and drawing his chair closer, with the' air of a 
 man who is determined to perform an unwelcome task, he 
 succeeded at each effort in tracing two or three lines, in broken, 
 unsteady characters. But this was the extent of his success ; 
 after each effort he paused and seemed lost in thought. At 
 last he threw down the pen, making a large blot in the very 
 middle of his paper, and, pushing his chair impatiently back, 
 rose and went out. He was gone but a few moments, and was 
 followed on his return by a man carrying a basket, in which 
 were about a dozen bottles of wine. The man set them on the 
 table in the back room and went away without speaking. At 
 the same moment James Glenn entered. 
 
 "You do not seem well this morning," said he, as he ad- 
 vanced, and without ceremony took a seat. " You look pale 
 and exhausted ; what is the matter ?" 
 
 " Only a little nervousness, I believe," Henry answered. ^' I 
 have been trying to write for an hour, but my hand is so un- 
 steady that I. cannot do it, I have just ordered," he continued, 
 rising and passing into the other room, "a dozen of sherry, 
 which I hope will make my nerves firmer. Will you not join, 
 me?" 
 
76 THE GLENNS. 
 
 As he spoke, he drew the ooirk from one of the bottles, and 
 with a trembling hand poured almost half its contents into a 
 heavy cut-glass tumbler. ^ 
 
 '' Come," he said, "pour for yourself — you know how." 
 
 " You are nervous, indeed," said James, as without waiting 
 for him, Henry raised the glass with a trembling hand to his 
 lips, and drank the wine at a draught. " And you are evidently 
 not drinking for the taste, but the effect." 
 
 " I have been so much harassed of late,'' said Henry, " that I 
 have hardly slept one-tenth of rhy usual time ; and loss of sleep 
 shatters the nerves terribly." 
 
 " I am somewhat nervous this morning myself," James 
 observed, sipping the wine, and holding it between his eye and 
 the light with the- air of a connoisseur, " but this wine will 
 correct that admirably. It is too early to drink much-^ — but 
 your prescription is a judicious one. Do you feel that it relieves 
 you ?" ■► 
 
 " Very slightly," said Henry, " though the quantity I took 
 would usually half intoxicate me ?" 
 
 " The most of its strength," said James, " is expended in 
 supplying the nervous force, exhausted by loss of sleep. Per- 
 haps another glass might make the nerves firm. Shall 1 pour 
 for yofl ? " 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, he drew the cork of another 
 bottle, and pouring a glass nearly full, handed it to Henry. 
 
 " Drink off and fill up," said Henry. 
 
 " No, I will only fill up," James replied, suiting the action 
 to the word ; ■' T am not so exhausted as you are." 
 
 They both drank slowly, and then returned to the front room. 
 Henry, being unaccustomed to such indulgence, was already 
 flushed by the wine ; and though not exactly intoxicated, 
 James could see that it had the effect he expected. His eye 
 was brighter, and his lips, which a few minutes before had been 
 pale and almost ashy, were now full and red. His nostrils 
 were dilated, denoting quickened circulation ; and as he laid 
 his hand carelessly on the table, James could see the blue veins 
 distend, and grow as if suddenly injected. 
 
 " You must have been very nervous indeed," said James, 
 looking at the crooked and unsteady writing on the table. 
 
 " I was," said Henry, " and have had enough to make me so." 
 
 " Something out of the usual course must have occurred," 
 James suggested, "to have affected you in' this way." 
 
 '' Nothing very unusual," said Henry. ■* I have been be- 
 trayed — that^ all — and that certainly is not so uncommon I" 
 
A FAMILY mSTORY. 77 
 
 " Not very,'' James replied. " But can I be of any service 
 to you ? Or is it a matter of wiiich you would ra.ther not speak 1" 
 
 " It is no very pleasant topic," Henry said ; " but you will 
 understand rtiy feelings — read that note 1" 
 
 As he spoke he opened a drawer in the table, and taking out 
 a note which James at once recognized, handed it to him with 
 an averted face. 
 
 " Shall I open it ?" said James. 
 
 " Certainly: read it." 
 
 James opened it, and slowly read as follows : 
 
 " Mr. H. Glenn: After what has passed, justice both to you 
 and to myself, requires that I atonce terminate our engagement. 
 You will therefore understand that from this day it is at an end 
 in form, as I fear it has been in substance for a long time. My 
 reasons for coming to this resolution I must leave to yourimagir 
 nation, s&tisfied as I am that, since you understand my feelings 
 so well, you cannot fail to divine them-. 
 
 " Your letters, and the few personal ornaments which I have 
 been foolish enough to wear for your sake, I do not entrust to 
 the hand that bears this, because I hold them in trust for you, as 
 your property, and do not consider myself authorized to part 
 with them, except to an agent chosen by yourself. If you will 
 send my miniature and letters, you will receive yours in return. 
 After that, if we should ever meet, I trust it will be with no 
 enmity ; for, I assure you, I have no cause to feel any. 1 now 
 feeiyree, and to say that I am grateful would but feebly express 
 what, fills my heart. I can only hope that you are equally 
 happy. " Fanny Vincent. 
 
 " Wednesday Morning, 8th." 
 
 '' That's cool, upon my honor I" exclaimed James, looking 
 again curiously over a letter which he had carefully perused 
 before Henry ever saw it. ■' She underscores three very signi- 
 ficant word«. What do you take her meaning to be in empha- 
 sizing the word ' sefid' ?" 
 
 " That she does not wish to see me in person," said Henry. 
 
 " But what has induced her to take this step ? Can you, as 
 she says, imagine her reasons V 
 
 '' She has sold herself to Eversham,'' said Henry roughly. 
 
 " And in the begiiming here," said James, " I suppose she 
 refers'to some, knowledge -you had gained of the fact 1 Or does 
 she leave it thus vague in order to create the impression that at 
 all events she thinks herself justified '!" 
 
78 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " God knows what she means !" said Henry : " I neither 
 know nor care. It is sufficient for me that I have treated her 
 well and that she has treated me shamefully, for a shameful 
 purpose. She has wished to marry this widower for some time ; 
 and had I not been a fool, I might have seen it." 
 
 James rose suddenly from his chair with a flushed face, and 
 crushed the letter in his hand. 
 
 " I will see to that 1" he mattered between his teeth, striding 
 impatiently from one end of the room to the other. 
 
 " What interest have you. in the matter ?" suddenly asked 
 Henry, flushing in his turn, as if in anger. 
 
 '' None under Heaven I'' replied James recovering himsfelf, 
 " apart from my indignation at the treatment you have received ; 
 for I think, with you, thart it is shameful. Except, however,'* 
 he added, reseating himself, " that 1 have no reason to love this 
 Eversham at the best ; and to see him thus undermining one 
 so near to me as you are, looks almost like' following np old 
 injuries with new insults." 
 
 " I do not think he is so blameable as she is," said Henfy ; 
 " few men would resjpt such a temptation." 
 
 " You are right, I believe," James replied, after a moment's 
 thought, " and I was too hasty. But, Henry, when I see an act 
 likfe this, I cannot avoid feeling indigjiant." 
 
 " Every man of honor feels in the same way," said Henry. 
 
 " Yes; and the manner in which she insults you at the close 
 of this precious document shows that the result has been of her 
 own seeking- She ^hopes' you may be equally 'happy,' when 
 the very fact of her underscoring ' hopes' shows that she did not 
 believe it ; and, besides, if she had hoped so, :she would not 
 have exulted over her '■freedom' as she does I" 
 
 "Let me have it I" said Henry; and taking it angrily, he 
 tore it into a hundred little pieces, and threw them in an excited 
 manner on the floor. James sat looking oomplacently on. It 
 was a -consummation he devoutly wished; indeed, he had once 
 almost taken the resolution to tear it himself, under cover of 
 ungovernable indignation. He would have done so had he 
 dared ; for the underscoring of the words, which gave the letter 
 such significant meaning, was the work of his own hand ! 
 Fanny had written it with the feeling of wounded pride str6ng 
 -upon her. She thought she was only doing what Henry 
 wished ; and she was anxious to conceal, .from him of all the 
 world, the fact that his indifference touched her heart. This 
 feeling had dictated the closing lines of her letter ; but to give 
 them significance by emphasizing even one word, had never 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 79 
 
 entered her mind. She desired only to write such a letter as 
 would answer her purpose of terminating their engagement, and 
 and at the same time would enable her to bury in her own heart 
 the bitter grief which she would not have revealed for worlds. 
 The letter had been taken to James, and by him opened. With 
 the devilish cunning 'vfrhich distinguished him, he had only 
 drawn four dashes with his pen, leaving every word- as it was 
 written, and yet deepening immensely, if not totally changing, 
 the meaning of the whole letter. This* done, he had resealed it 
 and sent it on to its destination. He was, therefore, not sorry 
 that it was destroyed ; and he was the better pleased that 
 Henry had torn it under an impression which could- never be 
 removed by referring to it again. ' 
 
 A pause of some minutes ensued, which was broken by 
 James: 
 
 " Have you sent her the miniature and letters ?" he asked. 
 " Not yet," Henry answered ; " but I will to-day or to- 
 morrow^." 
 
 " And whom have you chosen for the ' agent' she speaks of?" 
 " No'one, as yet. Indeed, I am at a loss whom to select. I 
 want to find some one willing to do me such a service, upon 
 whose secresy I can depend.. For, to have my private feelings 
 the familiar topic of indifferent people; would be an aggravation 
 whicti I could not endure." 
 
 " It would be an aggravation, indeed !" said James. " But 
 are you willing to trust me V 
 
 " I will be very glad to do so, if you will undertake the com- 
 mission," eagerly replied Henry. 
 
 " Undertake it ? Certainly," said James, " and be as secret 
 as the grave I I know how publicity would affect you." 
 
 ■' I would rather trust you- than any one else," said Henry, 
 " because you are near to me, and would feel more deeply inte- 
 rested in saving my feelings. I will get the things iogether 
 to-day and give them to you this evening. You can t^n take 
 them to her at your own convenience." 
 
 " Is there anything you would wish me to say to her ? For 
 if there is nothing special I would rather just make the 
 exchange and come away." 
 
 " No, nothing," said Henry, " not a word more than is 
 necessary." 
 
 " You can think of it, hoWevei:," James suggested ; " perh^ 
 something may occur to you that you may wish said. The 
 
 maybe some mistake — some misunderstanding " 
 
 " No !" said Henry decidedly, interrupting him, " she has 
 
 n is 
 
 4 
 
80 THE GLENNS. 
 
 chosen this course deliberately, fully understanding her position. 
 I do not wish to be compromised by even hinting the possibility 
 of a mistake." 
 
 '' I will avoid that, you may be sure," said Jiames ; " I only 
 made the inquiry that I might understand my commission, and 
 take no false step." 
 
 " I do not fear any such thing," said Henry rising, and, with 
 an unsteady step, walking into the other room. " Let us finish 
 this bottle." 
 
 As he spoke, he poured its contents into two glasses, and 
 handing one to James, put the other to his -lips and drank it pflF. 
 James followed .his example, and setting the glass down, turned 
 to leave the room. ' ^ 
 
 " You will come in again this evening, James V said Henry, 
 drawing aside the curtains and sinking upon the couch. 
 
 " Yes," James replied, " and in the meantime you had better 
 try to get some rest. You look flushed and fatigued." 
 
 But Henry was asleep almost before the sentence was finish- 
 ed ; fatigue and wakefulness, assisted by the wine he had taken, 
 doing their ofiice quickly. James gazed smilingly at him for a 
 few moments, cast his eyes at the disordered bottles on the 
 table, took one of them and set it on a chair beside the bed, 
 overturned several others, and placing a glass with a little wine 
 in the bottom on the chair beside the bottle, he turned and left 
 the ofiice. His object in thus disordering the room the reader 
 will understand, when we tell him that James had just time to 
 cross the street and turn into a retail store, when his Uncle 
 Abram came round the corner above, and entered the office. 
 James saw him througli a window, before which he stationed 
 himself, talking indifierently to the " dealer in fancy dry goods," 
 but closely watching the opposite door. 
 
 As soon as Abram had entered, James issued from the shop 
 and followed him. As he sauntered idly in, his uncle was 
 stand^, with intense displeasure in his expressive face, at the 
 door oTthe back-room, casting his eyes sharply from one object 
 to another, and listening to the heavy breathing of the sleeper 
 before him. He turned as he heard James' footfall on the floor. 
 The latter started as if he had not expected to see him, and his 
 bearing immediately became more alert. 
 
 t" You are in early, uncle," said he, as if surprised. 
 " Earlier than I was expected, it would seem," said Abram, 
 a tone which satisfied his nephew that his stratagem had 
 been successful. 
 
 "How so?"^James asked, innocently. " Ah 1" he added. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 81 
 
 hastily, as Abram stepped aside and pointed to the disordered 
 array. " What ! Wine ? This was not intended for your eye, 
 uncle." 
 
 " I suppose not," said Abram, bitterly. " I suppose not." 
 James took the bottle from the chair and held it over the 
 glass — it was empty ! He set it carelessly on the table, and 
 lifted the others upright ; re-arranging it thus, within a minute he 
 had the room in the same order it had displayed when Henry 
 fell asleep, 
 
 " It is of no use, James," said Abram, as he watched him 
 until he supposed he understood his motive. . " Better let |iim 
 put it to rights himself, since its disorder is a consequence of 
 his own viciobs habits." 
 
 " But some one may come in," said JameSj deprecatingly ; 
 " and for the sake of the name, if not for Tienry's, I would 
 rather not have the room seen in such disarray." 
 
 He opened a low press, as he spoke, and set the bottles and 
 glasses away. He then drew the curtains gently around the 
 couch and closed the window. 
 
 " You are right, James," said his uncle kindly ; -•' though he 
 does not deserve your consideration." 
 
 " But, Uncle Abram," urged James in a low voice, " any one 
 may be overcome thus occasionally, and I do not believe this is 
 a habit with Henry." 
 
 " To drink to intoxication during business hours, without 
 company, alone, and then, leaving his office in this condition, to 
 fall into a plethoric sleep, is a little too much for even your 
 powers of excuse, James !" 
 '• But, uncle — " 
 
 " I want to hear no more about it, James I" 
 " Shall I wake him, then ?" 
 
 " No, let him sleep it off! Come; let us close the door, and 
 at least save him from publicity." " 
 
 They passed out together, and Abram closed the door. With- 
 out speaking to- his nephew, he turned away towards ' the 
 Glen.' 
 
 '' I thought the old codger would be down this morning," 
 thought James, " though he nearly came too soon !" 
 
 Henry had failed to keep his appointment with his uncle on 
 the night before, and James knew it. When Henry fell asleep, 
 therefore, James — knowing that Abram would be down to as- 
 certain the reason of his nephew's non-appearance — suddenly 
 conceived and promptly acted upon the thought, to disgrace 
 Henry in eyes, to which, as recent events had shown, he was 
 
82 THE GLENNS. 
 
 growing too dear. Uncle Abram scarcely ever came down 
 so early by an hour ; and it was only his anxiety about Henry, 
 consequent upon their conversation of the preceding day, that 
 so nearly made him too early for James' purposes. 
 
 "1 must be in luck," thought James; "I just 'saved my 
 distance,' notwithstanding the old fellow's unusual early rising; 
 and — " his mind wandered back to the interview of the nig'ht 
 before. He thought of the manner in which Fanny had re- 
 ceived him — of the successful expression of his feelings— ot the 
 • impression he must have made of his delicacy and disinterested- 
 ness^. And looking to the future — thinking of the fate in store 
 for him — he raised his head, and with a smiling face, walked 
 slowly away down the street. 
 
 What -wrere his precise plans, or whether h© yet had defined 
 them even to hmiself, we cannot say. Probably his object in 
 offering himself as Henry's friend and agent, was to possess 
 himself completely of his cousicn!s affairs, and secure ground, 
 from which he would be able to operate in any direction that 
 might become necessary. By undertaking this negotiation, 
 also, he w^ould be the better assured that his plans would not be 
 deranged, or his stratagems discovered, by any intercourse be- 
 tween the estranged lovers, unknown to, or not directed by, 
 himself. It is probable, likewise, that he did not intend to offer 
 the exchange of letters which Fanny had requested,- unless he 
 found it necessary to exasperate her still more, and tliu,? the 
 better prepare her to listen to his own addresses. It was one of 
 his maxims, never to decide upon his course, until he had ex- 
 amined every circumstance which was likely to have any bear- 
 ing upon his action ; and accordingly, when he received the 
 letters from Henry at the appointed time, and prepared to visit 
 Fanny, he had not definitely resolved to offer them, or. not to 
 ofifer them — preferring to see her first, and trust to his own 
 quickness of perception and presence of mind, to suggest the 
 course most expedient. 
 
 Henry had no messages to send, and be left him, despondent 
 but relieved — for he felt that, though it was a step wliich sun- 
 dered them forever, it was at least a decision, a solution, thouoh 
 a painful one, of the difficulties, which surrounded him. 
 
 ''Just give them to her," said Henry, "and receive mine in 
 return :, I have not a word further to say." 
 
CHAPTER <^lll. 
 
 Hojs. I will hear further r ason for this. 
 
 lAGO, And yon Bh&ll b« satisiied.— Othello. 
 
 Tell me whab more thou knawesk.— Lsar, 
 
 Thou hast Raid enough. — Rzohard II: 
 
 Out of my Bight ! Thou dogfc infect mine eyes,'— Richard III, 
 
 How, with mine honor, may I give hini that' 
 
 Which I have given to you. — TwiLfth Night. 
 
 Fannt Vincent was not a faultless heroine, perhaps — except- 
 ing for the purposes of this history — not a heroine at all. Had 
 she been without perceptible fault, no man, whether like or 
 iinlilie Henry Glenn, could ever have loved her. Moral perfec- 
 tion is always insipid when it is not monstroois ; -and a woman 
 whose character lies upon the dead level of either uniform 
 excellence or the opposite can never excite an emotion of 
 personal' interest in the breast of man. The faults of human 
 nature are to its virtues what the setting is to the jewel; as the 
 gold enhances the lustre and makes available the beauty of the 
 gem, the failings of men heighten the glory of their good deeds 
 and, by furnishing a measure of their excellence, give force to 
 their example and efficacy to their goodness. It is thus that the 
 absence of evil becomes an evil in itgelf ; and though we can 
 never fathom the infinite philosophy which controls its ministry 
 to good, we can still understand that stagnation, even in perfec- 
 tion, would be a great moral, as it is a great physical, curse. 
 The agitation of evil is as necessEiry to the great moral ocean, 
 as is the tossing of the waters by the winds of heaven to the 
 material deep-: and both are ordained for similar purposes of 
 purification. . 
 
 Men do not reason upon these things in taking their impres- 
 sions ; but from a dead flat, in human character- as in all other 
 thiiigs, they shrink with instinctive dislike. And thus, we say, 
 had Fanny Vincent been faultless, she never could have won the 
 love of any true man. She was not so, however; she had 
 passions ill-regulated, feelings falsely biased, and sentiments 
 
84 THE GLENNS. 
 
 distorted by injudicious training and unfortunate social aiid 
 domestic position. The admiration given tier iiad not quite 
 turned her head, for her character was balanced by a fund of 
 strong native sense, but it had given her an exaggerated esti- 
 mate of her own deserving, and of the obligations of the other 
 sex. 
 
 Most women con.sider a man little better than a barbarian, if 
 he fails to surrender at discretion to any of the blandishments Of 
 " the sex ;" and yet, if their charms happen to be used a little 
 unwarrantably, and the captive chances to be sacrificed to his 
 gallantry, their verdict is unanimous, — that he has only received 
 what he deserved, for yielding to that which they would have 
 pronounced him a savage for resisting. 
 
 Fanny was One of this ' peculiar Way of thinking. She 
 believed that her own rights had been unjusfiflably invaded, 
 and that treason had been committed against the' sovereignty of 
 " the sex." What was mainly a wound to her personal feel- 
 ings was deepened by this consideration, and what would other- 
 wise have been only sorrow, became also indignation. She was 
 more unhappy, too, because she was not certain that she had 
 not acted more hastily than the occasion warranted. She 
 believed it still possible that an explanation might be made, — 
 that some unfortunate mistake had caused the estrangement 
 between herself and Henry, — and that she had taken, without 
 proper deliberation, a step that was, not to be retraced. Her 
 mind was, therefore, in that unsettled state upon which is pre- 
 dicable any extreme, according to the first impulse given. Should 
 Henry come into her presence wth his arms extended, she 
 might rifsh into them with extravagant confide«ice ; or, should 
 any one assure her that he no longer loved her, and that she 
 had acted wisely in discarding him, she might, for the time, 
 erase his image utterly from her heart, and cast' her.self without 
 hesitation upon the breast of him who gave her the assurance. 
 
 It was, therefore, not wholly without prospect of success that 
 James prosecuted his suit, for it lay in his power to be before 
 any other man in giving her this assurance, and no one could 
 be less inclined to withhold it from any scruples of honor. 
 When, accordingly, after he had received the package of letters 
 from Henry, he entered the room where she was, it was with a 
 resolution to watch closely the manifestations of her feelin-o's 
 and, without regard to the rights or interests of any one but 
 himself, to say and do whatever he found most conducive to his 
 success. 
 
 Fanny was standing at a window, leaning with one arm upon 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 85 
 
 the sash, and gazing abstractedly out upon the little garden, 
 where her father and Eversham were pacing slowly up and 
 down a santjed walk. Her eyes^-red and feverish, perhaps 
 with tears, or it niight be from not weeping — were fixed upon 
 a rose-bush waving gently in the evening wind, and were only 
 raised when, at intervals, the forms of the gentlemen passed 
 between it and the wintlow. Then, with a strange expression 
 of mingted interest and aversion, they would rest for a moment 
 upon the figure of Ev-ersham, who was unconscious of the 
 scrutiny, and as he vanished. among the trees, they fell _again 
 upon the waving bush, while an impatient curl upon her lip or 
 a half-angry flush, seemed to indicate that her thoughts in that 
 connection were anything but pleasant. To this unquiet look 
 gradually succeeded one of deep sadness, of self-reproach it may 
 be, until again broken by the return of the two gentlemen, who 
 walked very slowly ; and then, with a start, came back the 
 sudden flush and disdainful curl. 
 
 James could not help observing this expression — half interest, 
 half scorn — as he entered the room after knocking unheeded for 
 a long time, and it at once startled him into watchfulness. He 
 glanced out at the other window and saw Eversham and 
 Vincent. 
 
 " Humph'." he said, loud enough to attract her attention. 
 She turned suddenly round, and he advanced towards her. 
 " Good evening," he said. " I knocked several times*, and 
 receiving no answer, supposed you might be temporarily 
 
 absent " 
 
 " In mind, I was," she sa,!d with a faint smile. 
 " But," continued James, " I was unwilling to return without 
 discharging my commission, and so took the Uberty of entering 
 unbidden." 
 
 " No apology is necessary," she said, hastily. " Did you say 
 you had a commission to perform,'!" 
 
 " I wish I could say you have misunderstood me," said he, 
 mournfully; " but I cannot say so." 
 
 '' If it is as serious as your countenance seems to" indicate," 
 said she, with a melancholy attempt to smile, '• the sooner it is 
 executed the better." 
 
 '' Perhaps I overrate its importance,'' said James ; '' but it 
 certainly is not pleasant either for you or me." 
 
 " It concerns us both, then V she said inquiringly. 
 " It affects you directly," he replied, " and me only through 
 my interest in you. Were my feelings towards you less warm, 
 I should have less difRo.uIty in executing it." 
 
83 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " Tell me'wbat it is, and let me help you," said Fanny, with 
 another sorry smile. 
 
 " If I could do so/' he said " the difficulty would be already 
 overcome. But unfortunately before telling you, I shall be 
 compelled to touch upon subjects which I fear may not be plea- 
 sant to you — to ask questions which, without explanation, would 
 seem impertinent. But you will forgive mie, I trust, When I 
 tell you that worlds would not tempt me wantonly to wound 
 the slightest of your sensibilities." 
 
 "I hope it is so," she said, a little reservedly — adding, after a 
 pause, " and I believe itf* But can you not give me a hint of it 
 before you ask these formidable questions, so that I may know 
 how to answer them V 
 
 " I can tell you thus much," said he, after a minute's thought ; 
 " the message I have to deliver is from my cousin Henry." 
 
 Although this was precisely what she had expected, she 
 turned ashy pale at the mention of Henry's name, and trembled 
 so violently that she was obliged to sink into a chair. She 
 motioned James to another, and in a low, faint voice, said — 
 
 "Pardon my rudeness: 1 had forgotten to invite you to a 
 seat. You must think me very weak," she continued, after a 
 pause, during which James sat looking at her with an interest 
 far from unreal ; '' but -my nerves have been a little shaken re- 
 cently, and — - " 
 
 " I know what you would say," James interposed, observing 
 her hesitate ; " I know what your feelings are, and am not sur- 
 prised that ths mention of that name should so affect you." 
 
 She looked suddenly up at him, and her eyes began to kindle 
 as with rising anger. Whatever she might think of Henry's 
 treatment to herself, she felt indignant the moment a stranger 
 insinuated a censure. But James went on — 
 
 '' I know nothing," said he, a little hurriedly, " of the his- 
 tory of your relation to him, and I do not wish to inquire into 
 it further than you are willing to allow me. I have undertaken 
 an unpleasant duty, which only the pleasure of approaching you 
 induced me not to decline. But, even for the sake of doiug 
 what I have promised to do, I will not ask a question without 
 your permission." 
 
 " I cannot prevent you asking," said she, looking keenly at 
 him, " though I may answer or not, as I please." 
 
 " Certainly," said James ; " I have no right to expect more 
 from you than you are perfectly willing to give — nor, if I am 
 right in my conjecture, has my cousin Henry." 
 
 " What is your conjecture?" she aslted quietly. 
 
A TAMILY HISTORY. 87 
 
 " That his conduct was such as to leave you no alternative 
 but to discard him ■without delay ; and that the impression he 
 makes upon the minds of his friends is not perfectly consistent 
 with truth." , . 
 
 " What impression does he make 1" she asked, almost in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " Pardon me," said James, shrinking back as if J^e had un- 
 consciously gone too far, " I do not know that I ought to tell 
 ycu." 
 
 '' But you must."' she said, leaning^forward and looking into 
 his eyes as if she would tear the secret from his heart. 
 
 " I can refuse^oM nothing I" he said, as if vexed at his own 
 weakness ; " and for that reason ought not to have msentioned 
 it." 
 
 " But having mentioned it," she persisted, without changing 
 her attitude, '' you must go on and tell me all." 
 
 " Will you not let me choose what I shall tell you 1" he 
 asked, " because ' all ' may include something unpleasant — and 
 nothing but your own command would, induce me to wound 
 your feelings." 
 
 " All, all ! Tell me all/" she said impatiently. 
 
 " Indeed, there is not much to tell^ — '—" 
 
 " Keep back nothing I" she interrupted, almost fiercely. " I 
 mil know distinctly what impressicn he dares to make !'' 
 
 " Be calm," said James soothingly, " I will tell you anything 
 you ask, and do anything you wish. Perhaps I Was wrong to 
 say Henry makes the impression " ' " 
 
 " Do not attempt to excuse him I" she exclaimed. " Tell me 
 simply the facts !" 
 
 " Well," said James, as if at last resolved, " the facts are 
 these : All his frieiads have received the impTession that, 
 though the overt act which terminated your engagement came 
 from you, yet he had purposely so acted as to force you to it ; 
 and I have myself heard him say, rather significantly, and in 
 connection with this matter, that when a gentleman desires such 
 a consummation, it is his duty first to give the lady an oppor- 
 tunity of bringing it about." 
 
 It Very proper indeed !" she said slowly. Her head drooped 
 to her breast, and the blood rushed to her face, suffusing it with 
 almost a crimson hue, but the next moment it retreated to her 
 heart, and left her pale as death. Her lips were compressed 
 firmly together, till they were even ashler than her cheeks ; but 
 her teeth were slightly open, denoting more of scorn than anger. 
 She rose from her chair, and laid her feverish hand on James' 
 
88 THE GLENNS. 
 
 shoulder, slightly stooping, and looking into his eyes with a 
 steady, withering gaze of stone. 
 
 " If you have told me the truth," said she, in a deep whisper, 
 " this cousin of yours is worse than, a murderer ! If you have 
 told me a falsehood, God may forgive you, but I will not I" 
 
 '' I ought not to have told you,'' said James, taking her hand, 
 and leading her away from the window. " Nothing but your 
 own command could have induced me so to wound you." 
 
 " Why should you care I" she exclaimed, almost rudely. " Is 
 not this man your cousin ? And what am I to you 1" She 
 snatched her hand away fern him, and throwing herself into a 
 chair, motioned him sharply to another. 
 
 "What are you to me?" he said abruptly, but earnestly. 
 " All I all ! All that I aspire to, all that I desire, all that I love .'" 
 '"What!" she exclaimed, with a sneering, sardonic laugh, 
 " another Glenn lover ! Another I " 
 
 " Even so ! " said James, throwing himself upon an ottoman 
 at her feet, and repossessing himself of her hand. '' Even so I 
 and my Glenn blood huntibles me now to the dust!" 
 
 " Another ! Another I " she repeated, still gazing absently 
 at him. 
 
 " Yes ! Yes ! " he said impetuously. " But oh ! different, 
 far different to the last ! A lover indeed ! One who looks to 
 you for all that he hopes and wishes-^for all he expects to be 
 or to have — who loves you better than himself, better than his 
 life, better than his God I One whom, you can trust in pros- 
 perity, in adversity, through every change of fate or years 
 One who will love you through life, unto the very gates o: 
 death — and then will go with you to that unknown land, which 
 wovtld, which could, be only a desert without your presence 
 Fanny, let me compensate you for the wrong that has been donf 
 you ! Let me show you what the love of a true heart can be 
 Let my truth outweigh the falsehood of others — let my devotioi 
 give you peace, and love, and happiness I Go with me away 
 away to some far off land, where all shall be novel and full o 
 new associations — where nothing shall remind us of the false 
 hood we have left behind us — where there shall be no inciden 
 to our lives but what is pleasant, and where no breeze shal 
 blow but will add to our bliss! Would not such a fate bi 
 happy 1 Will younot consent — now, now, while I swear th 
 vovre that shall never be broken 1" 
 
 " You go too fast ! " said she or.rtly. " You forget that 
 have just been outraged beyond bearing. This is not a fi 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 89 
 
 time for such language, even if it were proper to be used at 
 any tinje." 
 
 " Forgive me,'' said he, more temperately. "But to a love 
 like mine all times and seasons are alike ; for there is never a 
 moment that it, does not burn ; it may be smothered and sup- 
 pressed for a time, as it has been by unwillingness to trespass 
 upon what I deemed the right of another. But now the 
 pressure has been removed, and you must forgive nf^ if it leap 
 up with a fierceness proportioned to the length and sternness 
 of its confinement." ^ 
 
 '' I fear your language is too figiira^ve for sincerity," said 
 she, withdrawing her hand from his grasp and pushing her 
 chair slightly back. " But, however sincere you may be, this 
 is not a proper time to urge me in this way y and I may as 
 well say now, in order to save myself further annoyance .'' 
 
 " Annoyance ! " he exclaimed, starting from his seat. 
 
 " that it will be fruitless," she contmued, without 
 
 noticing his exclamation, " to renew the subject at any future 
 time. I am partially engaged to another already, and before 
 the end of the summer will be married." 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed, grasping her by the arm. " What.'" 
 
 " I shall be married," she repeated, " before the end of 
 summer." 
 
 '' May I ask," said James, recovering himself, and speaking 
 in a tone of suppressed sorrow," whosa happiness it is that con- 
 stitutes my misery '!" 
 
 " You may ask," said she, giving him a hard, relentless smile, 
 " but you will probably get no answer." 
 
 "You are avenging yourself upon me," he said suddenly, 
 " for a wrong done you by another.'' 
 
 '' It gives me no small pleasure," she replied, frankly, 
 " in my present state of mind, to have some one to torture, 
 certainly." 
 
 " If it gives you pleasure," said James, ftjwing his head as 
 if in submission, " I can endure it patiently." 
 
 " This is too much I " said Fanny impatiently. " Let me be 
 understood at once — for I feel that the indulgence of such a 
 passion is not only unamiable, but criminal. If you really love 
 me, it will J be much better for us to part at once ; for I can 
 never love you. This ought to be sufficient ; but I will tell 
 you further : as I estimate my obligations, it would be impro- 
 per for me to listen again to such language. Probably before 
 to-morrow night my hand will be pledged to another ; and, I 
 
90 THE GLENNS. 
 
 tbink, when I can seriously contemplate this in conneetion 
 with one man, the time has passed for listening to any other." 
 
 James stepped hastily to the window, cast his eyes out among 
 the trees where Eversham and her father were still walking in 
 the dusky shadows. He then turned his eyes significantly upoli 
 her, as if to fathom her secret with a look. 
 
 " I see what you mean,'' said she, " but must leave you to 
 time and your own penetration." 
 
 " You are to be his second wife, then V sneered James. 
 
 " Whether it be so or not," she answered, with a kindling 
 eye and a raised voice,*f?f I will not endure insult !" 
 
 " I see," said James, with teeth almost closed. " The woman 
 discarded by a soulless 7vui, is about to Ifhrow herself into the 
 arms of a marrowless widower \" 
 
 " This is too brutal !" she exclaimed, springing to the door, 
 and throwing it open. " I will not endure it — begone !" 
 
 He had missed his mark — his policy Was overacted, and he 
 saw it. He attempted to take her hand, and was even about to 
 sink to his knee before her. But it was too late. 
 
 '' Begone !" she repeated. " Away ! I will not endure your 
 presence for a moment!" 
 
 James rose to his feet with a look which told the bitterness 
 in his heart ; and pas.sing out without a word, saw her close the 
 door scornfully behind him. Her eyes flashed and her lips 
 curled with intense ang«r, as she walked firmly across the room, 
 and seated herself at the piano. 
 
 " My God I"ilBhe exclaimed, as if from the fulness of her 
 heart. " This is too, too much I To be spurned by one and in- 
 sulted by another, of the same family too !" 
 
 She leaned her head upon her hands, which rested upon the 
 rack of the instrument, and sobbed violently for some minutes. 
 When she raised her head, her eyes were redder and more 
 swollen, but there were no traces of tears — these had all been 
 shed many hours Before. Her face was calm, too, though Very 
 sad ; and when she touched the keys, the answering notes were 
 sweet and soft. The storm of passion had passed away, but the 
 succeeding calm was as sad as death. 
 
 She was still at the instrument, when the door was opened, 
 and Eversham and her father entered — the former with the 
 stately tread and self-satisfied bearing which distinguished him, 
 and the latter with the obsequious manner which he always 
 showed to a man of wealth. 
 
 " Pray, continue," said Eversham, as Fanny rose from her 
 seat. ■' Do not let us disturb you." 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 91 
 
 " I am tired," she answered simply, and crossing the room 
 took a seat at the front window. 
 
 " Why, Fanny," said her father, " I have not heard the in- 
 strument five minutes I" 
 
 '' I am tired, nevertheless," said she, and turned her eyes to- 
 wards the road, where tiiey became fixed. She seemed totally 
 unconscious of the presence of any one — gazing intently into 
 the depths of the darkening forest opposite, and drumming softly 
 upon the glass with her finger?. A few words were spoken in 
 a low tone between Evershara and heriather, and then the latter 
 quietly left the room. The former rose and approached the 
 place where Fanny stood ; and though she could not have heard 
 his noiseless motions, she stepped aside as he eanle up without 
 looking round, and made room for him beside her. She ceased 
 drumming, too, and her eyes fell to the ground under the win- 
 dow, as if she were listening for some expected sound. She 
 had not heard her father go out, and yet she knew lie was gone ; 
 she had not heard Eversham approaching her, and yet she knew 
 that he was doing so. We are often thus placed in circum- 
 stances when we know what is about to happen ; and we act 
 Upon the foresight almost without thinking. 
 
 Eversham took her hand from the sash where it was resting, 
 and with a gallantry rather awkward carried it to his lips. She 
 looked lip into his face, upon which were shining the last rays 
 of the waning twilight, as if to inquire what he meant — or 
 rather to await what she knew was coming. She neither spoke 
 nor withdrew her hand, but stood in silent expectation. 
 
 " Miss Frances,'' he commenced 
 
 " My name is Fanny, not Frances," she interrupted, calmly. 
 
 " Well," said he, blushing scarlet, " Miss Fanny, then. You 
 recollect that a few days ago, iii this very spot, I told you " 
 
 " I remember it," she interrupted again. 
 
 " Then I need not repeat it," said he 
 
 " Not if it be any trouble," she interposed. 
 
 " Trouble I" he exclaimed, with more vivacity than he had 
 yet exhibited. " On the contrary, the highest pleasure I" 
 
 " Repeat it, then, by all means," said she. 
 
 " Can I hope that if I do, it will be received favorably, — that 
 you will not refuse to listen? " 
 
 '■ Try me," said she, curtly. 
 
 " [ am endeavoring to do so, Fanny," said he, almost in 
 despair, " but you seem to be in such a humor as to forbid it." 
 
 " You might possibly find that, for your purposes, the most 
 favorable humor I could be in," she said, without looking up. 
 
.92 THE GLENNS, 
 
 '? God grant it 1" he exclaimed, fervently. "God grant that 
 I may call this hand mine ! Will you not let it be so '!" 
 
 " I am not God," said she. 
 
 " No," said he ; " but it rests with you to make one of his 
 creatures the happiest of men, to exert one of the highest powers 
 He has given to a human being, to lift a man to the highest 
 pinnacle of earthly blessedness I'' 
 
 '' What man ?" asked Fanny. 
 
 " The man who now ho;ds your hand — myself." 
 
 " How can I make you the happiest of men 1" 
 
 " By giving me this hand — by '' 
 
 " You have it already in your own," said she, smiling. 
 
 " Yes ; but to keep — to be my own, with her to whom it 
 belongs, forever I" he exclaimed desperately, as "if" driven to 
 the wall." 
 
 " In other words,'' said Fanny, coolly, " you wish to marry 
 me. Am 1 right 1" 
 
 " Yes ; to be mine, now and " 
 
 " Your wife, you mean," said she. " Why not speak plainly. 
 I hate figures and exaggerations of every kind." 
 
 " I will speak plainly, then," said he. " Will you be my 
 wife ?" . ' 
 
 " I will," said she firmly, with her voice a little raised. 
 
 "Then " He attempted to clasp her in his arms, but 
 
 she sprang suddenly away. 
 
 " Hold '." she exclaimed. '' If I am to be your wife, you shall 
 respect me. There will be time enough, God knows, for such 
 things, when they shall have become unavoidable. In the 
 meantime, 1 insist upon being treated as if we were mere every- 
 day friends. 1 will permit no liberty, even to you I" 
 
 " As you please,'' said Eversham ; " so you only promise to 
 be mine, I am content.'' 
 
 " That I have already promised," she replied ; " and, now, I 
 would rather be left alone." 
 
 " I will leave you immediately," he said. '■ Will you not 
 allow me " attempting to kiss her. 
 
 No, sir I" she said firmly. " There will be enough — quite 
 enough — of that hereafter. This," she continued, extending 
 her hand, " this is yours — be satisfied with it. Good night!" 
 
 He took the hand and, carrying it to his lips, turned to the 
 door and was gone. On the verandah he met Mr. Vincent. 
 
 " What news?" asked the latter. 
 
 " Good !" said Eversham, " She has consented," 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 93 
 
 " Give me your hand !" exclaimed the delighted fatffer : and 
 the two shook hands warmly. " Has she fixed the time ?" 
 
 " No," replied Eversham ; "I would not urge her to-night. 
 I will leave that to yon : only, let it be soon." 
 '' I will see to it. Good night." 
 
 Eversham went his way almost as much delighted as on that 
 night, some four years before, "when Mrs. Bates entered his 
 study and announced that the first Mrs. Eversham had just 
 departed, " cursing the whole world, and her husband in parti- 
 cular." The future father-in-law entered the house and sought 
 his " fortunate daughter." He found her lying at full length 
 upon a sofa, her face buried in her h'ands, sobbing as if her 
 heart was bursting with grief. 
 
 " My daughter ! My dear daughter ! " he exclaimed in 
 astonishment. " What is this V 
 
 She did not seem to heed him, but gradually grew calm. 
 After some minutes, spent in entreaties by him, and in silence 
 on her part, she rose and wiped her eyes. 
 
 " You must not be surprised, father," she said faintly, " to 
 see me thus : I have just promised to be Mr. Eversham's 
 wife — ' his second wife,' as James Glenn said." 
 
 "I know it, my dear," said he. "But surely that is no rea- 
 son for grief;" 
 
 " That is past now," said Fanny, rising and crossing the 
 room two or three times, " and I do not wish to be questioned 
 about it. Let it be sufficient that I have promised to marry 
 him. That promise I will fulfil ; and," she added a little bit- 
 terly, " since that is what both you and he wish, you ought to 
 be content without urging me further." 
 
 ''1 do not urge you my daughter," said he deprecatingly. 
 " Mr. Eversham told me as he left, that no time had been fixed, 
 and I only came in to ascertain your wishes." 
 
 " I will fix that to-morrow. I must be alone, now. 
 She took up a candle as she spoke, and slowly left the room. 
 Her father walked pensively up and down the floor several 
 times, and then followed her. His wishes were gratified ; 
 but it was not without misgivings that he thought of the 
 future. 
 
 EKD OP BOOK FIRST. 
 
BOOK SECOND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Pot now I stand as one upon n rock 
 
 Environed ,with a, wilderneis of Eea.-^TlTua ANDlLOKicufl. 
 
 Here are a few of the unp]ea,9anb'st words 
 
 That ever Hotted paper. — Mxrchant or Tekioe. 
 
 The sacrifice was determined upon; it only remained that 
 the victim should prepare herSelf for immolation and appoint a 
 day for the ofTering. Resentment, pride, and wounded vanity, 
 had done their work — love was forgotten, hope cast away, and 
 truth disregarded, A step — the most important in a temporal, 
 perhaps in an eternal, sense, that can be taken — was decided 
 upon under the influence of disappointment and passion ; a pure, 
 though wayward heart, was to be given into keeping where it 
 could find nothing for which it longed — where its life could be 
 but one long death, and all that was good and pure must be 
 ground out of it by the endless pressure of remorse. 
 
 But the victim had chosen her own fate ; and though within 
 an hoar after her pledge was given she began to feel nvisgiving, 
 as if she had chosen rashly, she yet determined to pursue the 
 path of her choice. She had staked her life, and love, and all 
 her prospects- — and with a courage derived from despair, she 
 resolved to " stand the hazard of the die." 
 
 On reaching her chamber, she set the candle down and 
 walked to the window. Before her, sleeping in the moonlight, 
 lay the wood within whose shadows she had heard' and re- 
 peated the first words of love — within which also had occurred 
 the first estrangement between herself and him she loved. 
 The night was calm and still — no wind was sighing through 
 the trees, no waving bush nor rustling branch disturhed the 
 quiet ; and as she threw up the sash and leaned upon the sill, 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. ' 96 
 
 she could hear the tinkling of the little etreainiet as it ran 
 across the road and glistened in the moonlight. She bent her 
 head to listen, for in her loneliness the quiet was oppressive, and 
 even the voice of the tiny brook relieved the solitude. But 
 this was soon forgotten — for she remembered whence the glit- 
 tering waters came. In fancy she followed the path along its 
 banks, and climbed again the smooth green slope on which the 
 ancient elm was growing ; and fpr a moment she allowed her- 
 self to think how happy she had been — how happy she might 
 be again — with Henry at its foot. But sternly she dismissed 
 the thought ; for just beyond that wood — nay, at the foot of 
 the same path — lay her future home. There as a loveless wife, 
 ill-mated with a man of thrice her age, she must spend the 
 w^eary years — perhaps impatiently awaiting his decease as he 
 had waited the departure of its former mistress ! 
 
 " Can this be so 1" she asked herself. ." Have I consented 
 that my life shall be a long imprisonment, and this glorious 
 world a dungeon?" 
 
 But other thoughts succeeded, good and bad. And if visions 
 of the wealth he was to give contributed to reconcile her to her 
 fate, let us not remember it against her ; for she gazed upward 
 to the jeweled sky, so calmly shining down, and, as compensa- 
 tion for the woes of Time, looked forward to the treasures of 
 Eternity. Her face, beautiful and holy in its sorrow, grew 
 composed, though not less sad : for it was Death on which she 
 built her hop2S. 
 
 She turned away from the window, and walked pensively to 
 and fro across the room. Her arms were folded gently on her 
 breast and her eyes were fixed upon the floor. No sound broke 
 in upon the stillness of the midnight, — no form was moving near, 
 except the lonely, stricken girl, — she and her shadow in the 
 mirror walking pensive, side by side, with even pace and equal 
 quiet in the dusky room. At last she paused before the table, 
 on which stood a rosewood writing case, almost the only relic 
 of her parents' wealth. She threw open the lid and, as she did 
 so, cast her eyes upon the mirror opposite. She was startled to 
 see how pale and thin, yet stern and firm, she looked ; for the 
 lineaments of her face grew darker in the lamplight, and the firm- 
 ness of heriook was deepened into sternness. She gazed at the 
 reflected figure in the midnight stillness, as it stood and, in 
 return, regarded her reproachfully, until a sort of nervous, inde- 
 ' finable dread took possession of her mind, such as sometimes 
 seized even the firmest when, in the haunted loneliness of the 
 night, the fancy gives significance and shape to unremembered 
 
96 THE GLENNS. 
 
 objects. But the next moment she closed the case, and, with a 
 sort of defiant sneer npon her face, walked steadily up to the 
 very front of the mirror, as if in desperation to seek the thing 
 she dreaded. But it was not from shadows that the dangers to 
 here peace were coming; she curled her lip in scorn at the 
 reflection of herself^ and turning with a contemptuous gesture, 
 again approached the table. She stood a moment with her 
 back turned towards the mirror ; but she could not avoid looking 
 over her shoulder : she walked quietly around the table and took 
 her stand again directly opposite. 
 
 She opened the writing-case and took out a package of letters. 
 Drawing a chair to the lable, and disposing the lamp so as to 
 throw the light upon them, she seated herself and began to read. 
 JLietter after letter and line after line she read, and laid succes- 
 sively on the table. Beginning with the first note, making in 
 formal terms, some common-place appointment, through the 
 gradually increasing warmth of casual letters, to the significant 
 personalities of a recognized though not acltnowledged lover, 
 she traced the progress of the correspondence. At last, she 
 came to the first written after their explanation, full, for several 
 pages, of the. warmest expressions of devotion and radiant with 
 anticipations of a happy future. On this she dwelt for a long 
 time, reading and re-reading, as if to engrave upon her heart 
 each word of love. Her eyes were filled with tears, but they 
 did not fall ; iier eyes became dim, and the letters danced upon 
 the page; she wiped away the moisture, -read it slowly once 
 again and, with a heavy sigh, returned it to the table with the 
 otheft, She read no more, but covering her face with her 
 hands, leianed her forehead, hot and throbbing, on a book which 
 lay beside them. It was a present from Henry, but she thought 
 not of that ; remorse and wounded pride were busy at her 
 heart. Here Maria found her in the morning, — not sleeping, 
 but unconscious of the hours and careless of all else. 
 
 * * * * * * # 
 
 In the evening, on the day following James' unlucky visit, 
 the cousins were again together. Henry sat quietly awaiting 
 James' pleasure, with the air of a man who had nothing to ex- 
 pect, and was therefore careless of what might come. He 
 asked no questions, expressed no anxiety, felt no impatience.. ■ 
 His countenance was cold and calm, his feelings not excited, his- 
 manner undisturbed. Indeed, in this respect, he contrasted^' 
 favorably with his cousin ; for the latter, tho>|^h perhaps not 
 agitated, was somewhat disquieted ; and recent passion, t)nly 
 smothered, not subdued, had left its traces on his features. His 
 
A FAMILY HisToay. 97 
 
 manner was unsettled, too, and whatever he grasped, his fino-ers 
 closed around it until the hlood retreated from their joints. His 
 dress, usually neat and well arranged, was carelessly put on, a.nd 
 evidently neglected ; while a hard, cold glitter in his eye, gene- 
 rally so calm and bland, denoted whence the disarray proceeded. 
 Yet his self-possession was not lost ; and he was now about to 
 execute a plan, which he had formed in the b tter hours of the 
 night before — a plan which would require both courage and 
 dexterity. He threw himself uneasily into a chair as. he en- 
 tered, and removing his hat, thrust back his hair impatiently 
 from his forehead. 
 
 " You slept at ' the Glen ' last night,, I believe," said he. 
 " How is Uncle Abram ?'' 
 
 " He is well," said Henry simply. '' He went home, but an 
 hour ago." 
 
 " Did he dine in town 1" asked James, a little startled. 
 
 " Yes, with me, at the ' American.' " 
 
 James reflected for a moment with his eyes bent upon the 
 floor. He had hoped that this would not come about so soon 
 again ; but dismissing the thoughts of the future, he thrust his 
 hand into his pocket and drew out a paper. It was a note 
 which had been given to him but an hour before by Billy Bates, 
 and was addressed to Henry in the hand of Fanny- 
 
 '' You must have been at dinner when I called," he said. 
 '■ Here is a note which I should have delivered sooner. Read 
 it, and I will then" give you an account of my visit." 
 
 Henry took it calmly iu his hand, and after examining the 
 address, opened' it, and read as follows : — 
 
 " Mr. H. Glenn : I have written you one note requesting 
 the return of my letters, but have not yet received them. I 
 write now to repeat the request. Will you be good" enough to 
 send them to me immediately ? lam so situated, that it would 
 be improper to leave them outstandrhg. •, 
 
 Respectfully, F. Vincent." 
 
 The underscoring was again Jameste ; giving the phrase a sig- 
 , nificance which the writer never intended. 
 v^' «" You did not offer the exchange 1" said Henry, looking up. 
 ■ No," said Jarnes — " the reason T will give you directly. 
 , aat does she say ?" 
 
 Henry handed him the note in silence, and James read it as 
 carefi^Uy^if ^ tod not thoroughly conned it less than two 
 
 fo sitmted,' " he repeated, "' that it would be im- 
 5 
 
98 THE GLENNS. 
 
 proper to leave them outstanding.' Do you know the meaning 
 of that 1" 
 
 " I might guess," said Henry. " What interpretation can 
 you give ''." 
 
 '' That, being about to marry another," James ansvirered, '' it 
 virould be improper to leave such letters in the hands of a former 
 lover. I can see no other reason for underscoring this phrase t" 
 
 Henry rose from his chair, and walked several times across 
 the room ; while James betook himself again to the note. 
 
 '' This is what I suspected," said Henry at last, stopping in 
 front of James, and taking the note to read again. " Did you 
 see or hear anything to confirm you in this explanation 1" 
 
 " Yes," replied James. " When I entered the room, she was 
 so absorbed in watching Eversham from the windo\y — (he was 
 walking in the garden with her father) — that she did not ob- 
 serve my entrance. And afterwards — I suppose in order that 1 
 might tell you — she made me understand that she is to be mar- 
 ried to him within a very short time. Her mode of communi- 
 cating the information^ — the insolent triumph of her look and 
 tone — made me angry, I resolved, then, that I would not give 
 her the letters until I saw you again. I was unwilling to assist 
 so much heartlessness even so little as that." 
 
 " Did she tell you distinctly that she was engaged to Ever- 
 sham t" asked Henry, halting before James, and crushing the 
 note in his hand. 
 
 '' Yes," replied his cousin; " and when in my afiger I hinted 
 at the infamy of becoming the second wife of a man thrice 
 her age for the sake of his wealth, she only laughed at me." 
 
 " You did right in coming away," said Henry, 
 
 " But," continued James, " this is not the only reason I had 
 for not giving them to her. She told me she was anxious to 
 get her letters, and even had the assurance to consult me as to the 
 propriety of sending to you for them. T answered simply, that 
 I would take a note to you if she wished ; and she went out to 
 write it, while I remained in the parlor. She had been gone 
 but a few minutes when I heard her returning along the hall. 
 Near the door she was stopped by, I think, Maria Bates, 
 and between them ensued a whispered consultation, of which I 
 accidentally, though not unwillingly, overheard two or three 
 sentences. They spoke so low, however, that I heard nothin> 
 very distinctly, and perhaps ought not to have mentioned that 
 I heard anything in that manner. But I could not avoid get- 
 ting the impression — whether I heard correctly or not — that 
 you were only to receive enough of your letters to induce you 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 to surrender the whole o£ her's. What the remainder were to 
 be retained for you must conjecture — possibly to amuse herself 
 and her husband during some of the dull hours of which their 
 married life gives such excellent promise !" 
 
 " That is too infamous !" exclaimed Henry. '' Heavens I 
 how could I be so much deceived !" He threw himself into his 
 chair, and covered his face with his hands. But by a strong 
 eflfort he recovered his self-command. 
 
 " Advise me," he said, in a voice husky with grief and pas- 
 sion ; " what shall I do ?" 
 
 '' Keep her letters by all means for the present," James an-, 
 swered. " So fong as you retain them, she will not dare to 
 expose yours." 
 
 '' I will do so," said Henry, " Let her keep mine if she will, 
 and either amuse her purchaser with their perusal, or ensure 
 her own unquietness by exciting the dotard's jealousy!" 
 
 " The latter is the more likely of the two," said James, " if 
 she ever shows them to him. But that she will not dare to 
 do." 
 
 " She will always have a skeleton in her house then,'' said 
 Henry, " and will live in constant fear of his detecting the 
 secret." 
 
 " No very enviable life to look forward to," said Jatnes, with 
 a devilish smile, which was, however, scarcely more than a 
 reflection of that upon the face of his cousin. 
 
 '' She has made her ow^n bed — let her lie down upon it," said 
 Henry. " I shall do nothing more." 
 
 " What shall I do with the letters 1" James asked. 
 
 " I will call for them some time, or when you think of it 
 bring them with you here." 
 
 It was so arranged, and James left him. 
 
 James's immediate object in this cautiously told falsehood, 
 was to excite his cousin, and thus induce him to retain the 
 letters. What his ulterior designs were, will more fully appear 
 hereafter. It was not without some twinges of conscience 
 that he reflected upon his course, as he gained the privacy of 
 his ofRce, and rested his head upon his hand. Once or twice 
 he was almost resolved to return to Henry and repair the 
 Avrong. But to the intense selfishness of his nature — which 
 alone would probably have prevented his yielding to the im- 
 pulse — was now added another over-mastering passion. He 
 had reflected upon the means of securing Fanny's hand — a pos- 
 session which hi? recent repulse had only made him more deter- 
 mined to obtain ; and the end in view required, as he thought, 
 
100 THE GLENNS. 
 
 this course. To the fierce love he had conceived, was now 
 added the force of wounded vanity, and, a motive still stronger, 
 the ambition to overcome an obstacle, the natural feeling of 
 opposition. Combined, these were too much for any virtuous 
 impulse that could visit one of his selfish character; his ruth- 
 less determination returned with increased power. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 And TiaionB, aa poebic eyeg avow, 
 Bang on eooh leaf and clini; to every bocgh.^ 
 Rouse yourself! and the weak wanton', Cupid, 
 Shall from your neck unloose hie amorous fold. 
 And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane, 
 3e shook to air. — Troilvs and Cressida. 
 
 ' Several weeks passed away, during which nothing occurred 
 materially to affect the course of our story. Fanny's approach- 
 ing marriage with Eversham had become known, through some 
 of those undiscoverable channels which always convey such 
 information ; and when questioned, she had not taken the 
 trouble to contradict it. "Workmen, were even busy about " The 
 Mansion," as Eversham's residence was called, and the pro- 
 prietor spent most of his time at Mr. Vincent's, Althougli 
 even here he saw but little of his future bride — she improving 
 the few days of liberty yet remaining to her, by denying her- 
 self to him as to all others — there was still a pleasure to his 
 doting mind in being in the same house with her. And 
 although, when they unavoidably met, she treated him with a 
 coldness and hauteur which would have alienated any younger 
 man, he still as eagerly sought these brief interviews as if he 
 had been received with marked aflfection. The approaching 
 alliance was the staple of conversation in all the circles of tlie 
 place ; and many a one, regardless of age, of circumstances, of 
 every antecedent, would have flown to meet a fate which was 
 to Fanny worse than death. She was the talk, the wonderj 
 and the envy of all the neighborhood ; and none imagined even 
 the possibility of her shrinking from a bridegroom so wealthy 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 101 
 
 and distinguished ; none, with perhaps two exceptions. Her 
 father could not avoid seeing her dejection, though for a weelt 
 or two he was so elated by the consummation of his wishes, 
 that he could think of nothing else ; and, when at last it forced 
 itself upon him, he obstinately endeavored to close his eyes 
 against the knowledge. James Glenn was the other excep- 
 tion. He was far too penetrating to be deceived into the idea 
 that she had engaged herself to Eversham because she loved 
 him. That step was to him only a confirmation of his theory, 
 that " women are mast easily caught on the rebound;" and he 
 only cursed his fate that he had not been in the way, instead of 
 Eversham, when the '' rebound" took place. Through Maria 
 Bates, too, whom he did not relinquish, he had means of 
 watching Fanny's private life ; and though Maria did not 
 understand the force of what she told him, James was not so 
 dull. He knew that Fanny was unhappy ; and was certain 
 that the source of her disquiet was to be found in a step taken 
 rashly, under the influence of resentment and wounded pride. 
 As for Eversham, he never dreamed that any woman could be 
 otherwise than delighted with his alliance ; and had he known 
 what had induced Fanny to betroth herself to him ; had ha 
 even been' able to fathom the depths of an outraged love, he 
 would still have thought it strange that any '' mere feeling" 
 could influence a scale into which wealth and high position had 
 been already thrown. Nor w^ould his anxiety for the alliance 
 have been at all diminished ; for he was of that class of men 
 w^ho strive to cheat themselves and others into the belief that 
 they are youthful yet, even when the shadows from the vale of 
 Death are falling at their feet, and the damp currents that 
 blow upon them from the grave have already chilled their 
 blood. 
 
 Affairs were in this posture about six weeks after Fanny's 
 luckless betrothment, when we again take up the story. 
 
 We have already directed the attention of the reader to a 
 gentle elevation, over which the road passes, about one mile 
 west from the centre of the little city where these scenes are 
 laid. It is not large enough to be called a hill, and too large 
 and too gradual in its rise to merit the name of knoll. It is 
 only a swell in the ground, pushing itself and the surrounding 
 lands some two hundred feet above the general level of the 
 country, and after the manner of our western scenery, sloping 
 gradually away in all directions to the plain. At the foot of its 
 southern slope, down which you go through green lanes and 
 waving meadows, runs a shallow stream ; and on the banks of 
 
102 THE GLENNS. 
 
 this, extending two or three hundred yards up the slope, is 
 growing a wood, composed of oak, and elm and hickory trees, 
 the largest of which stand on the outskirts, dotting the land 
 before you enter the forest, and preceding it like the officers 
 upon parade before a regiment of infantry. 
 
 Beneath these the sward is smooth and green, encumbered by 
 no undergrowth, and only broken here and th«re by the gnarled 
 roots of the giant oaks, whose convolutions are pushed above 
 the sod. Between the meadows and the stream, a little nearer 
 to the latter, where sometimes in the freshets the water touches 
 its foundations, stood, and yet stands, an old but well-preserved 
 brick house. Around it some twenty acres were enclosed in 
 groimds, on which had then been spent but little time and labor. 
 But to compensate for this neglect, the natural beauty of the 
 rolling landscape was covered by primeval trees, and broken 
 here and there into small ravines, within which sunlight scarcely 
 ever penetrated ; while on the higher ground the stately forest, 
 with its brood of younger trees, rose clearly from the level 
 sward, and opened through its mazes many a vista, green and 
 peaceful. The southern bank of the little river rises boldly 
 •almost from its margin, leaving scarcely space enough for the 
 winding rustic fence, which marks now, as at that time, the 
 boundary of the grounds; and, drooping over the rooks and 
 hiding like a curtain the sand and pebbles of its rain-washed 
 surface, are growing vines and scented briars. Here grow the 
 largest blackberries, the finest raspberries and most luscious 
 grapes ; and here, during all the summer months, resort the 
 young people of the town to gather fruit, to luxuriate within the 
 deep shade, to exchange tokens and whisper words, the sweeter 
 for being spoken in the woods. Always open to these pleasure 
 parties, and often entered by them, is the mansion — for so, by its 
 dimensions and appointments, does it deserve to be named. It 
 is a large quadrangular building, two stories high, with very 
 large window.s, a tall portico leading to a wide hall door in the 
 centre, and a flat roof surrounded by low parapets of stone. 
 The bricks were once painted of a slate color, but now upon 
 the front but little of this is seen ; for, growing under each 
 window and on both sides of the door, are many varieties of 
 climbing flowers and creeping vines, trained along the wall and 
 even running over the parapet above, until the whole front 
 presents a surface of unbroken green. Between the house and 
 the wide front gate, which is reached by a broad gravelled walk, 
 stand the native forest trees, thinned out, yet left in sufiioient 
 number to form a screen beneath whose foliage- the hall door 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. , 103 
 
 is visible from the road which winds along three hundred yards 
 in front. 
 
 In all the open spaces, though not in profusion or extrava- 
 gance, are growing roses and laburnums ; while, in the places 
 where the larger trees have been uprooted, willows and eatalpas 
 have been planted. Along the front extends a row of maples, 
 set some thirty years ago, and though not nearly so tall as the 
 surrounding forest,, now grown to stately trees. Their rich 
 green faliage contrasts most pleasantly with the deeper colors 
 of the oaks and walnuts, and blends harmoniously with the elms 
 and hickories. 
 
 Such is " The Glen" now, and such, with few changes, has 
 it been for twenty years. This is not a very long period, it is 
 true ; but it should be borne in mind that we are writing of a 
 scene in one of the Western States ; and, whatever it may be 
 in older countries, here a period of twenty years is a very large 
 segment of the circle which we name existence. At the end of 
 that time, scarcely anything remains as it was in the beginning, 
 and it is only in such places as we have described that its lapse 
 leaves aught to recognize. The child grows up to manhood 
 and the man goes down to childhood ; the open prairies are 
 enclosed, and new plantations grow to ancient places ; green 
 mounds are raised above the dead, and merry children gather 
 flowers from the sod, unmindful of the dwellers Underneath ; the 
 hum of busy life invades the peaceful solitude of wastes prim- 
 eval, and the waves of 'immigration break iipon the shores of 
 rivers which have run in haunted silence from the morning of 
 creation. And all in twenty years'. 
 
 Such, then, was '■ The Glen " — the residence of " Uncle 
 Abram" — on a pleasant afternoon in still September. The sun 
 was two or three hours past the meridian, and the shadows of 
 the trees were slowly creeping towards the east. Long lines 
 of sunlight streamed along the open vistas of the wood, or 
 slanted in among the trees and gilded bright the inmost leaves ; 
 while now and then some prematurely withered leaf was loosen- 
 ed by the quiet wind and, whirling slowly, sought the ground. 
 The waters of the rivulet were sparkling where the sunlight 
 touched them, and from its crystal surface was reflected back 
 the foliage that overhung its tide, or dancing, broken by the 
 ripples, every leaf was multiplied to many. A quiet breeze was 
 blowing, but only making vocal in its sighs the early autumn 
 stillness, and wafting on its fluttering wings a perfume sweeter 
 than of spring. It was one of those "soft, shadowy days" 
 which come upon the spirit like a memory, — when a melancholy, 
 
104 THE GLEKNS. 
 
 light as the haze which hangs upon the atmosphere, delicious as 
 the air of Paradise, descends upon ns like a veif, and maUes us 
 
 " Joy to breathe the groTes, toman tie and alone," 
 
 Upon the sward, near the foot of a large oalc, James Glenn 
 was reclining. He was a little paler than when we last, saw 
 him, and the sternness round his mouth was more perceptible ; 
 while from his eye, even in repose, with the ebb and flow of 
 thought came flashing now and then the fire of unextinguished 
 passion. He held a book in his hand, but it was evident that 
 he had read but little, for his finger held it open at the first page 
 and his eye wandered from it to the front gate, as if expecting 
 some one who was long in coming. He had walked out from 
 town an hour before to seek his cousin, who was now in con- 
 versation with his uncle but a few paces from him. They were 
 walking slowly to and fro beneath a row of trees, and Uncle 
 Abram was speaking earnestly. 
 
 " My son,'' said he, (using a phrase which he employed only 
 when he was thoroughly in earnest^ " it is time that you were 
 casting off thismelancholy : it is feeling utterly wasted, to brood 
 over so small a loss. Life has too many noble sources of enjoy- 
 ment to be sacrificed so lightly. It is quite true that you have 
 been betrayed ; but, instead of encouraging de.spondenoy, you 
 should feel glad that something intervened — no matter what-^ 
 to save you from such a fate as union with a woman so light 
 and false. You have lost what you deSmed a treasure ; but, in 
 fact, you have only escaped a curse." 
 
 '' It is not so much the loss of her, uncle, that I regret — for 
 God knows, that is rather a gain ! It is the poverty of feeling 
 it entails upon me — the loss of faith, and the melancholy lesson 
 of suspicion I have learned, that I am grieving for." 
 
 " A hard lesson indeed I" said Uncle Abram. " But one 
 which you must have learned at some time, had you not ac- 
 quired it now. Faith in maa's truth, even though it be without 
 foundation, is a blessed thing ; and its loss a misfortune greater 
 than the privation of wealth. But, Henry, one experience 
 should not be taken as the rule. Time was, when I tholaght as 
 you now think. Yes," he continued after a pause, " this girl's 
 mother was as well beloved, as beautiful, and as false, as she ; 
 and her treachery darkened the whole earth to me, as it is now 
 
 darkened to you. For years I believed nothing in the world 
 
 I had no faith in men — I thought all were venal, false, and 
 hollow. I even forgot God's justice, and no longer believed'in 
 retribution. But, Henry," — the old man's voice trembled with 
 
itf FAMILY HISTORTf. 105 
 
 emotion, as he raised his hand and placed it on the shoulder of 
 hi? nephew — " when I stood beside that woman's grave — where 
 with her were interred the hopes and fears, the ambition and 
 the disappointment, of a miserable life — when I looked back 
 upon the ten or twelve years preceding, and remembered how 
 falsehood and vanity had brought sorrow and an early grave, I 
 recognized the Hand of Wisdom and Eternal Justice ; and when 
 she was lowered into the tomb, I buried with her all my bitter- 
 ness. With my faith in God, came back my confidence in 
 man ; and Henry, since that day I have been a happier as well 
 as a better man ! Faith should not be lightly given up ; for in 
 the years before you, even though you should be doomed like 
 me to live a life of solitude, it will give strength to your spirit, 
 and comfort to your heart." 
 
 " If we could only keep it " 
 
 " We can — we can I" the uncle earnestly broke in. " The 
 will has power to command belief. The mmd will yield to re- 
 solute determination ; and the sternness, that frowns away a 
 doulDt, will give the soul a force that nothing else can impart I 
 You have strength of will enough — withdraw your mind from 
 gloomy thoughts, bend the power of an earnest purpose to the 
 task, and trust me, Henry, you will succeed." 
 
 " I will try," said Henry ; "but " 
 
 " But you doubt of your success," his uncle interrupted ; 
 '■ and to drive away that doubt is the very first step in the pro- 
 cess I Dismiss it resolutely, keep your mind employed, and 
 time alone will bring relief." 
 
 " I will try," he repeated. " I have thought of travelling for 
 a few months, perhaps new scenes and faces might assist me in 
 regaining what I have lost." 
 
 "Not at all," said Abram quickly ; "not at all! One who 
 travels to forget, will %e always conscious of his purpose, and 
 every change'of scene will only be a new memento of that from 
 which he flies. No, no. Sit resolutely down to conquer ; do 
 not attempt to fly from your misfortunes, for their sources are 
 inherent in your mind — yon would carry them with you, where- 
 ever you might go ; and the vacancy of travel would only give 
 them time and opportunity to flow. Bury yourself in the law, 
 there is no employment in which one can so perfectly conceal 
 himself from everything external ; spend a year or two thus, 
 and if you do not come out victor, the case is hopeless." 
 " A year or two !" Henry exclaimed. 
 
 " It seems a long probation, I know," said Abram. " But is 
 it not better to devote even so long a time as that, in driving 
 5* 
 
106 THE GLENNS. 
 
 out a demon, so that you may possess your soul in quiet for the 
 rest of life, than to give it np to him till he seat himself within, 
 arid there remain forev.er t And, besides, time seems much 
 longer in the prospect than in retrospect. Two years will fleet 
 over like a summer cloud ; and, ere you have taken cognizance 
 of its passage, it will be down on the horizon. How like yes- 
 terday appears two years ago ! And yet between the day 
 which seems scarcely gone, and the day now passing over us, 
 lie a thousand thoughts, the memory of numberless events, and 
 untold myriads of changes ! You are no more to-day the man 
 you were two years ago, than you will be two years hence the 
 man you are to-day. And in these changes is there found no 
 hope to one so young as you ? Believe me, Henry, this cannot 
 last — a life cannot be given to regret ; and sorrows are like all 
 other earthly things : they come and go and are forgotten. 
 They may temper and subdue tlie spirit — they may leave a 
 shadow on the heart — but on the whole we never can be sure 
 that their effects have not been beneficial." 
 
 Henry made no reply ; he was silenced, if not convinced. 
 Abram seemed absorbed in recollections which, perhaps, dis- 
 proved his theory ; for his eyes were bent upon the ground, and 
 memory was busy among the images this conversation had 
 evoked. They walked to and fro in silence for some minutes, 
 when their attention was attracted by the opening and closing 
 of the gate at the end of the walk. At the same moment 
 James, whose eyes had for a long time been fixed in that direc- 
 tion, rose from his recumbent posture, and closing his book, 
 walked slowly forward. A few steps from the gate he met 
 Billy Bates, who carried a letter in his hand. 
 
 '■ You have been a long time coming, Billy," said James. 
 
 " You told me to give you time to get here, and I did so," 
 said the boy, briefly. ' 
 
 , " Yes, and to have gone bade again, too, had I been so dis- 
 posed. But never mind, you are in time. He is yonder, under 
 that row of oaks ; go and give it to him, and then wait outside 
 the gate."- 
 
 " Why not inside V asked Billy. 
 
 " Because I do not wish it," said. James, sternly. 
 
 The boy looked at him inquiringly ; not in fear, for Billy was 
 by no means timid, and, besides, he knew his power ; but archly 
 and even derisively, as if to show how absurd he thought it in 
 James to assume this lofty bearing with him. He made no re- 
 ply, however, but did as he was directed, walking quietly up to 
 Henry, and handing him the letter. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 107 
 
 " Here's a letter for you, sir," said he, " from my sister 
 Maria." 
 
 Had Henry looked at the boy, he would have seen a flicker- 
 ing smile upon his face, which told plainly as words could 
 have done, mat he penetrated the disguise, and was not un- 
 willing to show it. But Henry was too much agitated to 
 observe anything, except the writing of Fanny Vincent. Uncle 
 Abram turned away, not wishing to intrude his presence then, 
 and, leaving Henry alone, Billy returned to James, who was 
 still lingering near the gate. 
 
 " Wait here, now," said James, " until I come bade." 
 
 " Shall I go out, or stay inside, sir V asked the boy, with 
 another of those derisive looks. 
 
 " Do as you please," said James ; " only don't leave till I 
 return." He hurried away as he spoke, and the boy stretched 
 himself luxuriously upon the grass, and gazed into the tree- 
 tops with the vacant look of careless, youthful enjoyment. 
 
 As James approached the place where Henry was still 
 standing, he slackened his pace and bent his eyes upon the 
 ground, as if absorbed in thought. The crushing of the gravel 
 under his feet, however, attracted his cousin's attention. 
 
 " James I " said Henry. " I want to advise with you a little. 
 Will you walk a few steps with me 1" 
 
 " Another letter I see," said James, joining him and walking 
 by his side down the slope towards the rivulet, 
 
 " Yes," Henry said, handing it to him ; " read it." 
 
 James took the open paper and read as follows : 
 
 " Mr. Henry Glenn : Early in the morning of the day 
 after to-morrow, 1 shall be the wife of another. Letters of 
 mine can, therefore, be of ' no value to you ; and it would be 
 improper in me longer to retain yours. I have written to you 
 rhore than once asking an exchange, but without success. I 
 now make a final effort, and hope that no unworthy motive 
 may be allowed to influence your action. I will send yours 
 the moment you signify your willingness to give mine in re- 
 turn ; and I hope you will do so before to-morrow night. 
 
 " Respectfully, F. Vincent." 
 
 " Tuesday, Sept. 15." 
 
 " Umph ! " said James, as he finished reading a document 
 which' £e ^A, however, anxiously perused two hours before. 
 " She is lietooming anxious — for her time is growing short. 
 Why does she not send your letters to you at once 1 Why 
 
108 THE GLENNS. 
 
 wait till you signify your willingness to exchange ? It seems 
 to me like a threat — if you keep hers, she will k-eep yours." 
 " Did you observe the first sentence 1" Henry asked. 
 " Yes — I suspected that before, from the repairs of Ever- 
 sham's house being so hurried ; the workmen are to finish this 
 evening. Let us sit down here," he continued, seating him- 
 self upon the bank of the stream. " What do you intend to 
 do ?" 
 
 " That is what I want to advise with yon about," said Henry. 
 " I have been guided by your counsel so much in this affair, 
 that I feel incompetent to move without it." 
 
 It was true ; James had been so constantly by his side for 
 several weeks, had entered so completely into his feelings, and 
 apparently so thoroughly sympathized with his perplexity, 
 ^at he had been rendered indispensable in almost every step. 
 James knew this well, and was resolved to use his power. 
 He now leaned his head upon his hand as if in thought, though 
 his course was decided before he left the town. 
 
 " It is an affair of some delicacy," he said at last, raising his 
 head, and speaking as if arguing the question in his own mind. 
 " But, after all, yOu have been so scandalously treated, that it is 
 not difficult to decide how far you would be warranted in listen- 
 ing to the suggestions of resentment." 
 
 " I have been scandalously treated, it is true," said Henry, 
 "but revenge is not in my power, if I desired it." 
 
 " No," said James — " at least, not complete revenge. And 
 if it were, it would involve more injury to her than you would 
 •wish to do." 
 
 '' It would, indeed I " said Henry. 
 
 " But," continued James, "it seems to me that in anything 
 you do, you should be careful to place yourself in a proper light 
 — to avoid a false position." * 
 
 "That is what I wish to do," said Henry. 
 "Precisely," continued James; "and if you sent her these 
 letters, without attaching any conditions or in any way com- 
 mitting her, it would look like a taoit acknowledgment, that 
 she has a right to demand them unconditionally. Now, in 
 my view, she has no such right." 
 
 " None in the world," assented Henry, eagerly. 
 "She could have it only in circumstances which do not 
 exist," rejoined the elder. "In justice to yourself, therefore, 
 you should not act in such a manner as to admit itj" 
 
 "Certainly not," said Henry. "But if I aml|i give her 
 these letters at all, I do not see how I am to avoid it." 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 109 
 
 '' If yon could avoid it, then," said James, " you would be 
 ■willing to give them to her — would you ?" 
 
 " Yes," Jlenry replied. " I want to be out loose from her." 
 
 " That is what I would by all means advise," said James, 
 more sincerely perhaps than he himself supposed. ■' And 
 if we could invent some plan which oould preclude the .sup- 
 position of this right, it would be the best thing you could 
 do." 
 
 " It would be the first step towards following the advice of 
 Uncle Abram, too," said Henry ; " but how to compass the end, is 
 more than I-can see — at least, without compromising myself 
 more than I am willing to do." 
 
 " It is her, whom you Wish to compromise, if any one, and 
 not yourself," said James. 
 
 "I do not wish to compromise even her," said Henry. 
 
 " No," James assented. "But you must rnaUe her commit 
 herself in such a manner as to avoid being yourself committed. 
 Now, for example, if you could make her meet you, somewhere 
 away from home, and make the exchange in person, without 
 witnesses, the object would be gained. Besides not committing 
 yourself, this course would be some little satisfaction to your 
 feelings " 
 
 " In what way?'' 
 
 " by showing that, however lightly she may esteem you, 
 
 you still have some power over her motions." 
 
 ''That would be 'some satisfaction' indeed!", said Henry, 
 bitterly. 
 
 " At all events," returned James, " it would prevent her 
 triumphing afterwards, by entertaining her husband and her 
 friends with an account of how completely she had tamed you, 
 and how quietly you submitted to anything she chose to dic- 
 tate." 
 
 This was James's master-stroke ; and he accompanied it 
 with every look and tone which was calculated to rouse a 
 spirit as fiery as he knew his cousin's to be. Henry sprang to 
 his feet, and walked rapidly to and fro along the sand. 
 
 " That she shall not do, by Heaven !" he exclaimed ; while 
 all the passion of his race was visible in his face and bearing. 
 
 " You are right," said James. " Give no woman an oppor- 
 tunity to gloat over the feelings she has outraged. Now let me 
 tell you how you can avoid this." 
 
 " Go on," said Henry, resuming his seat; " I will do it." 
 
 " Well" said James ; " write her an answer now — there is 
 not much time to lose — promising her the . letters on condition 
 that she will meet you at night in the wood between the road ; 
 
110 THE GLKNNS. 
 
 tell her if she will come there — say to-morrow night — and bring 
 your letters, etc., with her, you will then exchange. Tell her, 
 moreover, that if she refuses, she shall not have them at all ; 
 and my word for it, she will come. You will thus avoid com- 
 mitting yourself, and at the same time will compromise her so 
 thoroughly, even if she comes not alone, as of course she will 
 not, as to secure her silence forever after." 
 
 " But " Henry commenced — 
 
 " And," James continued, rapidly, " if the youthful husband 
 to whom she has bargained herself should ever ask hei any 
 questions about her former relation to you, she vi'ill be silent, 
 instead of sneering at her past ' flirtations,' as she will cer- 
 tainly do, unless you close her mouth in some such ivay." 
 
 " I will write it now," said Henry, rising ; " come." 
 
 James did not delay him, and in five minutes he was seated 
 in Uncle Abram's library, writing, while James waljted slowly 
 and thoughtfully up and down the floor. 
 
 "How will this do?" said Henry, holding up a note hastily 
 written. James took it and read : 
 
 " Miss F. Vincent : I have just received your note request- 
 ing the letters; which you have asked before. I have con- 
 cluded to give them to you ; but attach this condition, upon 
 which alone you can have them : Meet me to-morrow (Wed- 
 nesday) at ten o'clock at night, at the ' Old Elm,' which you 
 may possibly remember ; bring my letters, etc., with you, and 
 I will make the exchange you desire. If you do not think 
 proper to comply, I can only say that I must retain them now 
 and forever. H. Glenn." 
 
 " Tuesday, P.M.'>'> 
 
 "Admirable !" said James, -'Just the thing !" 
 
 " Do you know," said Henry, " it looks to me like a conspi- 
 racy against the girl ?" 
 
 '' When you make up your mind," said James, coldly, " that 
 you are the aggressor in this affair, end that you have sold her, 
 your scruples will be well grounded. In the meantime, I would 
 not sacrifice anything more than she has thought proper to 
 filch from you." , ' 
 
 " How will I get it to her ?" said Henry, turning to the table 
 and folding the letter. 
 
 " I will see to that," said James. " The boy that brought 
 the note is playing in the wood out by the gate. Fold it and 
 I will take it to him." 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. Ill 
 
 A glance of suspicion came from Henry's eyes, as if he 
 thought to detect something hidden. Although he would follow 
 implicitly any advice James might give, when aslced, he would 
 have rebelled at once against any attempt at dictation or inter- 
 ference. James saw the look, and read its import without 
 difficulty. 
 
 '' He asked permission," said he, carelessly, " to gather ber- 
 ries inside, and I gave it to him." 
 
 Henry folded the note, addressed it to Fanny, and handed it 
 to James, who at once walked out with it. 
 
 '' Here, Billy," said he, as he approached the boy, who was 
 lying precisely where he had left him, " take this note imme- 
 diately to your sister. And — stay a moment — here is something 
 for yon." He drew some pieces of silver from his pocket as he 
 sgoke, and extended his hand. The boy took them without a 
 word, but with a look whose cunning intelligence startled his 
 employer. James was about to take back the note, in fear that 
 his stratagem might fail- through the boy's treachery; but Billy 
 sprang away and eluded his grasp. 
 
 " If I gave the note back, said he, " I would have to return 
 the money too — and I want that." 
 
 " Deliver it, then," said James. " Don't let me catch you in 
 any treachery." 
 
 He raised his finger threateningly as he spoke ; but the boy 
 flourished his hand in the air, sprang over the fence, and ran 
 away. 
 
 " He knows too much altogether," muttered James ; " but 
 money will keep him true, if fear will not." 
 
 He turned and walked thoughtfully back to the house. How 
 
 ' much self-accusing was mingled with his reflections we cannot 
 
 stop to say ; for before he reached the door he had dismissed 
 
 it all with the self-deceptive thought, "It is too late to retreat !" 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 VirtUB is T)old and goodness never fearful. — JIeasvre tor Mkasuhe. 
 In that same place thou hast appointed me. 
 
 To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.— MiBsummer Night's DRrAU. 
 Well, we may meet agftin.^— Richard II.' 
 
 " You have been very slow, Billy," said Maria Bates, as she 
 met her brother just issuing from Mr. Eversham's enclosure. 
 
 " Have I ?" said he, carelessly, " Well, I may be slow, but 
 very sure. Look here I" He held up the note as he spoke, 
 and Maria extended her hand to receive it. 
 
 "Not so fast!" said Billy, drawing it back. " I have some- 
 thing to talk to you about first, and I'll give it to you after- 
 wards." 
 
 " Pshaw I" said Maria. " Give it to me ; Miss Fanny has 
 been waiting a long time. I'll come back and talk to you, if 
 you want me." 
 
 " Let Miss Fanny wait a little longer," said her brother, 
 coolly. " I'll not give you this till I get through talking." 
 
 "Billy! Billy!" she remonstrated. "Come, that's a good 
 brolher, give it to me, and I'll just go and give it to Fanny, 
 and come back immediately. Come, be a good boy, now, 
 Billy." 
 
 ■'It's no use coaxing," said the boy; " you may as well sit 
 down here till I get ready to give it to you ; if you don't I'll 
 tear it into a hundred pieces !" He took it between his fingers, 
 as if to suit the action to the word. 
 
 " Stop! For God's sake, don't tear it! I'll listen to you — 
 only be quick and let me go." 
 
 " You'll answer all my questions, too. Won't you V said 
 Billy. '' For I want yoM to talk, too." 
 
 " Yes, yes — all that I can," she answered, glancing suspi- 
 ciously at him. " Be quick !" 
 
 " Well," he commenced, settling himself, and so disposing 
 his hands as not to expose the note to be snatched from, him ; 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 113 
 
 " the servants over at the house say that you are in the habit of 
 meeting James Glenn in this wood every day ; and they say 
 you come here for no goo— — " 
 
 " Nonsense I" Maria interrupted, blushing scarlet. " Give 
 me the letter, and let me go." 
 
 " Wait a moment !" said her brother, thrusting it into his 
 -pocket. " You don't get this till you tell me all about — what 
 you meet him for, and what you and he are doing. I am 
 determined to luiow before I'll do another thing for either of 
 you!" 
 
 " Nonsense !" Maria repeated. 
 
 " No nonsense about it," said Billy. " I want to know it 
 all." 
 
 " All 1 what, Billy? I don't know what yon mean." 
 
 "I know better," said he positively. "I know you meet 
 him often, for I have watched you myself; and I ask you what 
 it means ?" 
 
 " You have watched us I" she exclaimed, in terror. 
 
 " Yes, often. Now don't deny it — ^but tell me what it 
 means." 
 
 " We only consult about Miss Fanny and He,nry Glenn," 
 said she, in a low voice, covering her face with her hands. 
 
 " I know that," said Billy, quickly ; " but that's not all. 
 What do you call him ' dear James ' for, and what do you hang 
 on his neck for, and why does he kiss you, and all that ?. Tell 
 me now." 
 
 " Brother," said she, reproachfully, " are you mean enough 
 to listen '.''' 
 
 " You've no right to object to it," said he, doggedly. " You 
 taught me to do it yourself." 
 
 She covered her face, with her apron, and began to sob. 
 
 " Don't cry," said Billy, coming a little closer, '■ don't cry. 
 I don't care about it — and I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. 
 " But," he continued, drawing back again as she raised her 
 head, " I must know all about it — and right off, too." 
 
 " Give me the letter, and let me go," said she, angrily. 
 
 " When you tell me — not before," Billy quietly replied. 
 
 '' Well, give it to me first, and then I will tell you." 
 
 '' If you won't trust me, I'll not trust you," said Billy. 
 
 " Well, tell me what you want to know then," said she, 
 sharply. 
 
 " I want to know what you meet James Glenn so often for, 
 and why you are so sweet on each other ; tell me." 
 
114 THE GLENNS, 
 
 " We are going to be married," said Maria, scarcely above 
 a wliisper, and covered her face again. " Now give it to me." 
 
 '' Are yon sucii a cursed fool as that !" he exclaimed. 
 "Maria! You and James Glenn I James Glenn and ijou.'" 
 He sprang up as he spoke, and placing his foot' against her 
 shoulder, gave her a violent push, while his expressive face 
 corresponded with the contemptuousness of the gesture. 
 
 " Billy," she said, looking angrily up. " How dare yOu touch 
 me ?" 
 
 ■' You ought to be kiolted by every fool in the world," said he. 
 " To be married I and to James Glenn ! Lord ! Lord! what a 
 fool !" 
 
 " William Bates !" said she, rising from the ground and sob- 
 bing violently, " give me the letter, and hush I Give it to 
 me!" 
 
 " You are too big a fool to carry it right, if I did," said he. 
 You're just as likely to give it to Eversham as Miss Vincent, — 
 and a stupider thing tha'u that couldn't be done, — except to 
 believe James Glenn." 
 
 '' Billy, you know nothing about it. Give me the note I" 
 
 " Know nothing about it — do I ? Don't know that James 
 Glenn, your James Glerni, has been wanting to marry Fanny 
 Vincent for years, and that she wouldn't have him, but wanted 
 his cousin, Henry 7 Don't I know that all this blow-up 
 between her and Henry has been caused by James ? Don't I 
 know that he has been using me and you — you, his wife that is 
 to be ! — as his tools to cause it ? Don't I know that he only 
 wants to. marry her himself, and that he has now got some dev- 
 ilish plan on foot to break up the marriage with Mr. Eversham ? 
 Know nothing about it, indeed ! And you, you silly fool ! you 
 think it is you — you, Maria Bates, his tool and his " 
 
 '' Brother !" "she screamed, seizing him by the arm and 
 shaking him violently. ''Brother, hush I" 
 
 " Maria I" called Fanny, who, having become impatient of 
 the delay, was now coming along the path ; " Maria, what does 
 all this mean ?" 
 
 " Stay here,'' said Billy, recovering himself, " and quit crying. 
 Nothing, Miss, " he continued, advancing towards Fanny, 
 "only I have a letter for you, and/ Maria was trying to make 
 me give it to her, when I was told to deliver it to you myself." 
 
 " You might have given it to her just as well,'' said Fanny, 
 taking it from him with a trembling hand. 
 
 " Yes, Miss," said Billy humbly, " but Mr. Glenn charged me 
 to deliver it with my own hand." 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 115 
 
 " Very well," said Fanny, turning away witliout observing 
 the searching loolc upon his face. She wallced a few steps 
 down the path and was tearing the letter nervously open, when 
 her feet were suddenly arrested by Billy. 
 
 " Miss Vincent," said he rapidly, " Mr. Eversham is coming 
 up the path." 
 
 She turned suspiciously upon him ; but at the same moment 
 her eye caught the form of her future husband slowly approach- 
 ing ; turning hastily aside, she plunged into the thicket and 
 disappeared. Billy ran back to his sister, who was sobbing at 
 the foot of a tree, and he led her away froth the path. In less 
 than a minute the way was as clear for the passage of the future 
 bridegroom, as if he had carried pestilence wherever he went. 
 He walked quietly and unconsciously along the opening wood, 
 while within a few steps of him his bride-expectant was reading 
 a letter which was to have a greater influence over his fate than 
 all other letters ever written. 
 
 Fanny seated herself on the root of a tree, and first casting a 
 disturbed glance about her to see that she was entirely alone, 
 again opened the letter and read it through. She then turned 
 back and read it once more, attentively and slowly. Her color 
 went and came as rapidly as light upon a stormy sky. Uncon- 
 sciously she crushed the paper in her hands : her head drooped 
 forward, and her eyes were bent on vacancy. 
 
 " It is impossible !" was her first thought. " To meet him 
 again and stir up the feelings I have striven to repress, and 
 
 when I am so soon to be but what right has he to govern 
 
 my movements now 1 I am not his yet I I will not stay away 
 on his account." 
 
 She thoitght long and earnestly, though far from calmly; for 
 reflection was warped by feeling, and pride rebelled against the 
 thought of duty to one she did not love. Other objections arose : 
 the time, the place, the spirit in which the meeting was demand- 
 ed ; and, strang« as it may seem, this last consideration gave her 
 more embarrassment and pain than any other. The words of 
 coldness frorri one on whose affection she had staked her all, 
 were harder to be borne than the prospect of a life of misery, 
 But an undefined desire once more to meet and speak to him 
 the thought that this must be her last opportunity of doing so 
 the near approach of her marriage, and her jealousy of control 
 even when chosen by herself, combined to outweigh this objec 
 tion, and, unfortunately, all others. 
 
 " And, besides," she thought, with a sophistry involving almost 
 conscious self-deception, " the harder the conditions he attaches 
 
1 16 THE GLENNS. 
 
 the greater is the necessity for making this exchange, for one 
 ■who would give them to me only on this consideration would 
 
 not scruple but, no! I will not wrong him thus. Who 
 
 knows but that the same desire that is urging me to assent — the 
 desire to meet again — may have dictated this letter ?" 
 
 The thought may iiave been an infidelity to him who held 
 her pledge, so soon to be redeemed ; but she thought not of 
 this,-rnay, she cared not for it, if she did. At the worst, she 
 would but see him for a moment, to receive her letters, give him 
 his, and then to part forever. 
 
 " I will see him, as he wishes," she said aloud; and rising, 
 she carefully folded the letter, and walked away towards home. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 These are the limba of the plot. — Hbnrt Till. 
 
 Bettreea the acting of a dreadfal thing 
 And the first motion, all the interim Is 
 Like a phantasma or a hideons dream,— Maobsth. 
 
 Sleep has seized mo wholly. — CTMnELiNS. 
 
 stand not upon the order of your going. 
 But go at once. — Macbeth. 
 
 It was the evening of the day before that appointed for 
 Fanny's marriage. The ceremony was to be performed at eight 
 o'clock in the morning, and directly afterwards " the happy 
 pair" were to set out upon a bridal tour of several months' dura- 
 tion. Before sunset, therefore, on Wedneseay evening, every- 
 thing was in readiness. The flutter which had for some weeks 
 enlivened the one fashionable mantua-maker's-shop afforded by 
 the town, had at last subsided. The bridal dress, the travelling 
 dress and bonnet, the misty bridal veil, the orange blossoms, 
 the jewelry engraved anew, the travelling scarf to match the 
 dress, — 'all the hundred ornaments, in short, to deck the victim 
 for the sacrifice, — had been sent home early in the day, and 
 were now displayed in careful order to the best advantage by 
 the nimble fingers of Maria, in the chamber to be occupied on 
 that night by Fanny as a maiden for the last time. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 117 
 
 Piles of linen lay upon the ehairs; an open wardrobe display- 
 ed its empty shelves, from which the contents had been trans- 
 ferred in part to the recesses of a trunk, whose lid was thrown 
 bade against the toilet table. Upon the last, surrounded by 
 numerous smaller articles of female wear, all snowy white and 
 folded carefully, lay a package of letters ; and around them, tied 
 as if not to be opened again, was wrapped a broad blue ribbon. 
 Between this and the letters "were secured a miniature case, a 
 slender chain, a plain gold ring and a set of ivory tablets, silver 
 mounted. Had the face of the first been upward, one might 
 have recognized the features ; but it was turned downward, 
 and the only index to their destination was the name of Henry 
 Glenn engraved upon a little silver plate upon the tablets. The 
 mistress of these things, " the happy bride," sat motionless and 
 careless at the window; and her eyes, dimmed by tears and red 
 with weeping, were bent upon the wood beyond which lay her 
 future home. Maria moved about the room with noiseless steps. 
 Her eyes, too, were red with weeping ; but whether for her 
 approaching separation from her. mistress, as she asserted^ may 
 be doubted. 
 
 The jewelry and tinsel of the bridal outfit,. usually so interest- 
 ing to a woman, seemed to have no charms for her ; for not an 
 exclamation issued from her lips while handling them, and not 
 an article was displayed before her mistress with a word of ad- 
 miration. She seemed to sympathize completely with the 
 indifference of Fanny ; and when she finished packing the 
 trunk, leaving out only what was to be worn as wedding finery, 
 she sat calmly down at another window, and looked gloomily 
 out upon the waning sunlight. 
 
 The shadows of the trees were lengthening across the road, 
 and only the tallest in the wood were gilded by the light. The 
 stillness of the summer evening reigned over all the scene ; and 
 on the quiet air came floating from the forest the closing notes 
 of birds, commingled with the sighing of the falling breeze. 
 The sun approached his setting, and his level beams shone in 
 between the trunks and branches, gilding here and there a leaf, 
 and casting shadows multiplied, and bringing out the particles 
 of dust that hung like haze above the road. The taller trees 
 and steeples in the town were shining brightly, while beneath 
 all lay in shade ; and round them whirled in graceful evolutions 
 feathered denizens, whose homes were built among the.highest 
 beams and rafters. The sun went down, the haze along the 
 road became invisible, the leaves resumed their darker hues, the 
 aisles and vistas of the wood lay in unbroken shadow, and the 
 
118 THE GLENNS. 
 
 night began to trench upon the waning day. The perfumes of 
 the breeze were mingled with the dampness of the evening, 
 and Darkness came creeping from the East to claim succession 
 to the Light. The promised bride still leaned upon the window, 
 but her fancies were not of joys to come ; the future claimed np 
 place, for memories of the past came floating up from by-gone 
 time, and consciousness of present desolation hung like a pall 
 between her heart and eveiything to come. 
 
 And he to whom her hand was given — where was he ? 
 
 The windows of a spacious room were open, and the evening 
 light streamed in on costly furniture and noiseless carpets. It 
 was the bridal chamber, on whose decorations and appoint- 
 ments the bridegroom-expectant had displayed the fulness of his 
 wealth, and all the gorgeousness of his rather meretricious taste. 
 In length the room was more than twrice its width ; but across 
 the northern end a curtain of white satin was suspended from 
 the ceiling, thus cutting off a recess, within which stoodi^^lk 
 bridal bed. The curtain was held back by silver bands, and 
 formed a snowy arch, beneath which could be seen the low 
 bedstead ; while above it, like a silken tent, a canopy of white 
 satin, with a silver thread, was looped with cords of blue and 
 white. The covering of the bed was of the same material, and 
 the rich, deep lace upon the pillows swept the floor. The high 
 window beyond was curtained with a double drapery of blue 
 and white, and flanked on one side by a richly-inlaid toilet. On 
 the other, stood a wardrobe, half concealed by the drapery of 
 the bed. 
 
 At the other end^ the apartment stood a deeply-cushioned 
 .sofa. On each side a splendid mirror reached from floor to 
 ceiling, and each repeating the repeated images of both, within 
 the depths of either were infinitely multiplied, the objects both 
 reflected ; and through them all you looked along an endless 
 suite of rooms, diminishing in the distance, as if seen through 
 a telescope reversed. Beside one of these stood a piano-forte 
 of highly polished satin wood, and near it a bronze music-stand. 
 There were Ciothio chairs of curling walnut, low, luxurious 
 ottomans, light book shelves of bronze, filled with elaborately 
 bound books — of their contents probably their proprietor knew 
 nothing. A frail, but graceful table was covered with port- 
 folios of engravings — the walls were hung with costly paintings 
 in gilt frames — and every place was crowded with antique 
 Severes vases, and casts of statuary, en petite, of Parian marble. 
 
 Such was the bridal chamber ; and he whose wealth had 
 created its elegance viras now reviewing, with the fondness of 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 119 
 
 impatieat expectation, all its rich appointments. Apparently 
 he found nothing amiss, for with a well-satisfied smile he threw 
 himself upon the sofa, and gazing down the gorgeous vista, gave 
 himself to pleasant fancies. His reverie was broken by a timid 
 knock, and a suit of stately black was deposited by our ac- 
 quaintance, Billy Bates, upon an ottoman before his master ; 
 with them he left also a sealed note, and bowing reverentially, 
 passed out. The morrow's bridegroom rose as the door was 
 closed, and having turned the key, proceeded to examine his 
 wedding suit. 
 
 "Bradley must be in want of money," he, thought, as he 
 took up the paper which lay upon the coat, " to send his bill 
 witt the work — to me. Sealed, too," he added, as he turned 
 it over. He was about to break the seal, but his impatience 
 got the better of his curiosity : he threw it aside, and proceeded 
 to array himself, with all the gusto of a youth of twenty. 
 
 , Itjigrew dark while he was divesting himself of his usual gar- 
 ments — night-fall occurring at that season about eight of the 
 clock. He ordered lights, and having locked th6 door again, 
 disposed them so as to exhibit his figure to the best advantage 
 in the mirrors. He opened each article with a lingering, curious 
 scrutiny, excusable in a man of his age only when about to take 
 unto himself a wife who might be his daughter. No seam, no 
 button-hole, no stitching, whether useful or merely ornamental, 
 escaped examination ; each part was scrutinized as closely as if 
 the happy event of the coming day depended on the tailor's 
 skill. The glossy cloth, its grain and quality, came in for its 
 share also ; and he dwelt with special satis^tion on the satin 
 facing of the skirts and cuffs. The lustrous surface of the satin 
 vest he gently and tenderly manipulated. And the pantaloons 
 of shining black, he held close to the light, and turned them 
 round and round ; he buttoned the broad straps, and having 
 satisfied himself about the strength of the elaborate lacing on 
 the waistband, hung them carefully upon a chair, and proceeded 
 to prepare himself for decoration. This he'soon accomplished ; 
 for never was a boy more eager to array himself in his virgin 
 broadcloth, than was Mr. Eversham to see himself reflected in 
 his matrimonial garments. 
 
 Behold the angular, though stately figure disarrayed I And 
 lo ! the childish pleasure of his time-marked features as the 
 ceremony of enrobing is commenced ! It was dressing for the 
 marriage, without the flutter and excitement of the crisis ! A 
 pair of highly-polished boots were painfully drawn on — almost 
 the only severe labor from which one's wealth cannot exempt 
 
120 THE GLENNS. 
 
 him — and then a rigid scrutiny of their fit. Next came the 
 pantaloons — of the very finest cassimere, glossy black, and fash- 
 ionably cut. He turned himself about before the glass, thrust 
 his hands into the pockets, corrected a slight tendency in onefof 
 the straps to hang upon the boot-heel, and inwardly commended 
 Bradley's skill. It was a great point gained. Then came the 
 vest, which he drew on with fear and trembling ; but having 
 buttoned it, and drawn the lacing, apprehension vanished. 
 Placing his hands complacently about the region of the stomach, 
 and gently rubbing them up and down, like him who has just 
 finished a good dinner, he again approved the artist's skill. 
 
 And now the crowning triumph — chef (Touvre^oi the "cloth- 
 professor " — the wedding coat ! If he trembled when he drew 
 the lacings of the vest, in so much that his fingers could with 
 difficulty tie them at the proper tension, now his nerves were 
 absolutely shaken ! Most carefully he drew it on — most anxi- 
 ously he pulled the skirts, and pressed the wrinkling cloth in at 
 tlie shoulder — most tenderly he settled it by jerking smartly the 
 lappels I He buttoned it — ^one bTitton cautiously — and again 
 drew down the skirts. He smoothed the sleeves,'and pulled the 
 cuffs, and pinched the corners — and having done all that a good- 
 natured, anxious man could do, to help the '' set," he at last 
 referred himself to the final test of every garment, male or 
 female, the looking-glass. It was a perfect fit I Even the 
 round shoulders were concealed, and not a solitary wrinkle de- 
 faced the shining surface of the back! 
 
 And now he stood between the mirrors arrayed in all the 
 elegance of matrimonial costume — reduplicated ad libitem by 
 the multiplied reflections — and ranging down the vista stood an 
 endless row of visionary Evershams, decreasing in the distance 
 and vanishing in a point. And then he thought — alas I that 
 human expectations are so vain I — that this long line of images 
 might but be typical of that other line, commencing with him- 
 self and reaching through a distant future — the posterity whose 
 root was in himself — his posterity — and hers. To-morrow, 
 then, will be the day, he thought, from which the lineage of 
 my house will date — to-morrow she is mine ! Aye — to- 
 morrow I He turned away at lasted commenced walking 
 pensively and slowly up and down the^oor. 
 
 Had he known the contents of the little note which lay upon 
 the table, past which he walked at every turn, his thoughts 
 would not have been so calm. He had forgotten it ; and 
 though habitually a very prudent man, at such a time even he 
 would not' think much of bills. He walked tranquilly, then, 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 121 
 
 for half an hour, until the images evoked by his position had 
 all passed through his mind. He at last recalled his thoughts, 
 and was about to begin disrobing, when in turning, his eye 
 fe^t on the note. He took ' it carelessly up and mechanically 
 broke the seal. It was not a bill, as he had supposed ! He 
 walked hastily to the light and read with a face as pale as 
 death 
 
 " M. Eversham, Esq : I have this moment learned that 
 you are to-morrow to marry a young lady whose heart you 
 doubtless expect to receive with her hand. You will, therefore, 
 be surprised when I tell you that the lady is in the hahit of se- 
 cretly meeting a young gentleman of our town, at times and 
 places incompatible with her faith to you. In confirmation of 
 this charge, I have to give you the information following : If you 
 will go to-night, at ten o'clock, to the neighborhood of the 
 largest elm in the path that leads from your j^esidence to that of 
 the lady, you will find her with the person to whom I refer, in 
 circumstances of whose propriety you, holding her pledge, must 
 judge. I know that she has made an appointment to that effect, 
 and doubt not, — since she is so soon to' be a wife, when fewer 
 opportunities for intrigue will be afforded her — that she will be 
 punctual to the time and place. If you have any doubts, you 
 can easily remove them by going to the spot and witnessing 
 their interview ; and since you may not know him in the dark- 
 ness, I may as well inform you that the man she is to meet ii 
 one Henry Glenn. Take my advice : go, and believe me. 
 
 k. "A Friend. 
 
 " Wednesday, P. M.'' ^ 
 
 " My God !" he exclaimed, dashing the paper down and look- 
 ing at his watch, " and it lacks but twenty minutes of the time 
 now !" He rang the bell violently, and when it was answered 
 by Billy Bates, sharply demanded : 
 
 " Who brought this note ?" 
 
 " The paper I left with the,cIothes ? It was handed in with 
 them by Mr. Bradley's man," answered Billy, simply. 
 
 " Well, never mind now," said Eversham hastily. *' Come 
 closer : do you know where Henry Glenn's office is?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the boy, starting in surprise. 
 
 ******* 
 
 On the same evening, — indeed, during the whole time con- 
 sumed in Mr. Eversham's childish raptures,— a company of five 
 young men was assembled in the back-room of Henry Glenn's 
 
122 tSte GLENNS. 
 
 office. The front door was closed afld the blinds of the windo*6 
 were drawn ; for the company were engaged in amusements, 
 which they did not care that every passenger on the s^eet 
 should see. Several wine-bottles were set out on a stand, "k^A 
 a table was drawn into the middle of the floor, and cleared bf 
 everything but a pack of cards and two or three candles. 
 Three of the young men — a student-at-law and two merchant's 
 clerks — having drawn their chairs around the table, were emp- 
 tying their purses on the cloth beside them. James Glenn Was 
 running over the cards, separating the lower from the higher, 
 while Henry busied himself settitg out as many glasses as 
 he Bad guests. "* 
 
 " What are you doing 1" asked one of them of James. 
 
 " Making a Eucre pack," he answered. " What do you want 
 to play 1" 
 
 " That will exclude one of us froiti the game," said another, 
 a Mr. Letton, oiU'of the clerks; '' leave them all in, and let us 
 play brag for an hour or two." 
 
 '' I care nothing about playing for the present," said Jaines ; 
 " Henry has an appointment to-night, and when he leaves us I 
 will take his place." 
 
 " That will not do," said the law student. " I would rather 
 you would play now ; and, besides, I prefer a game of chance 
 for my amusement." 
 
 " You want your revenge," said James, sniiling. 
 
 " Yes,'' replied the other. " That is the only inducement I 
 have to play." f 
 
 " Sit down, Jame^," said Henry, " and I will join you for an 
 hour or two ; there is no need of excluding any one." 
 
 As he spoke, he drew a cloak from his wardrobe, and taking 
 a pistol from the shelf, went into the front room, whither James 
 followed him. 
 
 *' Your appointment must be a dangerous one," Said Letton, 
 "since you both disguise yourself and go armed." 
 
 " O, no I" said Henry, from the other room. " I go armed for 
 the same reason for whiqh I wear my cloak : because it is night 
 and the air may be cold." 
 
 " You take a pistol, then," said the other, laUghiWg, " to light 
 a fire in case of emergency." 
 
 " Had I not better take these fellows atvay," said Jame&, in a 
 V)w voice, " before it is time for you to go ? They may take a 
 Motion to follow- and watch you.'' 
 
 " Eit||er take them away," said Henry, " before I start, or 
 keepljfciih-here while I am gone, no diiference which." 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 123 
 
 " I'll take them away," said James ; and having so arranged it, 
 he passed back to the other room and, followed by Henry, took 
 his «eat at the table. The preliminaries being settled, a deal 
 wai|i,|nade, and the game commenced. 
 
 ^Shey played- on for nearly half-an-hour, the gambling spirit 
 gradually taking possession of their faces, and the conversation 
 finally subsiding into casual remarks about the game. The 
 cards passed rapidly around, and the money changed hands from 
 one to another as fickle fortune varied. James played cooUy, 
 like a practiced gamester, oalraly awaiting his opportunities, and 
 betraying neither chagrin when he lost nor triumph in success. 
 Henry was absent and irtdifferent, exhibiting as much calmness 
 as his cousin, though evidently from a different cause ; while 
 the other three leaned over the table eagerly and watched each 
 card as it fell, with eyes sharpened by the spirit of cupidity. 
 When the course of the play brought him in contact with any 
 of them, Janies gaaed half-sneeringly into thd^eyes and plainly 
 rqad their thoughts, while he concealed his own behind a veil 
 which none of them conld penetrate. The consequence was 
 wliat might have been foreseen : James won steadily and surely 
 while his cousin rapidly lost. Several times, indeed, within the 
 space of time we have mentioned, the latter rose and resorted 
 to a drawer in the table, on which stood the wine and glasses, 
 returning from each visit with more money. He did not keep 
 it long at any time ; and when he brought the fourth new 
 handful to the table, and lost it almost as soon as he had taken 
 his seat; he sprang up impatiently again, betraying the only feel- 
 ing; he had exhibited since the game togar^r 
 
 '' You must have a Fortunatus' purse in that drawer," said 
 Billings, the law st,udent. 
 
 " He will need something of the kind if he draws as rapidly 
 for half an hour more," said James, coolly. " We are getting 
 too' near the gambling standard, gentlemen," he continued, 
 raking towards him a handful of money which he had just won, 
 and rising from the table. " I move we diversify the amuse- 
 ment a littje.'' 
 
 '' I second the motion with all my heart," said Letton. 
 " Pass my hand then," said James, ^' and I will pour for you 
 all." As he spoke, he drew a little paper from his pocket, and 
 breaking one corner, knocked a few grains of light powder into 
 one of the glasses. Replacing it in his pocket, he poured the 
 wine upon it, and filled the other glasses pure.-' Setting them 
 on the table, the three guests helped themselves witliaut cere- 
 mony, and he then gave the other glass to Henry. I • 
 
124 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " Deal me a hand now," said he, as he filled another glass 
 for himself, and resumed his seat. 
 
 The game went on again, in silence ; even the time which 
 had been before consumed in brief remarks, being now devoted 
 to the wine. They sipped between the deals, and each before 
 he raised his cards put his goblet to his lips, and took enough 
 to last him through the play. Henry drank more slowly than 
 the rest, for he was absorbed by thoughts foreign either to the 
 amusement or the wine. James glanced quietly at him several 
 times ; and in his eye a close observer might have seen a. shade 
 of anxiety. He, however, withdrew the look almost immediately, 
 and again addressed himself to the play. Henry did not lose 
 so rapidly ; for owing either to some turn in the fortune of the 
 game, or to a slightly perceptible sedative effect, which followed 
 the first few sips of wine, he did not pl'ay so rashly. After 
 half an hour thus spent, James saw the goblets about to be ex- 
 hausted. Putting his own to his lips, 'he emptied it at once, 
 and rising from the table, filled it up. 
 
 " Shall I pour for you all again 1" he said, taking their 
 glasses. " Pass my hand for a moment, then." 
 
 Once more he drew the paper from bis pocket, and knocked 
 a little of the powder into Henry's glass. Again he set them 
 back upon the table, and resumed his seat. 
 
 " That wine has made me drowsy," said Henry. 
 
 "Take some more," said James; and- added in a whisper, 
 " you will be wide enough awake an hour hence." 
 
 " How late is it 1" asked Henry, in the same tone. 
 
 " Nine o'clock," James answered. " Come, gentlemen," be 
 continued aloud, " we will play rapidly for half an hour, and 
 then leave Henry to keep his appointment." 
 
 " Let us drink out and fill up once more, then," said Letton, 
 " and afterwards attend to the game." 
 
 They all drank but Henry, who merely touched his glass 
 and set it down again. James rose and filled the other goblets, 
 watching Henry narrowly the while, and even betraying a sort 
 of nervousness to have him drain the cijp. He could not pre- 
 vail upon him to do so, however, and with an air whose chagrin 
 was but ill-concealed, he sat down. Once more the game was 
 resumed, though now the interest flagged; for each began to 
 feel the efiects of the wine he had taken. Henry especially 
 became dull and silent, complaining from time to time of drow- 
 siness, of which James well knew the cause. At last, taking 
 his glass hastily up, he drained it to the bottom ; and rising 
 (lOTcmMe table, threw himself upon the conch. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 135 
 
 " That's" a hint for us to be gone," said Letton, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 *' I suspect you are right," said James, drawing out his watch 
 with a trembling hand. " It is nearly half-past nine, and at ten 
 I know he has an appointment." 
 
 " Let us go then ; I can get my revenge some other time," 
 said Billings, rising from the table, followed by the others. 
 
 " Whenever you wish it," said James, hastily walking into 
 the front room, and taking the key from the lock. They all 
 stepped out upon the pavement, James drawing the door gently 
 to, and walking off in a different direction from the others. He 
 walked very slowly, until the footsteps of his companions died 
 away in the distance, and then turning hastily about, went 
 swiftly back and re-entered the office. Henry was sleeping 
 heavily upon the bed with all his clothes on, just as he had left 
 him. James looked closely at him for a few moments, and 
 listened attentively to his stertorous breathing. Apparently 
 satisfied with the scrutiny, he filled a goblet with wine, and 
 hurriedly drank it off. He then opened the drawer from which 
 Henry had taken the money, and seizing a package of letters, 
 passed back into, the front room. He paused before the table, 
 and blew one of the candles out ; but after refiecting for a mo- 
 ment, relighted it and set it down. 
 
 "Better leave them -burning," he muttered. But it was not 
 so. Thus does cunning overreach itself. 
 
 He passed on, and throwing Henry's cloak over his shoulders, 
 took up the pistol w^hich lay upon the table, and taking the 
 key inside, stepped out. It was a spring look, which bolted 
 with closing. He drew the door to, and satisfying himself by 
 pushing that it was fastened, walked swiftly away. 
 
CHAPTER V- 
 
 Satlt night, that from the eye his fanctionfl takes, '^ 
 
 The ear more quick of apprehension makes. — MidsuuueK Night's Drxmi. 
 
 Look to thyself ! Thou art in jeopardy !/— Kikg John. 
 
 Who comes so fast in silenoe of the night 1 — Merchant or VxNicc, 
 
 Nay, he is dead.— Richard III. 
 
 The three young gentlemen who left the office at the same 
 time with James, passed down the street together until they 
 came to the front of a large hotel. Here one of them entered, 
 leaving Letton and Billings standing at the door. 
 
 " Fanny Vincent is to be married to-morrow, I believe," said 
 the former. 
 
 " Yes," said Billings ; " and a nice arrangement she is mak- 
 ing of it I" ^ 
 
 " She is getting a wealthy husband, at all events," said the 
 other, " and has a fair prospect of being a rich young Widow " 
 
 " In which case," rejoined Billings, ■' your chances and mine 
 will be increased by one." 
 
 "I do not know," said Letton, doubtfully. "If the priae 
 is to be drawn, I think Henry Glenn will hold the ticket." 
 
 " Perhaps so. And, by-the-bye, would you like to see some 
 fun — "Or do you want to go to bed V 
 
 ''Very little good sport would be enough to keep me awake," 
 said Letton ; '' but how can it be had ?" 
 
 " You must be as secret as the grave," said Billings, cau- 
 tiously drawing him aside. " James told me this evening that 
 Henry had an engagement to-night of a very peculiar kind ; 
 and though he did not explain, I think I know what it is." He 
 whispered a few words in the other's ear. 
 
 " Oh, no I" said Letton, aloud ; " surely not, when she is to 
 be married to Eversham early in the mornino- 1" 
 
 " I may be mistaken," said Billings ; " but I still think I am 
 right. At any rate, it will not cost much to find out. It is a 
 fine night, and a walk will do us no harm." 
 
A FAMItY HISTOEY. , 127 
 
 " Here be comes now !" whispered Letton, suddenly, as a, 
 figure in a cloak approached and passed thern. 
 
 " Do you see ?" said Billings. He has turned down the 
 load, and I have-no doubt is going to meet her." 
 
 " But -where 1 Do you know the place ?" 
 
 '' Not with certainty," said the law student. " But I sus- 
 pect we will find them near Mr. Vincent's. She would not 
 venture far, certainly." 
 
 '' Let us get some brandy and follow him, then," said Letton, 
 " It will not hurt us, if we do not see what we look for." 
 
 " Not at all," said Billings ; and they passed into the brightly 
 illuminated bar and called for the brandy. 
 
 " It only wants ten minutes of the time now," said Letton, 
 as he set his glass down and looked at the clock over the bar. 
 
 " We will see them in the midst of their interview then," 
 said the other. " Come, let us go." 
 
 In the meantime, the wood to, which we have so often 
 referred, lay in the shadows of the night, impenetrable to the 
 rays which came straggling from the stars. There was no 
 wind, and if the leaves rustled at all, it was only in that weird, 
 unearthly way in which they sometimes whisper in the stillness, 
 when we perceive no cause for motion. In the more open 
 spaces you might look up and see the sky, as in its depths 
 were shining faintly forth the little points of light ; but these 
 seemed far away — ^much farther through the foliage than when 
 seen from the open land — and the blue of the firmament was 
 deepened by the darkness round the spot from which you 
 looked. The dew lay on the leaves, and here and there, in the 
 angle of the light, a drop was sparkling like a diamond. Along 
 the road the night was not so deep ; and when the eyes became 
 accustomed to the darkness, forms could be distiaguished almost 
 as far as in the moonlight. " The row of cottages, embowered 
 among trees and shrubbery, were quiet as the country ; for 
 their occupants were frugal people ; late hours and revels were 
 never known among them ; and although it was scarcely ten 
 o'clock, not more than three of all in the windows in the row 
 yet showed a light. There was none in any window of Mr. 
 Vincent's house, though one might have expected to see them 
 at even a later hour. The candle in Fanny's room had been 
 extinguished, however, scarcely more than five minutes ; and 
 any one who might have looked through the open sash as 
 Fanny blew it out, would have seen that it was not for the 
 purpose of retiring that she did so. She was still dressed, and 
 in her hand she held the plain bonnet which we saw her 
 
128 THE GLENNS. 
 
 wear upon the first occasion of her introduction. With it she 
 held also a light scarf, its color of the plainest green and gold, 
 changeable and flashing in the lamp-light, and adding another 
 shade of ashy paleness to her face. She leaned upon the sill of 
 the open window, and inclined her head to listen. A footfall 
 on the road, indistinct at first, but rapidly becoming audible, 
 founded lonely in the stillness of the summer night. She list- 
 ened for a few moments, and then hastily throwing the scarf 
 over her shoulders, put on her bonnet, and with a cautious step 
 walked out. She trembled as she laid her hand upon the gate, • 
 and in a guarded voice called " Maria 1" The maid came from 
 among the shrubbery equipped with bonnet and sliawl, and 
 Fanny opened the gate without speaking. They passed out 
 and crossed the road. Entering the wood on the margin of the 
 little stream so often mentioned, they followed its course into 
 the thickening passages of the brushwood, and came out on the 
 winding path to Eversham's. 
 
 About ten minutes before this the morrow's bridegroom had 
 rushed down the same path, arrayed in marriage costume, and 
 was now pacing to and fro impatiently beneath the spreading 
 foliage of " the elm." From time to time he paused to listen; 
 but hitherto he had heard nothing but the rustling of the leaves 
 and the quick beating of his own excited heart. He continued 
 his walk for a space which seemed to him at least an hour, 
 when suddenly he heard the breaking of a twig beneath a foot- 
 fall. He rapidly advanced in that direction, and stopped again^ 
 to listen ; some rne was stealthily approaching through the 
 wood, and at the distance of a few yards down the path he 
 could distinctly hear two female voices. His first impulse was 
 to rush towards them and violently upbraid Fanny with her 
 perfidy ; but he changed his purpose. He remembered that as 
 yet he had no proof that she was here for any improper object ; 
 and besides, their tones were so guarded that he could not be 
 certain she was there. The possibility that he might expose 
 himself to some stranger crossed his agitated mind ; and from 
 this he recoiled with all the horror of a shy,' proud man. He 
 was still hesitating, when the footstep on his right became more 
 audible ; and it seemed from its direction that the stranger was 
 about to pass between him and the place appointed for the 
 meeting. This decided him ; he hurried back beyond '' the 
 elm," and concealed himself in a little thicket but a few yards 
 from its base. 
 
 He had scarcely done so, when a figure in a cloak stepped 
 cautiotjsly within the little open space, and halting, seemed to 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 129 
 
 listen. A female figure next approached ; and Eversham, his 
 eyes now accustomed to the darkness, found no difficulty in 
 recognizing Fanny, while beyond he could even see Maria, 
 who remained some twenty yards behind. As Fanny came 
 nearer, the man in the cloak walked rapidly towards her, and 
 making a gesture of caution, whispered : 
 '' Be careful — we are watched !'' 
 
 She halted suddenly, and seemed about to fly ; but the other 
 approached her, and taking her hand carried it to, his lips. She 
 snatched it angrily away and stepped back. 
 
 ''Give me the letter.?," she said. " Would you expose me 
 thus 1 Here are yours — give me mine and let me go !" 
 
 She extended a package as she spoke, and received another 
 in return. At the same moment she glanced hastily by him, 
 and exclaimed : 
 
 "Beware! some one will strike you I" She turned away 
 and ran with all her speed down the path. The cloaked figure 
 sprang hastily aside, and seemed about to retreat through the 
 wood. But Eversham grasped his cloak. 
 
 " Stop, sir I" he exclaimed, in a voice of intense passion. 
 " You shall not leave this spot till you account to me I" 
 
 "Unhand me, sir'." said the other, in low, deep tones. 
 '' Unhand me, or I will kill you on the spot '." 
 
 Meantime, Billings and Letton had reached the spot where 
 Fanny and Maria entered the wood. 
 
 '' She went in about here, I think," said the former ; " let us, 
 follow up the path and see whal will come of it." 
 
 They followed the stream for some distance, and then 
 turning with the path, soon came out upon the more open 
 ground. 
 
 " They must be up in this direction," said Letton. 
 " Hush!" exclaimed Billings; " I hear voices." 
 " That is Eversham I" the other said. 
 
 " There is trouble there '." said Billings ; " let us go up. 
 What's this? Miss Vincent, as I live, and IVlaria Bates I" he 
 continued, as they hurried past without perceiving them, and 
 disappeared among the trees. 
 
 At the same moment the report of a pistol broke the stillness 
 of the night. A deep groan and a heavy fall succeeded. Both 
 the young men hurriedly rushed up to the spot. They found 
 Mr. Eversham stretched at full length upon the ground, groan- 
 ing faintly, and heard foottseps rapidly retreating towards the 
 town. 
 
 ' My God!" exclaimed Letton, *< He has murdered hini." 
 
130 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " And left his eloak as evidence against him," said Billings, 
 as he took it Up and at once recognized it as Henry Glenn's. 
 
 "Let us pursue him," suggested Letton. 
 
 " Nonsense," answered his cooler companion. " We know 
 who he is without that. Let us attend to Mr. Eversham." 
 
 "Are you badly hurt?" he continued, leaning over the 
 prostrate man and endeavoring to .lift him to a sitting posture. 
 
 " I am murdered !" gasped Eversham, with difficulty : while 
 the gu:rgling, .wheezing sound mad« by his failing breath, indi- 
 cated the locality .of his wound. 
 
 " Who did it V Billings asked. 
 
 " Henry Glenn," said Eversham. 
 
 " We knew that," said the other to his companion ; " but it 
 is better to have a dying declaration. Did you have any quar- 
 rel ■!" he continued, still supporting the wounded man. " Did 
 you strike him 1" 
 
 "No," Eversham answered faintly. ''No; it was wholly 
 unprovoked." 
 
 This, as the reader is aware, was not literally true ; nor, indeed, 
 could he be certain that he had seen Henry Glenn at all. And 
 yet, his '' dying declaration" of the fact would have as much 
 weight in a court of justice as a positive oath given by a witness 
 who has seen that to which he deposes. That is an erroneous 
 theory, which is built upon the assumption that men who are 
 about to enter another world will speak nothing but truth during 
 the short remainder of their sojourn in this. Deliberate malice 
 may be, and often is, the feeling uppermost in the heart of a 
 dying man, — aye, of a man dying calmly in his bed ! And if 
 this be so,^-as numberless instances prove,— how much more 
 dangerous is it" to trust the declarations of one who dies by 
 violence, with the passions of the conflict, or the feelings which 
 led him into strife, yet hot within him I Unfortunately, too, it 
 is chiefly the declartions of those who die thus which are 
 repeated in our courts. 
 
 Men have not always a proper sense of the awful change 
 which is approaching, nor are they invariably very deeply im- 
 pressed with the fear of retribution in the world to come. If 
 scoffers die impenitent, if wicked men depart for eternity with 
 lies upon their lips and curses on their tongues when they have 
 no pressing motive to deception, when no excited passion yet 
 urges them to falsehood, upon what principle of logic is it that 
 we conclude 'that men whose passions are aroused by strife, 
 and rendered more vindictive by defeat, will be influenced in 
 their "dying declarations" only by considerations of eternal 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 131 
 
 truth and certain retribution ? It is a false assumption, — one of 
 the miserable shifts to which men have been reduced to meet a 
 difficulty in its nature insurmountable. 
 
 I do not wish to be understood as objecting to the admission 
 in any case, or even in all cases, of the testimony denominated 
 " dying declarations." But I mean, first, that men who might 
 be mistaken when swearing positively to a fact, in the full 
 possession of. all their faculties, with no disturbing cause, may 
 not be quite infallible when excited by passion or agitated by 
 approaching dissolution ; second, that a dead witness can never 
 be cross-examined, and the most valuable test of truth being 
 thus lost, it may be impossible to ascertain upon what evidence 
 or circumstance he based his declaratiou ; third, that revenge 
 and hatred, being in many characters tlie predominant passions, 
 may be worked up to intensity by the consciousness of wanmg 
 life or the fear of losing their gratification, that conscience and 
 the fear of punishment may thus be laid asleep, and a wilfully 
 false declaration be the consequence ; and fourth, that if the 
 declarant himself may be mistaken or may speak falsely, how 
 much more probable is it that the witness who repeats the decla- 
 ration may, in the agitation of such a moment, have misunder- 
 stood or misinterpreted ! I say, therefore, and for many other 
 reasons which will readily suggest themselves, that such testi- 
 mony should be received with the greatest caution, and that 
 banging a man upon such evidence alone, would be sacrificing 
 a human life to a mere abstraction. For such is the notion that 
 a dying man will not utter a falsehood, an idea inconsistent with 
 hundreds of well-authenticated facts, unsupported by sound 
 reason, and excessively dangerous in its application to the ad- 
 ministration of justice. 
 
 As we shall have occasion to return to this scene, we will 
 pass over the further proceedings of Billings and Letton, con- 
 tenting ourselves with announcing that within fifteen minutes 
 after they took Eversham home, and laid him in his marriage 
 garments on the couch within the gorgeous bridal chamber, ht 
 yjas dead! 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Look ! as I blow this feather from my face, 
 And as the air hlowB it to me again. 
 Obeying to my wind when I blow. 
 And yielding to another when it blows. 
 Commanded always by the greater gust : 
 Snoh is the likeness of your oommon men. 
 
 Henry TI. 
 
 A PEW years ago, in many of the more notorious Western 
 towns, t"he killing of a man was not viewed as a crime of any 
 great raagnitiide ; and though the laws were sometimes vindi- 
 cated with exemplary severity, the large maiority of homicides 
 were suffered to escape upon the convenient plea of self-defence. 
 This was especially so when the testimony indicated a personal 
 conflict, in which both parties had been active ; and before the 
 primitive judicial tribunals, it made but little difference how the 
 strife had been provoked. It seemed to be a recognized princi- 
 ple of law, that when a man was once engaged in a fight, he 
 was justified in killing his adversary ; and juries (when the case 
 was not finally disposed of by some examining magistrate, the 
 friend of the accused,) gave themselves very little trouble to 
 inquire whether the quarrel had not been sought for the very 
 purpose of committing the crime. The life of a man in those 
 times was not considered very valuable ; and it must be acknow- 
 ledged that in many cases there was truth in the judgment. To 
 coitnterbalance this facility, when one of those high-handed 
 communities became convinced that a crime had beenjfemmitted 
 in cold blood, nothing could exceed the promptness and severity 
 with which they punished the criminal. Drum-head courts 
 martial and a platoon of muskets were but tardy instruments of 
 vengeance, compared to the celerity of a Regulator corps ; for 
 generally within ten minutes after the malefactor fell into their 
 hands, ne was swinging in the air upon the nearest tree. The 
 country was infested by gangs of outlaws, whom no courts but 
 these impromptu ones could reach ; and though the assumption 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 133 
 
 by private men of the. duties of judicial and ministerial officers 
 had its dangers, it was sometimes a question of strength between 
 the honest and the abandoned, when prompt and efficient pun- 
 ishment, however inflicted, became a condition of the commu- 
 nity's existence. 
 
 The frequency of these things, in the course of time reduced 
 the standard of public morals ; the oftener men w^ere punished 
 by the hand of violence, the less was justice valued ; the Regu- 
 lator corps fell into the hands of the men whom they were 
 designed to punish ; and, since the courts of law had in many 
 places almost resigned their functions in favor of self-constituted 
 judges, crime took possession of the highways unmolested, and 
 human life became the subject of a game of chance. 
 
 These things have now passed away, or emigrated further 
 West ; and even in the worst times, they were literally true 
 only in certain localities — in river towns and frontier settle- 
 ments, where scoundrels '' most do congregate." Such things 
 would now^ be tolerated in the West, no more than in the East. 
 And even then, there were many places — indeed the larger 
 number — where the law was administered as conscientiously as 
 it ever was — places whose citizens were quiet, law-abiding 
 men, where robbery and murder were unknown, and where a 
 great crime produced as much excitement and indignation 
 among all classes of men, as is now produced in any Eastern 
 city. This excitement, among even these people, may some- 
 times have caused sudden outbursts and lawless deeds of retri- 
 bution ; but then there was nothing of the thirst for blood, 
 which too often distinguished the action of men in other places, 
 driven to desperation by associated bands of villains. All was 
 calm, and stern, and quiet : even an extra-judicial execution 
 was conducted " decently and in order" — as if the executioners 
 felt, as in many cases they did feel, that they were engaged in 
 a painful but necessary duty. Years rolled by, the country 
 filled up with a better population, the "settlements" became 
 towns, and the towns grew to cities ; the banded villains were 
 driven outSand men subsided again to quiet citizens, feeling 
 that at last'lhey could trust the administration of the law to the 
 legal courts; and now, no country in the world can show more 
 quiet, orderly, and peaceful communities, than the Western 
 States.- Men here do not exhibit, it is true, the mawkish sen- 
 timent which leads the quasi-philanthropic to pamper the con- 
 victed criminal, and devote all their benevolence to his (yamfort 
 and reformation ; while in the same street hundreds are starv- 
 ing for bread, and morally dying for the very aliment tlaas 
 
134 THE GLENNS. 
 
 wasted on the hardened and ungrateful. If men have labor to 
 bestow, they do not seek the stony places to expend it ; and if 
 seed are to be planted, it is deposited upon a grateful soil, and 
 not oast wilfully upon a desert, whose dry and sandy waste no 
 watering can make fruitful. To some extent in every place, 
 men accused of crime are villainously treated ; while all charity 
 and kindness are reserved for him whom the courts have pro- 
 nounced guilty. The law which presumes a man mnocent un- 
 til he is proven to be guilty, is too apt to be a dead-letter pre- 
 cept everywhere. But the very lawless state which years ago 
 marked the tone of Western communities, now that it has 
 passed away, has left behind a charity found nowhere else ; and 
 in no place can a man secure his rights, and especially the right 
 to be heard before he is condemned, more perfectly than in a 
 Western town* 
 
 The little city where these scenes are laid had been, even in 
 the wildest; times, one of the most quiet. No atrocious crimes 
 had ever marked its annals^no great criminals had ever met 
 their fate within its precincts. But few of the more lawless 
 class of men had ever '' settled" in the neighborhood, and even 
 these had soon departed, seeking localities more congenial to 
 their tastes. Not even a corps of Regulators had been organ- 
 ized among the peaceful citizens ; the laws had been suffered 
 uninterruptedly to take their course. With the lapse of years 
 the quiet had increased, the town grew into importance, a 
 thicker population filled the country round — a class of people, 
 even better than the original, came in — the older families gradu- 
 ally threw off the roughness which Western people even here 
 could not avoid contracting — refinement and education took 
 jiossession] of their children — new institutions sprang up — and 
 with the increasing business of the place, was gradually intro- 
 duced a tone in no way inferior to that which marks the towns 
 of older countries. 
 
 A long period of unbroken quiet brought its usual train of 
 blessings — among which, .far from the least, was a salutary 
 horror of all great crime as something monstrous^predicable 
 only of the most abandoned natures. Accounts came to them 
 by the mail, (the telegraph was not then introduced,) from 
 other places of such things ; and had you listened to their com- 
 ments you might have supposed, what indeed was the truth, 
 that no man there had ever been so near to such atrocities as 
 even iij the place where they were committed. Little groups 
 assembled at the corusrs, and in counting rooms, to hear the 
 reading of the papers; and grave remarks, aijd shaking heads. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 135 
 
 and lengthened faces, indicated the solemnity with which they 
 viewed transgression. Each mail was ransacked with- avidity 
 for something further on the subject, and newspapers were 
 looked for with increased anxiety as long as anything was un- 
 explained. 
 
 If, then, occurrences whose scenes were at a distance always 
 broke the calm, it may be readily imagined how much excite- 
 ment was produced among these peaceful townsmen, by such an 
 event as the death by violence of one of their own citizens. 
 Had the victim been only a common man — ^that is, a poor man 
 — the community would still have been startled from its pro- 
 priety. But human nature there was the same as in all other 
 places, and the agitation was enhanced by the consideration 
 that the deceased had been a man of wealth, occupying, by 
 reason of his possessions, a high position among his neighbors. 
 He had been not only a man of great respectability, but had 
 been murdered " under circumstances," as the newspapers have 
 it, " of peculiar painfulness." But the impression made by his 
 death will be more clearly seen in the following announcement 
 which- appeared in an evening paper on the following day : — 
 
 " 'Wilful Murder!' — Last night, about the hour of ten 
 o'clock, Mortimer Eversham, Esq., one of our wealthiest and 
 most esteemed citizens, was mysteriously murdered in the wood 
 between his premises and the North-west road. The facts — 
 which we state with a reservation, in order not to forestall the 
 action of the legal tribunals — seem to be about these. This 
 
 morning Mr. Eversham was to have been married to Miss E 
 
 V (we suppress the young lady's name, from obvious mo- 
 tives of delicacy to the feelings of her friends), and this engage- 
 ment was subsequent to one of a similar character, which she 
 had formed with a young man, whose name we also suppress. 
 Certain letters had passed between them during the continu- 
 ance of the engagement, and these, after its termination, the 
 young man refused to deliver up— piqued and angry, it would 
 seem, at the exercise by the young lady of an undoubted right 
 to break off a connection which, on her meeting Mr. Ever- 
 sham, had become distasteful to her. She was wilHng to make 
 almost any sacrifice (compatible with modesty) to rescue her 
 letters from the hands of one who had shown himself so capa- 
 ble of abusing the trust ; and under the influence of this feel- 
 ing, she was induced to accede to certain conditions — hard 
 though they were — upon which alone he would deliver them 
 up. She accordingly repaired {with her maid) to the wood but 
 
136 THE GLENNS. 
 
 a few yards from her father's door, to keep an appointment 
 made for this purpose. / 
 
 " In the meantime, Mr. Eversham had received a myster/ous 
 note, advising him of the intended meeting ; and very natmally 
 ■wished to be present at any assignation of which he d^d not 
 know the purport. He hastened thitj^^u and attemptet^to un- 
 mask the young man (as is suppOs^,,^S^jai' an altercation over- 
 heard by two gentlemen, -who happened- to be w-alliing in the 
 wood), when the other drew a pistol and shot him, the ball 
 passing very near his heart, and causing his death in about half 
 an hour. / 
 
 " The dying man was carried home by the two gentlemen 
 before mentioned, and to them was given his dying declaration, 
 identifying the murderer, and explaining the circumstances. 
 A coroner's jury was immediately summoned ; and after hear- 
 ing the testimony, they returned a verdict of ' wUful murder^ 
 against Henry Glenn, the young man spoken of above, and a 
 lawyer of risiiig fame at our bar. He is a nephew and one of 
 the heirs of Abram Glenn, Esq., an old, wealthy, and much 
 respected citizen of this place, whose heart must be almost 
 broken by this painful occurrence. 
 
 " The unfortunate young man, the victim of ill-governed 
 passions, has been arrested ; indeed, he made no efforts to 
 escape, being apparently stupefied by the enormity of his guilt. 
 
 " A deed of this character, perpetrated in our midst, the 
 victim one of our most respectable citizens, is calculated to 
 evoke serious reflections, and calls for rigid investigation, in 
 order that justice may be vindicated, and the guilty punished. 
 
 " Later. — Since ttie foregoing was in type, we have heard 
 several other particulars of this most distressing occurrence. 
 
 " The letter informing Mr. Eversham of the approaching 
 meeting has been recognized, although attempted to be dis- 
 guised as the handwriting of Henry Glenn, the accused ; thus 
 leaving no doubt of the fact that the whole was a preconcerted 
 plan to entrap and murder him, because oj his innocent inter- 
 ference with the murderer's plans. '4' 
 
 '• On the spot where the crime was committed the package 
 of 'letters, given to Glenn by Miss V ^^.-, , has been found, with 
 a pistol identified as his, and kngT!<>*CSb 'have been in his posses- 
 sion one hour before the^rtfltn^ferr His cloak, which was seen 
 in his ofiicer'¥t the same time, we omitted to mention was 
 found there also — all having been dropped in the struggle with 
 Mr. Eversham, and not recovered by reason of the rapid ad- 
 vance of Messrs. Billings and Letton. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 137 
 
 " Mr. Eversham, when the .mysterious note reached him, 
 was fitting and trying on the suit intended for the ceremony of 
 the morning, which had just been sent home by the accom- 
 plisWed draper, L.. T. Bradley, Esq. ; and when found dying by 
 Billings ^nd Letton, he was dressed in that suit, not having had 
 tirne to change it. What a- commentary upon human hopes 
 ang^ expectations ! ' In the midst of life we are in death !' " 
 
 JThis account, as the reader will perceive, was like most 
 nMvspaper accounts of such things, sufficiently near the truth 
 to'avoid direct contradiction, and yet far enough from it to pro- 
 duce a very false impression. The fear of forestalling the 
 action of the judicial tribunals, of which every newspaper 
 editor has so lively a sense, usually lasts through the first para- 
 graph only ; and in nine cases out of ten, public opinion is 
 manufactured by ex parte statements, and quasi impartial 
 accounts. Where guilt is known to exist, the proofs are gene- 
 rally damning agaipst the first man suspected; and in too many 
 cases impartial investigation in the legal courts is insufficient to 
 counteract the prejudice thus formed; in cases too, where, 
 without this prejudice, innocence would appear as clear as 
 noonday.- ' 
 
 In the case before us, however, there was not so much injury 
 done as usually follows such unauthorized accounts ; for most 
 of the readers of the paper had already settled upon the convic- 
 tion that Henry Glenn must be, and that no one else could be, 
 the guilty man. Those who knew him best were loth to be- 
 lieve him capable of such an act ; but when the note which 
 had led Eversham to his death was recognized as the writing, 
 although disguised, of Henry himself, even their faith gave 
 way. His acknowledgment that he had made the appointment 
 to meet Fanny, strengthened the conviction, while his denial 
 that he had redeemed it was more than counterbalanced by her 
 positive statement made before the coroner, that she had met 
 him and received her letters from his own hand. Her testi- 
 mony was corroborated also by Billings and Letton, who both 
 deposed that they had seen him going in that direction but a 
 few minutes before the murder. The cloak, the pistol, and the 
 letters above all, were proofs which at once convinced even the 
 most skeptics 1. Indeed, there was but one person in all the 
 town who expressed an adverse opinion. A large number of 
 persons were in the hall of Eversham's house, gathered in by 
 the alarm, even at the late hour at which the jury was assem- 
 bled. They were discussing the probabilities of the affair, all 
 without an exception settling upon Henry Glenn as the perpe- 
 
138 THE GLENNS. §>■ 
 
 trator of the deed ; when a small voiee was heard upon the 
 staircase — 
 
 '' I don't believe he did it!" 
 
 It was Billy Bates ; but when he was sought for to be ques- 
 tioned by the coroner, he was not to be found, and -no more was 
 thought of it. 
 
 " After the rendering of the verdict ' wilful murder' against 
 Henry, he was arrested without delay. It was very near day- 
 break when the officers went to the door -of his apartment, 
 within which the lights were still burning, though faint and 
 low. A knock, several times repeated, brought no answer ; and 
 the door was finally forced. Henry was found lying upon his 
 bed with all his clothes on, and in a sleep from which they 
 found it difficult to rouse him. 
 
 '' Come," said the officer, roughly shaking him, '' it's no use 
 to ' play possum' now ; you are as wide awake as any of us. 
 Get up !" 
 
 Henry at la«t opened his eyes, and gazed absently about him. 
 He seemed to be bewildered and unable to divine what the in- 
 , terruption meant. 
 
 " Is it ten o'clock ?" he asked. 
 
 " It is somewhat after ten, I think," said the officer, with a 
 coarse laugh. 
 
 " He is confused by his guilt," said one of the bystanders. 
 
 " He has been drinking to drown thought," said another, 
 pointing *o the bottles and glasses still on the table. 
 
 '' And has succeeded tolerably well it seems," said the first, 
 as Henry stood gazing with a perplexed air from one to an- 
 other. 
 
 '' Come," said the officer, " we have no time to wait. You 
 must go with me.'' 
 
 " Whither ?" Henry asked. 
 
 " To prison," answered the other. ■' Come — don't detain 
 us." 
 
 " To prison I" exclaimed Henry, now fairly awake. " Of 
 what am I accused ?'' 
 
 "How ignorant!" sneered the officer, giving no further 
 attention to his question, and attempting to lead him out. 
 
 '' Hold !" said Henry, in a voice now lou(J and stern. '' Hands 
 off, sir ! Not a step will I move from this spot till I know of 
 what I am accused, and by what authority you attempt to tak^ 
 me !" 
 
 " That's reasonable, any how," said the officer, cringing, as 
 such men always do before genuine resolution. '' You are 
 
A FAMILY BISTORT. liS9 
 
 accused of murder, sir," he continued in a tone much moder- 
 rated, " and I arrest you by Virtue of this warrant." 
 
 '' Stop, sir !" said Abram Glenn, striding in and pushing the 
 crowd sternly aside. " I'll not interfere with the discharge of 
 your duty, McLoud ; but before you arrest this young man, 
 leave me alone with him for five minutes." 
 
 " I do not know " commenced McLoud. 
 
 '' I know,'' interrupted Abram ; and as he spoke he took 
 him by the arm and led him out of the room. Pushing the 
 crowd after him, he shut and bolted the door, remaining alone 
 with his nephew. 
 
 ■' Now, Henry," said he calmly, taking his hand and seating 
 him upon the bed, " tell me at once all about this affair." 
 
 " For God's sake, uncle, tell me first what afiair it is ! I am 
 as ignorant as a child !" exclaimed the nephew. 
 
 " Have no concealment with me, Henry,'' said Abram , " I 
 must know how it happened that I may understand your 
 defence." 
 
 " My defence, uncle ?" Against what charge am I to be de- 
 fended 1 Nobody has told me a word !" 
 
 " Where were you at ten o'clock ?" asked Abram. 
 
 '■ What is the time now .'" said Henry. 
 
 " Five o'clock in the morning,'' Abram answered. 
 
 " Then I was here, and asleep," said Henry. 
 
 " Did you not have an appointment to " 
 
 "Yes," Henry interposed ; "but I fell asleep and have just 
 been awakened. I did not keep the appointment." 
 
 " You did not go there at all !" exclaimed his uncle. 
 
 '■ I did not," said Henry, " unless in my sleep, and I am not a 
 somnambulist, certainly." 
 
 " You know nothing of what happened there, then ? 
 
 " No ; what did happen ? Did she go ?" 
 
 '' She went ; and so did Mr. Eversham," said Abram ; "while 
 there the latter was killed, and you are accused of the deed. — 
 Why did you not go ?" 
 
 Henry covered his face with his hands and his chest heaved 
 with* excitement. 
 
 " Killed !" he exclaimed. " Dead ?" , 
 
 ■' Yes, dead," his uncle answered ; '' and you are accused of 
 killing him." 
 
 " 1 have not been out of the ofiice since sunset," said Henry. 
 " Sleep overcame me early in the evening, and I knew nothing 
 until I was aroused by McLoud." 
 
 " You did not hear this crowd enter, then ?" 
 
140 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " I heard nothing till McLoud shook me." 
 
 " Did you intend to keep this appointment ?" 
 
 "' Most certainly," said Henry, "and had made every prepara- 
 tion to do so. I have the letters here " he stepped to the 
 
 drawer and put his hand in. 
 
 " They are gone I" he exclaimed. There was no mistaking 
 his look of unfeigneid surprise. Abram was convinced at once of 
 his innocence. 
 
 " Who was here with you in the evening 1" he asked- 
 
 Henry named them. " And, now that I reflect," he added, 
 " I must have fallen asleep while they were here, for I do not 
 recollect their going away." 
 
 " You must have been drinking a good deal of wine,'' said 
 Abram, approaching the table. 
 
 " Not much,'' said Henry ; " at most, not enough to produce 
 intoxication." 
 
 '■ It might cause drowsiness, nevertheless," said Abram. 
 
 '' It did," said Henry, " even before I lay down." 
 
 Abram stepped to the door and opened it without a word. 
 The officer, who had been knocking against it during this con- 
 ference, now entered, followed by the crowd, who almost filled 
 the room. 
 
 " Let no man touch a single article here," said Abram, 
 in a loud voice. 
 
 " We are not thieves," muttered several. 
 
 " Very little better, some of you, I think,'" said Abram. 
 
 " Is Dr. Holcomb present?" he continued. " I saw him not 
 long since." 
 
 '' Yes," said a quiet-looking old gentleman, stepping forward 
 into the light. 
 
 " Will you be good enough. Doctor," said Abram, " to take 
 charge of those bottles and glasses 1 Your testimony as to their 
 contents may be important." 
 
 The Doctor did as he was directed ; Henry submitted to the 
 arrest, and the whole party left the apartment. 
 
CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 UaateTless pa^Bion sways us to the mood 
 Of what it likes or loathes. — Macbeth. 
 There is mnoh that hath no merit hut its trntli 
 And no excnse but nature. — Festus. 
 Mylordi here are letters for .you. — Henst-IV. 
 
 When several phenomena have been traced directly to a 
 common origin, there is a strong inclination among inquirers to 
 refer all kindred effects to the same cause ; but whether this is 
 attributable to logical induction, or is the result of a too hasty 
 generalization,' may safely be questioned. There is, without 
 doubt, in the character of every individual some ruling principle 
 of action, upon whose operation in one case we may safely pre- 
 dicate his action in another ; but it would not be logical to ex- 
 pect of another man, even though h6 be generally ruled by the 
 same principle, like action in like circumstances. For the very 
 same motives, with precisely equal force, operating in an 
 exactly similar manner, and producing a course of action with 
 the same animus, may, by reason of the difference between the 
 men intellectually and morally, lead one man on one path, and 
 another man on a very different path. All the character — 
 every ingredient w^hich goes to make up what we call charac- 
 ter — operates under every set of circumstances With precisely 
 the same force which marks its action under another, and it is 
 onlyJ)ecause all are not equally strong in the organization, that 
 each does not contribute equally to the result. It is no doubt 
 true that a man may, at one time, be more completely under the 
 influence of a certain motive than at another time ; and those 
 who examine this subject superficially, will hence conclude that 
 the power of the motive varies at various times. But it is not 
 so, as can be negatively proven. For, if it were so, all niental 
 and moral philosop^ would be at an end, until we could so 
 estimate the power of each motive, as to determine with accu- 
 
142 THE GLENNS. 
 
 racy its exaot pressure, at all times, upon every individual. 
 There would be no calculating upon men in any circumstances ; 
 for their action virould depend upon accidents and states of mind 
 and feeling, of which in the nature of things, we could know 
 absolutely nothing. 
 
 Those philosophers, then, who infer, from the relation of one 
 effect to its cause, a like relation of another phenomenon, though 
 not ascertained, to the same cause, are nearer to the truth than 
 such as hold that each action has its own separate motive, to 
 which can b^ traced only that effect. The traits of human 
 character are of different heights i-n different individuals, and 
 stand, like a crowd of men, some towering a head and shoulders 
 above others, and some apparently crouching to the ground. A 
 level canopy, impressible and horizontal, desceftding upon such 
 a crowd, is indented by the taller first and by the tallest most — 
 while an uneven canopy, let down in like manner, may be most 
 impressed by the shortest man. But the strength of each is 
 equal to itself in every case ; the shorter man is no stronger in 
 the latter instance than in the former, nor is the taller man less 
 powerful because he makes less impression, or is not so clearly 
 seen. The course of one's action in a given case, is like the flat 
 surface thus lowered upon the uneven crowd, to be indented 
 first by the highest motive ; but if prejudice or passion iiave 
 broken the plain, it may touch the lowest principle of action 
 first. And this explains the reason why the same man acts so 
 differently at difierent times, though apparently in similar cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 Besides the peculiar ingredients which go to make up indi- 
 vidual character, there are undoubtedly general principles which 
 apply to all the race in common, though not in a common de- 
 gree. Thus, every one is selfish, but some are more so than 
 others; all are credulous and prone to delusion or self-deception, 
 though one may be very much while another is very little so ; 
 every member of the human family has a distinct religious 
 sense, though it is so repressed in many as to appear quite dead ; 
 all men are social, though some are morose and solitary, and so 
 on throughout the race, and notwithstanding a hundred'^teaieral 
 characteristics. And it is because of this that we say-3Bthose 
 who reason from the individual to the race, are nearer to the 
 truth, though still distant, than those who isolate each human 
 being, and refuse to recognize general principles. Foremost, 
 and most respectable, among the former are those who refer all 
 human acts to considerations of self ; andjt is with the view of 
 giving an. exemplification of this univeftl principle, that we 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 14S 
 
 have written what the reader, (if he reads it aX all,) will con- 
 sider rather an ill-timed speculation. 
 
 Fanny was grieved for Eversham, as every kind heart must 
 be, for one thus cut off in the midst of his days, and sent unpre- 
 pared to try the '' dread unknown." But she was not nearly so 
 much so as she would have been, had he not been her be- 
 trothed. The reader will understand without explanation. 
 There is often a curious mingling of joy and grief in our hearts, 
 when we are even at a loss to know which predominates. And 
 so it was with Fanny. Under the influence of wounded pride, 
 she had hastily betrothed herself ; but tvlien her resentment had 
 cooled, and she recognized the folly of her course, she saw no 
 escape from her pledge, and deliberately resolved to abide the 
 issue.' In doing so, she took a melancholy pleasure in dw^elling, 
 in fancy, upon the thousand sources of unhappiness by which 
 she was to be compassed round ; it even pleased her heart to 
 think that, if she could not be happy with him whom she loved, 
 at least she would but exist with another. In this, and in a 
 thousand other ways, she bad schooled herself to look upon the 
 approaching sacrifice, if not with pleasure, at least with calm- 
 ness. And until the catastrophe which freed her from her 
 bonds, she was unconscious of the degree of distaste with which 
 she viewed a relation to be thus established. The revulsion 
 from despondency to hop© — 'the resilient bound of her spirits — 
 at once opened her eyes, and she reproached herself with tri- 
 umphing at the death of a fellow-being. She was, however, 
 unjust ; it was not his death for which she rejoiced, the feeling 
 was that which followed the lifting of a burthen from her heart, 
 relieving it of a weiight, whose absence alone was a jay. Yet 
 this could not last, for there was a source of grief which lay be- 
 hind her sacrifice to Eversham — the estrangement which had 
 brought that sacrifice about — and it was now re-opened with 
 redoubled force. She had unconsciously viewed Eversham, 
 while he lived, as one who stood between her and her love '; 
 and when it was announced that he was gone, it seemed at first 
 that there was nothing to forbid her rushing into Henry's arms. 
 Thejfeil was lifted for a moment, and the light shone in, only 
 to lesRre her heart darker than ever when it was withdrawn. 
 She suddenly remembered their estrangement — even now, when 
 she was no longer pledged, she was forbidden to speak I Wken 
 she recalled his contemptuous treatment, even the removal of 
 Eversham, relief as it had seemed, became a new misfortune-^^ 
 for it deprived her of a refuge ! She no longer thought of him 
 as one who was drs^ging her violently to a hated altar — she 
 
144 THE GLENNS. 
 
 forgot her defiance — -she remembered his kindness, and sorrowed 
 for him sincerely. But her sorrow w^as quite as much relief ; 
 if he could still have claimed her hand she would have felt no 
 regret ; she grieved for his death not only because he had been 
 cut off by violence in the prime of life, but also because his death 
 threw her back upon her own devices. 
 
 She had testified before the coroner that it was Henry whom 
 she had met in the wood, and the inference was unavoidable 
 that Eversham had fallen by his hand. But in all her reflec- 
 tions upon that subject, strange as it may appear, she had never 
 thought of Henry as a criminal ; and though she regretted 
 Eversham's death, it had never occurred to her that she ought 
 to blame him by whose hand he had fallen. 
 
 What grieved her most, or at least as much as aught else, 
 was the publicity necessarily given to her name, the license 
 which all possessed to canvass her most private feelings and 
 affairs. A sensitive mind always shrinks from such publicity ; 
 and there is no stronger evidence of indelicacy than a fondness 
 for notoriety. The rule is equally applicable to both sexes, 
 with a difference, though not in degree. Modest merit has 
 always been the theme of praise, and even at the risk of appear- 
 ing trite, we must join in the commendation. But that which 
 is properly called called merit in man, is duty in woman; and 
 though one of the stronger sex may possess claims upon our ad- 
 miration without being in the least diffident, the weaker is 
 always worthless without modesty. That which in a man 
 would be abtruseness, would in a woman be indecency ; and a 
 want of severe delicacy, which in the former might be excusa- 
 ble, would in the latter be intolerable. 
 
 Female character is one of the many things which may be 
 injured without being assailed ; and a common, licensed ^^ of 
 a woman's name by the vulgar, though no offence be imputed 
 to her, must stain her reputation, if she has any to be stained. 
 If she has none worth preserving, she may seek notoriety with 
 impunity ; but if she has the delicacy which belongs to her 
 sex, she will shrink from giving any one license to speak of her 
 otherwise than in the most commonplace manner. ThArulgar 
 and unlady-like vanity which covets the wonder or admiration 
 of the mob, exists only in the minds of such as are fit to be the 
 companions of those whose approbation they seek ; and the soul 
 which can be satisfied with, or even can endure, publicity like 
 this, deserves nothing higher or nobler than the vivais of the 
 rabble. All owtrA things in woman are merely affectations, so 
 long as their possessors can retain their title to be classed among 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 145 
 
 irut women ; but it is an ordinance of creation, that everything 
 shall tend towards consistency ; and the constant practice of 
 anything offensive to delicacy, will ultimately produce an im- 
 modesty which will render the habit appropriate or in char- 
 acter. 
 
 Fanny then was grieved, in addition to her sorrow for the 
 death of Eversham, that anything should have occurred to 
 make her name common upon the tongues of vulgar people ; 
 for she shrank from notoriety with the delicacy which we 
 ascribe to all true women. She felt humbled,' lost a part of her 
 self-respect, became dissatisfied with those around her, and 
 secluded herself from her most intimate friends. Her father 
 became alarmed, and urged her to return the numerous visits 
 which were thrust upon her, in greater numbers than ever be- 
 fore. But she understood the motives which prompted most of 
 them, and became suspicious of the rest ; she steadily refused 
 to go out, confined herself almost entirely to hef room, and 
 finally denied herself to those who called upon her. The neigh- 
 borhood in which she had been born, in which all her life had 
 been spent, became distasteful to her ; she longed for nothing 
 so much as to fly from the scenes of her childhood, and in some 
 straflge place to be at rest. She, however, knew this was im- 
 possible ; and in despondency betook herself to Solitude. 
 
 One evening, about four weeks after the death of Eversham, 
 she was as usually sitting in her chamber, listlessly turning 
 over the leaves of her portfolio, and arranging for^jthe hundredth 
 time the drawings it contained, when her fathe'r entered with 
 an open letter in his hand. She did not look up, and thus did 
 not perceive the smile of satisfaction which played upon his 
 face, nor the erect and exultant mein which marked his gait 
 for the first time for several years. But he soon drew her atten- 
 tion? • 
 
 '■ Fanny," said he, drawing a chair up beside her, and placing 
 his arm round her waist, '' has not all this trouble and talk 
 made you discontented ?" 
 
 '■ It has rendered distasteful," said she, " all the things I 
 previously liked ; and in that sense has made me discon- 
 tented." 
 
 " Even your home has lost its charm," said he. 
 
 " No," she replied. " On the contrary, home is the only 
 place where I am even partially satisfied ; but perhaps it is so 
 only because it is a refuge from a society which I can no longer 
 endure." . 
 
 " 1 suspected something of the sort," said her f?ither, with a 
 "'■ ' '7 
 
146 THE GLENNS. 
 
 sigh of relief; " and I have felt in the same way myself. I am 
 sure your loss must affect you even more sensibly." 
 
 " It is not so much that," said she, quickly ; " for I doubt 
 
 whether I have not rather gained than lost " 
 
 •'What!" he interrupied. "Gained?" 
 " Even so,'' said she, calmly. " And it is therefore not that 
 for which I need a refuge. I am convinced that I could never 
 have been happy with Mr. Eversham, and I doubt whether I 
 would have lived with him twelve months." 
 " You astonisli me!" said he. 
 
 ''I suppose so," she rejoined, coolly. " Nevertheless, it is 
 true that I do not grieve for his death bec?iuse it is a loss to me, 
 except as I am deprived of a refuge from things, if possible, 
 more distasteful. No one can grieve more sincerely than I do 
 for his death — but not on my own account; for I repeat, I lost 
 nothing, but rather gained by the event." 
 
 Her father withdrew his arm and gazed into her face. 
 " I see you do not understand me," she continued. 
 " I do not, indeed !" said he. 
 
 "You think if I consider myself a gainer, I should be better 
 contented with my lot; and were this the only circumstance to 
 annoy me, I would be so. But it is not,'' she continued, rising 
 and walking rapidly to and fro across , the room ; " I cannot go 
 outside the door without seeing that I am the subject of the 
 remarks and comments of all the people I meet ; my name is 
 as common among all circles as if I were a murderess ; I am 
 dragged from the privacy in which I should live, into the glare 
 of scandal, and my character and actions are the staple of gos- 
 sip among all the idle and malicious. I am not secure from 
 intrusion even at home. Scores of people, -whose fe^were 
 never before inside the threshold, are thronging here, mojjl^ by 
 an impertinent curiosity ; and I know with what relish they 
 expatiate upon all they see, and relate a hundred things they 
 have not seen. I know there is not a tea-table, nor a social 
 party, within twenty miles of this spot, where the conversatioii 
 is made up of aught else but my actions and my affairs. While 
 this lasts — and God knows when it wiU'endl — i*cannot breathe 
 in peace ; I cannot bear it with patience, and yet I see no 
 escape. I must endure it as best I may, until Providence shall 
 release me !" 
 
 She threw herself impatiently into her chair again, and push- 
 ing the portfolio back, leaned her head upon her hand. Her 
 father gazed upon her in silence. These were feelino-sof which 
 he had had no suspicion, which, indeed, he was not so consti- 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 147 
 
 tuted as to anticipate. New ideas came glimmering into his 
 mind ; and though he had entered the room for the purpose of 
 proposing that tliey leave the neighborhood, he now, for the first 
 time, began to think that she wonld consent without hesitation. 
 He had almost forgotten the letter which he still held in his 
 hand ; but these thoughts reminded him of it again. 
 
 " Would you like lo leave the place, then, for a time V he 
 asked. 
 
 " Forever !" she said quickly, raising her eyes eagerly. " Is 
 it possible to do so ?" 
 
 " Would you go willingly, if it were V he pursued. 
 
 " Willingly !" she exclaimed. " I would start to-morrow,— 
 I would start now, this moment ! — and be glad, happy, to think 
 that I would never see the place or one of its citizens again I" 
 
 " I was afraid you would not consent," said he. 
 
 " Only tell me we can go," shg said. 
 
 " Well,'' he began," you have often heard me speak of my 
 brother, Martin, who left home some twenty years ago V 
 
 Fanny assented. 
 
 " We heard of him in the South-west occasionally for several 
 yearg; and even after the beginning of the Texan revolution, a 
 few letters from him, — some by me and others by his wife's 
 brother. After the battle of San Jacinto, however, no further 
 tidings came from him ; and as we knew he was in Houston's 
 army, we supposed he had fallen there. It is now several years 
 since that event, and although I sometimes though we might 
 hear of Martin again, I had at last abandoned all hope. Just 
 now, however, I received this letter ; and it is the news which 
 it contains that induces me to talk to you about leaving this 
 countty and emigrating to Texas." 
 
 '^hywhere," said Fanny, taking the letter. " Rather than 
 stay here, even go there !" 
 
 " It is not so lawless a country as it has been," urged Mr. 
 Vincent ; " even before the revolution the laws had begun to be 
 ■administered and the population was looking forward to a place 
 among law-abiding States. Now, it is as safe a place of 
 residence as the most, and even safer than many, of the 
 States." 
 
 " I perceive you are determined to find it all it should be," 
 said Fanny, still holding the letter unopened. " But I am glad 
 to see it, because it indicates that you have determined to reside 
 there." 
 
 " That depends upon you," he said. " But read the letter." 
 
 She opened it and reacf as follows : 
 
148 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " Mr. Vincent : Dear Sir, — I have to aanounce to you that 
 your brother, Martin R. Vmcent, late of Austin, in this republic, 
 died in this city ten days ago, of the yellow fever. He was on 
 his way to the States when he was attacl^ed by the disease, and 
 his last moments regretted nothing so muph as that he was un- 
 able to see you once more before he died. 
 
 " He was seized at his death of a large amount of real 
 estate, (besides personal property) all of which he has be- 
 queathed to you and to your children (if any). His wife died 
 some years ago, and his only remaining chfld was killed by the 
 Camanches in the year 1840. If you have any phildren, there- 
 fore, they are his heirs, according to a will which is now in my 
 possession, duly executed and authenticated. If you have but 
 one child, it is the sole heir to the whole property, expepting 
 one plantation on the Brazos Bottom, which is yours for the 
 term of your life. This is the most, valuable single piece of 
 property devised, netting, I presume, an income of eight thou- 
 sand dollars per annum. If you have no children, the property 
 is yours in fee simple; and in any case, you are appointed joint 
 executor with myself, — a trust which I have accepted to be 
 held only until your arrival in this country. 
 
 "A large part of the real estate lies in and around San Anto- 
 nio de Bexar ; and every acre of it is increasing in value at the 
 rate of twenty per cent yearly. Properly managed, it might be 
 made to produce thirty thousand per annum; and that portioa 
 which lies near Castroville can be sold to the colony or leased 
 on advantageous terms, say, so as to yield ten thousand a-year 
 for twenty years. Several tenements in San Antonio are in- 
 cluded in the bequest; and though now of little value they are 
 rapidly enhancing. One of them, occupied, as I think, as a 
 gaming house, is rented to two men (Ellis and Hartner) at'' seven 
 hundred a-year. The whole property, if well managed"|^ught 
 to yield, while the sales of lands to emigrants continue, at least 
 sixty t'housand, and after that, at the lowest, forty thousand per 
 annum. Ypu will bee the importance of your presence in Texajg 
 without delay. 
 
 " Please advise me at your earliest convenience ; and on your 
 arrival, I shall be happy to render you any service in the power 
 of " Dear Sir, 
 
 " Your most obedient and humble servant, 
 " Thomas G. Johnstone, Attorney. 
 
 " Galveston, Texas, July 30, 1843." , . 
 
 ■'You are sure there is no' mistake about this, father?" said 
 Fanny, when she had finished reading the letter. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 149 
 
 "How can there be any mistake, my child?" demanded her 
 father earnestly, as if not liking the supposition. " Martj-n was 
 there, — this is his name, — ^lam his brother, — you are my daugh- 
 ter, — and are possessed of at least fifty thousand dollars per 
 annum! How can there be any mistake V 
 
 "Would to (lod the letter had come two months sooner I" 
 she exclaimed. '' A violent death and a great crime woiild have 
 been saved, had ij; been so !" 
 
 '' How so 1" asked her father, 
 
 "You would not then have urged me to this marriage," she 
 said. 
 
 " And, you think, Henry Glenn Would not then have been a 
 murderer ?" said Mr. Vincent. 
 
 Fanny rose from her chair. ''Father," said she, "Henry 
 Glenn's name I do not wish to hear. He may have killed Ever- 
 sham ; [ have no doubt he did ; but that he is a murderer I deny. 
 You think differently : let us therefore avoid the discussion. 
 Let us rather prepare to leave the platSe, and when we are clear 
 of it, let us forget the' persons and events which have made it 
 distasteful. At all events, I wish to hear you speak of Henry 
 Glenn no more." * 
 
 She.benl her deep eye full upon him, and thoiigh he was 
 strengthened and elated by the tidings of his wealth, he cowered 
 before it, as if it were above him — as it Was. 
 
 ''Well, well, my daughter," he said ; '' let us say no more. 
 You will go to Texas with me, of course ; and as I do not wish 
 to return, that is all I desire. We will forget these people." 
 
 He extended his arms as he spoke, and his daughter threw 
 herself into them sobbing violently. Suppressed emotion had 
 at last found vent ; the fountain of feeling was broken up, and 
 a floq(4. of tears relieved the fever of her heart. Her father did 
 not attempt to soothe her ; but pressing her to his bosom, his 
 own eyes ■were filled with tears, and compa.ssiou for her drove 
 out the sordid feelings which had. taken possession of his heart. 
 ,J3y degrees she grew calm ; tears had refreshed her soul, as the 
 rain waters the desert in summer ; and when she looked up a 
 smile played about her lips, and though faint it was clear — the 
 sign of returning peace. 
 
 " When can we go, father ?" she asked. 
 
 " We must stay till after this trial," he answered : " we are 
 both recognized as witnesses. But after that we will be free to 
 depart as soon as we desire." 
 
 " We cannot go before, then 1" she said. 
 
 " No; even if we could, I am not ready. When we leave 
 
150 THE GLENNS. 
 
 this place, I do not wish to return ; and in four weelis I can so 
 arrange my affairs that there will be no necessity for doing so. 
 Befor? the end pf that time, also, the trial will take place, and 
 we can go then, without delay." 
 
 '' Let us be ready, then," said she. And she rose and com- 
 menced her preparations, as if she had been expecting to start 
 
 on the morrow. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Four weeks had passed away since Henry ^s arrest, and dur- 
 ing more than half the time, he had been closely confined. He 
 had, however, at the end of that period, been brought by a writ 
 of Habeas Corpus before the Circuit Judge, and admitted to 
 bail. The Judge was an old lawyer, who had spent more than 
 twenty years of his life at the bar, and had thus acquired the 
 insight into men's motives and actions, which to the uninitiated 
 often appears like intuition. He saw that there was some mys- 
 tery about the affair ; and although but little progress had been 
 made by Henry's friends, in the attempt to show that he had 
 not kept his appointment with Fanny, enough was proven to 
 throw, doubt upon the matter in the mind of the Judge ; the 
 .prisoner was consequently released on heavy bonds, which were 
 at once filed by Uncle Abram. What it was, which justified 
 this doubt, will appear in the course of the narrative, even if the 
 reader has not already anticipated it. 
 
 He was now at liberty, and with the strength of a healthy 
 mind, set earnestly about preparing his defence. His own sus- 
 picions, and those of Uncle Abram, naturally rested upon James; 
 but no evidence transpired 'to strengthen the conviction, except 
 the testimony of the physician, who took charge of the wine 
 and glasses at the request of Uncle A-bram. And even among 
 the lew who believed Henry innocent, this was considered evi- 
 dence as strong against Billings and Letton as against James. 
 No one had as yet remembered that it was James who poured 
 the wine for all the gentlemen present; and if they had, James 
 was so popular among all who knew the parties, that but little 
 weight would have been given to the circumstance. Henry 
 himself did not at first suspect James. He knew that the sus- 
 picions of Billings had been aroused by his preparations to raeot 
 his appointment ; and he tliought it probable that he and Letton 
 had gone to the place where the meeting was to take place, and 
 then by some accident had met, quarrelled with, and killed Mr. 
 Eversham. It would seem strange that he should entertain this 
 supposition for a moment. But it was suggested by James, and 
 it must be remembered that James had possessed liis unlimited 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. ] j I 
 
 confidence. This, however, did not last long ; the more he re- 
 flected upon it, the rnore improbable it appeared ; and after the 
 examination before the Judge, he became convinced thaf^James 
 had himself been the perpetrator of the deed. Yet he was not 
 convinced that it had been premeditated. He believed that his 
 havihg been suddenly overcome by a narcotic, accidentally in 
 his glass, had first suggested to his cousin the possibility of per- 
 sonating him — that he had accordingly gone, with no other in- 
 tention than to meet Fanny and make the exchange — that when 
 he arrived tliere, Mr. Eversham had attacked him, and been 
 killed in the affray. It will be seen that this liypothesis left out 
 of the account the note received by Eversham, which had really 
 produced the catastrophe ; but it must be remembered again, 
 that James' influence over Henry had been acquired and 
 strengthened,. under circumstances which made him feel grate- 
 ful for advice and sympathy, and that therefore he had given 
 complete confidence in return. The circumstance of the note 
 he did not attempt to explain, or if he thought of it at all, his 
 uncle's explanation was that which was received — that James 
 had written the note for the purpose of exciting Eversham's 
 jealousy, and pi-eventing a marriage which was distasteful to 
 James as well as to Henry; and that the other events had fol- 
 lowed as related. 
 
 Upon this supposition it was impossible that Henry should 
 feel much resentment towards James for the dangerous position 
 in which he was placed. It had been with a strange mixture 
 of regret and pleasure that he had heard of Eversham's death, 
 for his first thought was of Eanny. If the future bridegroom 
 was murdered, the marriage could not be consummated ; and 
 the thought almost reconciled him to the false accusation against 
 himself. He often weighed in his own mind the question 
 whether it was not better that he should rest under the imputa^ 
 tion of a crime, than that Fanny should have married Ever- 
 sham; and though at each recurrence the thought was dis- 
 missed as ungenerous and selfish, it returned again and again. 
 His feelings were indeed of the same character "with those of 
 Fanny ; but he had not an equal justification. 
 
 For a few days after Henry's arrest, James had exhibited a 
 perturbation which was fortunately attributed to anxiety about 
 his cousin's position. He was ruthless and unscrupulous by 
 nature ; but he was not sufficiently inured to crime — ^he was 
 not far enough below the impulses of honor — to preserve his 
 self-possession without faltering ; and the consciousness of mur- 
 der was a feeling of whose force he as yet knew little. A few 
 
152 THE GLENN'S. 
 
 days sufficed, however, to enable him to regain his composure ; 
 and though he wore an anxious^ haggajrd looli, but few thought 
 of ascribing it to the proper cause. He became nervous again 
 when Henry was released on bail ; but this, too, soon wore off j 
 and though Henry's coldness disturbed him sometimes, it nerved 
 him also, by furnishing him a reason for resentment, not the I6ss 
 pow.erful because without foundation. He never went to " The 
 Glen" because Henry was never absent from (here ; and 
 though there was no outbreak between them, the little inter- 
 course they had was distant and distrustful. 
 
 This long explanation may seem tedious ; but it is given to 
 hasten the flow of our story, to bring us at once to the day of 
 Henry's trial, and at the same time to. display the posture of 
 affairs when it commenced. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It doth appear yon are a worthy jlidgo. — Mehohakt or Venice. 
 
 Bring in the evidenoe : 
 Thou robed man of juatice, take thy place. — Lkar. 
 Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you 
 To leave this place. — ^Aa You Like It. 
 
 Independently of any speculations about the propriety or 
 expediency of capital punishment, a trial at bar, where the issue 
 is life or death to the accused, is one of the most astounding 
 spectacles to be seen in a civilized land It may be an arro- 
 gant assumption in society to claim the right to take human 
 life ; but if it be so, it is equally so to pretend that an individ- 
 ual may do so without blame in self-defence ; for it is only this 
 which justifies capital punishment. That this justification 
 should be clearly established, is both law and sound reason — 
 two things, by-the-bye, which, notwithstanding the boast of my 
 Lord Coke, are not always identical. To establish this defence 
 in the case of society, it must be assumed that he who commits 
 murder thereby renders himself dangerous to'social order; and 
 though this will probably not be denied, even by those who 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 153 
 
 ■wish to reform our criminal codes iti this particular, the trial of 
 the question is, we repeat, a solemn spectacle. Its frequency 
 has rendered men familiar with it, and thus has been depre- 
 ciated the solemnity with which it is viewed. Among no class 
 of men is this indifference more widely diffused than among 
 those who should feel the heaviest responsibility ^tlie officers 
 of our courts. Of these, perhaps, the lawyers are mdst callous, 
 though honorable exceptions are everywhere to be found. The 
 nature of their occupation is such as to give them a caiholic 
 indifference to its cotisequences ; and though they put forth in 
 every cause an intellectual power proportioned to its import- 
 ance, it is usually the earnestness of a man playing for another 
 a game in which he has himself no stake. To counteract this 
 tendency in some degree, they generally have professional pride, 
 or the spirit of opposition, so constantly exhibited in courts of 
 law. And in nine cases out of ten, where a lawyer shows 
 great dhagrin and disappointment on account of a failure, it is 
 more his own reputation than the loss of his client for which 
 he mourns. 
 
 There is a class of lawyers the reverse of this, who thor- 
 oughly identify themselves with the interests of their clients, 
 and feel a defeat more keenly than even those whose rights or 
 demands have been denied. These are far more earnest than 
 the other class ; and since earnestness always gives a degree of 
 power, they may be better lawyers. But where one merges 
 his individuality into that of his client; he is apt to see with his 
 client's eyes ; he may be blinded by prejudice, misled by oppo- 
 sition, and finally overcome by the cooler head and better gov- 
 erned tongue of an adversary who has no feeling in the con- 
 test but professional pride. What he gains in zeal may be lost 
 in excitement ; for perfect freedom from agitation is a " condi- 
 tion precedent" to professional success. 
 
 The best embodiment of self-possession among the lawyers 
 on the circuit when this trial was to take place, was a Mr. 
 Leigh. With but few of the powers of an advocate — possess- 
 ing, except in conversation, hardly average fluency — having no 
 proclivity to declamation, exhibiting but little imagination, and 
 never displaying anything like fancy — not more than ordinarily 
 captivating in personal appearance, with a voice dry and un- 
 musical, and a manner rather stiff than graceful, he was still 
 the most successful among all the men of ability on his circuit. 
 In the West a lawyer must have some decided talent in order 
 to even a moderate degree of success. There is but little 
 " office business," and no routine of papers requiring accurate 
 17* 
 
154 THE GLENNS. 
 
 knowledge and exact habits, legal counsel produces no part of 
 his income, and gives him no reputation. If therefore he has 
 any character among those from whom the supplies of lawyers 
 are drawn, the inference is fair that he has more than merely 
 formal or mechanical sltill. Leigh's reputation was deservedly 
 very high ; not for any ornamental or meritorious qualities he 
 possessed, as we have said, but for talents far different and much 
 more valuable. He had a clear, acute, and practical intellect ; 
 beneath an exterior apparently not very alert, lay powers of 
 observation which nothing could escape ; and moveinents which 
 seemed slow, and sometimes even indolent, were the results of 
 the most comprehensive reflBction and deepest foresight. Not a 
 word could be uttered by a witness or by his adversary of which 
 he did not at once see the bearing, and not an action was de- 
 tailed in the evidence of which he could not forthwith divine 
 the motive. His watchfulness was as singular as his quick 
 perception, and his. persistence in following a thread of testi- 
 mony was as firm and unswerving as the course of a star. He 
 never forgot anything ; he could double upon his own track in- 
 finitely, and yet never lose his way ; he seemed to have a 
 " second sight" for all perjuries ; the relations of detached facts 
 were as plain to him as if all the links were laid before him ; 
 and every side and aspect of any given fact seemed to be pre- 
 sented at once. Xhis was all the result of quick perception and 
 accurate reflection. But in addition to these he hadanoner 
 talent, without which he would have been at the bar pny a 
 common man — the power to make others see things as plainly 
 as he saw them, the faculty of grouping in such a manner as, 
 in one glance, to present an intelligible view not only of the 
 facts, but of his own combinations and inferences. He was hot 
 a logician, it Is true — but few lawyers are ; but he was forjt-gal 
 purposes far stronger than any logician could be — an accu^rate 
 observer and a subtle reasoner. The first article of his creed 
 was, "Nothing is hidden ;" the second, " Nothing is improba- 
 ble ;'' and the third, " The mind which commands itself com- 
 mands all others." The principles which governed his action 
 were threefold also : first, " Never set out on the road till you 
 know whither it will lead you ;" second, " Never conclude that 
 testimony is true because it is given under oath ;" and, third, 
 "While all is not lost, all may be gained." He acted upon 
 these principles with the most perfect consistency — pursued all 
 his objects with indomitable perseverance, and preserved, amid 
 irritations and distractions, complete self-possession. He never 
 identified himself with his client; he had no feelin"- in common 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 155 
 
 with him ; he tooli his interests under his protection, and 
 watched over tliem with sleepless vigilance. But for all pur- 
 poses of feeling, he seemed to be a being of another order, 
 above and beyond all emotion, exultation, or disappointment. 
 When he took a man's cause to manage, it was for the time 
 his cause: the client had nothing to do with it; he controlled 
 client, cause, witnesses, and often pouns and juries too. His 
 mind was of that hard nature, whi(;h must always make an 
 impression where it toutjhes, and his pertinacity alone some- 
 times won for him what all else would have lost. Added to 
 these gifts, which fitted him for a lawyer best, but extremely 
 well for anything to which he might have turned, he possessed 
 accurate and profound knowledge of the law ; and rapid appli- 
 cation and a ready memory enabled him to use his learning to 
 the very best advantage. 
 
 Such was the man employed to defend Henry Glenn. 
 
 When Uncle Abram went to his office, two days after 
 Henry's arrest, he found him walking quietly to and fro across 
 the room, holding a bundle of papers grasped tight between his 
 fingers. 
 
 " Good morning," said he, stopping and setting out a chair. 
 " Sit down — you look fatigued." 
 
 "I have had a long' walk," said Abram, seating himself. 
 '■ I came in this morning to retain you for my nephew, Henry." 
 
 "That's a bad affair," said Leigh. 
 
 " It is, indeed I" rejoined Abram. " But with your assistance 
 I do not despair of clearing it up " 
 
 ■' You think him innocent then*!" said the lawyer. 
 
 " Yes ; though I admit the circumstances are very strong." 
 
 '' I thought the evidence was positive," said Leigh. 
 
 " It is," replied Abram. " But I think it rests upon a mis- 
 take " 
 
 '' It must be so, if he is innocent," interrupted Leigh. " But 
 give me an outline of your reasons for thinking so." 
 
 Abram detailed the evidence, and added the circumstances 
 upon which his doubts were founded. 
 
 " Pretty- strong," muttered the lawyer, gazing vacantly on the 
 floor, as if seeking some escape from the inference of Henry's 
 guilt. " But the evidence against him is not circumstantial, and 
 in that we have an advantage." 
 
 " Most persons think that a disadvantage," remarked Abram. 
 
 " Most persons are wrong," replied Leigh. " Witnesses who 
 swear positively may be either perjured or mistaken ; but a 
 chain of circumstances, well established, cannot lie. It is only 
 
156 THE GLENNS. 
 
 negligence, or ignorance or haste which can make it dan- 
 geroris." 
 
 " Some further conversation ensued, when Abram asked : 
 
 " Is thete anything else yon will want of me now V 
 
 "Yes," said Leigh; "a thousand dollars and a list of 
 witnesses." _ . 
 
 Abram paid the money and gave him the names, with a brief 
 note of what each would depose. 
 
 " Now," said Leig^, as he placed the bills in his pocket, " our 
 first movement must be to get him released on bail. We mOst 
 resort to the habeas corpus; and even if we should fail, we will 
 at least gain an advantage in knowing pjecisely what the evi- 
 dence is." 
 
 " Can. you give me no encouragement to hope for an acquit- 
 tal," asked Abram. 
 
 " I can only say, never despair," Leigh answered ; and Abram 
 left him. 
 
 A few days after this the case had been heard by virtue of the 
 process mentioned by Leigh, and, as the reader knows, Henry 
 had been released, though under heavy bonds. Thus the matter 
 rested for several weeks, Henry confining himself almost exclu- 
 sively to ' The Glen,' and leaving, as Leigh required, all prepara- 
 tion for the trial to hisjcounsel. When the latter wanted any in- 
 formation, which was only twice during the interval we have 
 spoken of, he rode out to Abram's place and held a short, abrupt 
 consultation with his client ; and from these meetings he always 
 went away without giving the faintest intimation of his inten- 
 tions, or allowing himself to be questioned on the subject. 
 
 '■ I am retained," he would say, when Henry's anxiety over- 
 came the reserve which Leigh had imposed, " to manage your 
 defence ; let me conduct it, and if I do not bring you safely 
 through, question me afterwards about the reason." 
 
 He seemed to be as jealous of the interference of his client as 
 he would have been'of any one else. He might have another 
 reason, also, the fear that his combinations might be deranged 
 by interference. He had a trusty agent " sounding" all who 
 were known to be witnesses, and seeking diligently for more. 
 His line of defence was laid down ; and he had sufficient confi- 
 dence in its safety to stake the issue on its result. Affairs were 
 in this posture when the semi-annual term of the court com- 
 menced. On the first day of the term, the grand jury returned 
 " a true bill" against Henry, and the following Thursday was 
 appointed for the trial. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 157 
 
 It is not my purpose, whatever ixi'flictioii (he reader may 
 dread, here to give a detailed account of a jury trial. It will 
 he necessary, however, to follow the course of this investigation, 
 as briefly as possible, in order to the clear understanding of the 
 object of this part of the narrative; and since there are but few 
 of any class — andj certainly, no lovers of fietion — who. do not 
 feel an interest in the proceedings of legal courts, I have little 
 fear of being considered tedious, ^ 
 
 In our more refined age and country, court houses are filled 
 to overflowing whenever there is to be a trial for ^lander, crim. 
 con., or murder, by the same spirit which carried the ancient 
 Romans to the amphitheatre to witness the brutal exhibitions 
 of gladiators and other wild beasts, and at this day crowds the 
 bull-fight assemblages of Spain. In some countries a like inte- 
 rest is manifested in suits for the breach of promises to marry ; 
 but in the West such things are almost entirely unknown, either 
 because the men are more faithful, or because the women are 
 less anxious to enter '' the holy state." When such suits are 
 commenced— which sometimes happens — damages, are seldom 
 awarded — Western courts and juries generally acting upon the 
 belief that a woman who has not delicacy enough to prevent her 
 entering a court for such a purpose, Would not have made the 
 defendant a good wife, and therefore deserves no compensation 
 for her failure. They think, rrioreover — and the composition of 
 society justifies the belief — that a woman to whom one offer of 
 marriage is so important, can certainly have had but few, and 
 must, therefore, be manifestly unfit for matrimony. 
 
 Suits for slander are nearly in the same category — the only 
 damages usually given being to friendless women — courts and 
 juries in these cases believing that a reputation must be despe- 
 rately diseased when it requires a suit at law to cure it. Men 
 whose characters have been assailed — if they have anything 
 worth defending — usually disregard the breath of calumny ; and 
 at most do not betray distrust of their own standing by seeking 
 the help of a jury to endorse it. They, however, sometimes 
 obtain satisfaction at the end of a horsewhip, and, n(Dt unfre- 
 quently of a more dangerous weapon. The fact that a man is 
 plaintiff in a suit for slander is considered a proof — and in society 
 constituted like that of the West, no very mean proof either, — 
 that he has no character v(;5prth preserving. It is on account of 
 the racy expositions — raoy'to the depraved tastes which a.sseni- 
 ble the crowds in .our courthouses^ — that a slander suit never 
 fails to overrun the benches; and a man of ordinary self-respect 
 is unwilling to undergo such gipating dissection. 
 
158 THE GLENNS. 
 
 With women the case is different ; for even if the natural 
 sense of propriety and manliness among the lawyers will not 
 protect them — which it generally will — the courts will inter- 
 fere. But' among all who have reputations worth defending 
 few will resort to a court, excepting such as have neither father 
 nor brother, nor other relative or friend to seek and obtain sum- 
 mary redress. The fair presubiption is, therefore, against the 
 ^ merit of any woman's petition, in all cases excepting such as 
 these ; and the humiliating exposures so often maide in the legi- 
 timate course of defence and inquiry fully justify the rule. 
 
 If an ordinary trial for murder, where both the victim and the 
 accused are below the medium social level," will always collect 
 a crowd, how much more intense is the interest where both 
 parties have occupied high positions I Such was the case now. 
 Mr. Eversham had been the wealthiest man in the neighbor- 
 hood, while Henry Glenn was a lawyer of rising fame, and one 
 of the heirs of a man, whose wealth was only inferior to that of 
 the deceased. The consequence, both ip the common affairs of 
 the town, and in the interest centering at the court-house, was 
 what might have been foreseen. The old-fashioned room was 
 filled to overflowing on the morning set for the trial, long 
 before the hour to which the court had adjourned. Outside the 
 bar there was not a square foot vacant — even the aisles and pas- 
 sages were full. Now and then, one more adventurous than 
 others, some young man with mustachios and a good opinion of 
 himself, or some ex-magistrate, with the flesh and air of judgment 
 yet upon hira, would invade the sacred precinct by leaping or 
 climbing the substantial railing. But such intrusions were at 
 once repelled by two or three low-browed constables, armed 
 with the majesty of the law, and the adventurers were forthwith 
 ignominiously ejected, reatreating among the steaming crowd to 
 hide their confusion and salve their wounded vanity by mutter- 
 ed curses. Indeed, the bar was a great temptation ; it looked 
 so airy, cool and roomy ; and the lawyers sat with airs so jaunty 
 or preoccupied, with feet thrown np above their heads upon the 
 desks, or leaning over endless papers, with their hats drawn 
 down across their brows, or pens going noisily and rapidly 
 along the fooUcap! And then the younger members of the bar, 
 briefless but not less imjortant in their airs, enjoying keenly the 
 envious looks and longing eyes of those whose baser occupations 
 (ostensible) confined them to the sweat and jam of a court-house 
 crowd I Now and then a member of the panel sprang careless- 
 ly over the railing and took his seat within the envied pre- 
 cincts, when first would come a rush of constables to thrust hirn 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 159 
 
 out and then a declaration of his office by the sheriff or from 
 himself, causing a precipitate retreat of the vigilant officials, 
 each repeating to the impatient crowd outside the announce- 
 ment which had saved the rash intruder from extrusion. Occa- 
 sionally a lawyer elbowed his way firmly, though slowly, 
 through the press and, disdaining the more plebeian mode of 
 climbing, entered by the gate,' apparently unconscious that a 
 single person occupied the room besides himself. Here and 
 there, along the railing could be seen men beckoning to the 
 lawers within, — upon which ensued short whispered consulta- 
 tion^ amounting only to some empty question or inane remark 
 from the layman and a pompous smile from the barrister, but 
 gratifying the vanity of both by causing the more modest crowd 
 to .think that they were deep in the discussion of some cause 
 important to them both. 
 
 Occasionally there was a stir and labored swaying of the 
 crowd about the door ; and at each movement of the kind it was 
 expected that the Judge would enter. But for the last half hour 
 there had been flowing in a stream of ladies, passing by the bar, 
 and taking seats upon the highest benches — and this would move 
 the crowd, as vessels cleave the water, when nothing else but 
 the approach of the Judge or of some other officer could have 
 made the least impression. At last, however, just as the hour- 
 hand of the large round clock above the bench was pointing to 
 the X upon the dial, a shuffling of feet and bustling of sycophants 
 about the door, announced the arrival of the functionary whose 
 presence was indispensable and so impatiently expected. The 
 constables, pro. tern, deputies, now joined by the Sheriff with 
 his real deputy, rushed simultaneously forward, when they saw 
 the white head of the Judge slowly advancing through the sea 
 of hats ; and crying most vociferously — " Clear this gangway ! 
 Stand back '." &c. &c., at last succeeded in opening a way, 
 which would have been opened far sooner and much more re- 
 spectfully, if all the officers had been in the bottom of the sea. 
 The Judge passed quietly within the gate, which was ostenta- 
 tiously held back by the Sheriff,, and ascended the bench. As 
 he did so, he nodded slightly to the SheriflT, and that officer pro- 
 claimed the Court " open pursuant to adjournment." All the 
 hats in the room were removed at once, the lawyers settled 
 themselves in their seats, the murmuring among the crowd 
 gradually ceased, and silence assumed dominion. The record 
 of the preceding day was read, some objections, mostly captious 
 and unmeaning, were made to the manner in which the orders 
 were entered, and then the "hour for motions" commenced. 
 
160 THE GLENN9. ' 
 
 These were, however, speedily despatched, even the lawyers 
 partaking of the interest in the coming trial, and postponing 
 their dull arguments to the following day. 
 
 ''The first case this morning," said the Judge, "is 'The 
 People vs. Henry Glenn :' is it ready for trial V 
 
 Both 'the parties answered, -" All ready." The accusedcame 
 forward from one of the more retired seats, and took hi^ place 
 beside Leigh. He was pale and thin, but no marks of agitation 
 or ajiprehension Were observable in his demeanor. He did not 
 look round upoli the crowd, and paid no attention to the process 
 of empanneling the juryi Leigh managed the whole matter 
 withoutonce consulting with him — -even replying, '' Not Guilty, 
 Sir," to the question put by the Judge before the calling com- 
 menced, '■ What is the plea V The jury was empanneled with 
 less delay than is usual on such occasions — the la\*yers gene- 
 rally giving in this process a foretaste of the coming contest, by 
 captious objections and tedious preliminary examinations. The 
 twelve having answered to their names, a short man with a 
 little black eye and very bushy whiskers, rose to " open the 
 case for the People." 
 
 He made a very fair statement of the evidence, laying great 
 stress upon two points only — the dying declaration of Ever- 
 sham, and the testimony of Fanny Vincent. After summing up 
 the remainder of the testimony rather briefly, he expressed sur- 
 prise that the accused had made no confession. 
 
 " For," said he, " if the rencontre between him and Ever- 
 sham, had been accidental, (as it will doubtless be the object of 
 the defence to show that it was,) a confession in time would 
 have mitigated the enormity of the crime, and might have 
 shown circumstances sufficient to have prevented an indictment 
 for murder. The want of such a confession renders .tlie in- 
 ference unavoidable that the meeting was premeditated, and 
 consequently that the killing was the result of " malice pre- 
 pense" — a necessary circumstance to establish the offence for 
 which this indictment has been found. Mr. Glenn is himself 
 a lawyer of no mean ability, and must have been fully aware of 
 the effect of such a confession ; and I think, in all candor and 
 fairness, this jury must presume, that if it would have benefitted 
 him, be would have made it.'' 
 
 After some further remarks, which we need not repeat, he 
 sat down, and Leigh rose for the defence :* 
 
 * In the State where these scenes are laiU— as in all other Western 
 States where I have attended the courts — it is the practice of the counsel 
 for the defence to make his opening statement immediately after that of the 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. IGl 
 
 '' It is not often, gentlemen," said he, '' in the power of the 
 accused to prove a negative, and the law, therefore, properly 
 devolves the onus probandi upon the prosecution. In this 
 cause, however, having a kind regard to the State's attorney, 
 and being unwilling to put him to unnecessary trouble, we will 
 not expect him to prove the affirmative of this issue ; we dis- 
 tinctly notify him that we design to prove the negative. But 
 since that Negative also involves an affirmative which we mean 
 to establish in like manner,, and which we intend shall come 
 upon the prosecution with a little surprise, ^we are not disposed 
 by explaining it nowtp possess them of" our defence, you, 
 gentlemen, must therefore be content with .the declaration tha,t 
 the prisoijer at the bar is not guilty, and that we can and will 
 establish his innocence. That some one is guilty is unques- 
 tionable ; and that we know who is, will not long remain in 
 (Jonbt. If, therefore, the real perpetrator of' this crime is now 
 iij the court-house, I advise bim to decamp forthwith." 
 
 " Mr. Leigh," said the judge, .as the lawyer sat down, if this 
 address is made in good faith, and you really know who com- 
 mitted this crime, it is your duty, as a good citizen, to denounce 
 him, and to prevent, rather than advise, his escape." 
 
 " If your Honor please," said Leigh rising again, " I see that 
 the court believes in the innocence of my client ; and this is 
 only what was to have been expected from its known acumen 
 and just views of evidence. Bnt your Honor must recollect 
 that we stand here in the attitude of defence — not as State 
 prosecutors — and that consequently our only duty in the pre- 
 mises is, to show to the satisfaction of court and jury, that we 
 are not guilty. When we shall have indicated where the guilt 
 rests, it will be the duty of the officers of the law to arrest the 
 criminal. In the meantime, my client is a prisoner, and I 
 appear as defendant's counsel, not as a sheriff's officer.'' 
 
 " Go on with the case,'' said the judge tartly. " He was at 
 a loss to divine whether all (his was merely said to make a good 
 impression at the outset, or whether it was in good faith. 
 After reflection he was disposed to suspect the former ; and his 
 tartness was not a little increased by the effect which he plainly 
 saw had been produced upon both spectators and jury, by his 
 apparent belief in the innocence of the prisoner at the bar. 
 
 Charles Billings, John Letton, James McLoud, Doctor 
 
 prps^ution. and before a witness is sworn on either side. It would seem 
 unnecessary to make this explanation : and I only do it because another 
 book, in which a jury trial is part of the plot, has been criticised on this 
 ground. 
 
162 THE GLENNS. 
 
 Browning, Basil Devore, and Phineas HarL, were called, and 
 all sworn toa-ether as witnesses. The same list from which 
 these were called, contained also the name of James Glenn; 
 but it was passed over by the attorney at James's own request 
 — the lawyer giving him credit for a delicacy which he was 
 very far from possessing. He now sat in a retired corner of 
 the court-room, watching the proceedings with an interest 
 which few understood. During the short colloquy between 
 Leigh and the Judge, the eyes of the former had rested for a 
 moment, probably accidentally, upon James ; but the lawyer 
 was not much startled to find that the latter flushed to a deep 
 crimson, and turned his face away uneasily, as if to avoid 
 a glance which he felt too searching. Leigh carelessly 
 withdrew his eyes, and gave his attention to the State's virit- 
 iiesses. 
 
 Charles Billings was called to the stand — ^which in a west- 
 ern court-house usually means, not a raised platform to be occu- 
 pied by the witness, but some convenient place upoa the floor, 
 varying according to the positions of the lawyers and the taste 
 of the witness. We will not follow the course of questions 
 and answers, but give at once~ the substance of the testimony, 
 as briefly as possible. The first question, however, we must 
 repeat : " Where w^ere you, and how engaged, about the hour 
 of ten, P.M., on the 17th of June last past 1" 
 
 He deposed, in reply, the events with which the reader is 
 acquainted, up to the point where he and Letton carried Ever- 
 sham home. " We had asked him before we took him up," he 
 continued, " who did the deed, and he replied, Henry Glenn. 
 When we had carried him in and sent for assista.nce, it occurred 
 to me that we should not trust wholly to memory ; and finding 
 pen and ink in the room, we questioned him again, and I wrote 
 his replies upon a paper which I have here, and both Letton 
 and I signed it." 
 
 He here read the paper, which declared distinctly that the 
 deceased had been killed by Henry Glenn — that he had been 
 warned of the approaching meeting by a note (which was 
 attached to the declaration, and attested by Billings and Letton), 
 and that the shot from which he died had been given without 
 any attack upon Glenn by Eversham. 
 
 " The note," continued Billings, in answer to another ques- 
 tion, " I think is in the writing of Henry Glenn. I am fami- 
 liar with his hand, and have been for several years. I have no 
 doubt, though it is a little disguised, that he wrote it." 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 163 
 
 '' Tell the jury now, Mr. BiUings," said the State's attorney, 
 " wliat caused you and Mr. Letton to be there at that hour." 
 • " We had been in Henry Glenn's ofRce," he answered, •' and 
 had seen and heard that he had an appointment at that hour. 
 We saw him get out a cloak and a pistol — the same here shown 
 in court, and found by us on the ground where Evershara fell 
 — and when we came away, in order to give him an opportu- 
 nity to redeem his appointment, we stopped for a moment in 
 front of the '' Unior^ Hotel." While there, Henry came by, 
 and without speaking to us, passed on ia the direction of Mr. 
 Vincent's. I had heard something said about his relation to 
 Miss Vincent, and suspected his destination ; and I suggested 
 that we be witnesses to the interview. We accordingly fol- 
 lowed him at some distance, not with thje purpose of interrupt- 
 ing him, but to satisfy a curiosity ,4« to whether, under the 
 circumstances, she would meet him." 
 
 On the cross-examination, Leigh put but three questions : 
 
 '' Who else was in Henry Glenn's office with you ?" 
 
 " James Glenn and Basil Devore were there also." 
 
 '' You were all playing cards and drinking wine ; who poured 
 out the wine for you 1" 
 
 He reflected for a few moments, and then replied : 
 
 " James Glenn, I think ; yes, James Glenn." 
 
 " Can you swear positively that it was Henry Glenn who 
 passed you and Letton at the Union Hotel?" 
 
 James looked suddenly up, and anxiously awaited the an- 
 swer. 
 
 " I took it to be Henry," said Billings, argumentatively, 
 " and I am acquainted with his appearance very intimately." 
 
 John Letton was next called, and corroborated the testimony 
 of Billings in every particular, answering the cross-questions 
 in the same manner. When he retired the lawyers began to 
 cast significant glances one to another, plainly considering the 
 cause lost — some even censuring Leigh for allowing the leading 
 witnesses to escape without rigid examination. Leigh observed 
 this, and smiled, but said nothing. 
 
 James McLoud was called, and deposed to the condition in 
 which he had found Henry when he went to arrest him — his 
 exclamations and bewildered manner, the appearance of the 
 room, etc. 
 
 Leigh cross-examined him with more rigor, but elicited noth- 
 ing of importance except the following answer : 
 
 '■■ We found it very hard indeed to arouse him, and even 
 when he, got up he seemed for some minutes to find great diffi- 
 
154 THE GLENNS. 
 
 culty in commanding his faculties. He looked around upon the 
 crowd vacantly as if bewildered, and not quite awake ; and it 
 was least ten minutes before I succeeded in making him under* 
 stand what I wanted." 
 
 Doctor Browning was next introduced, and deposed that he 
 had examined the wound by which Eversham came to his death ; 
 and that such a wound would have been produced by the pistol 
 brought into court, if the muzzle had been very near the body. 
 Eversham was dead before he arrived at the house ; but he had 
 then examined the note here shown, and had no doubt that it 
 was written by Henry Glenn. 
 
 Leigh was evidently growing more and more in earnest ; and 
 a good many people began to give him credit for " knowing 
 what be was about." 
 
 " You say, Doctor," said he, holding up the pistol, " that this 
 weapon would make such a wound as that was, if held very 
 near the body. Now, would it make such a wound unless so 
 held ?" 
 
 " No, sir, it would not," he answered, without hesitation. 
 
 " Well," said he, " now eschew Greek and scientific terras, 
 and tell us in plain English what must have been the posture 
 of Mr. Eversham when that wound was received.'' 
 
 '' The left arm," said the Doctor, " must have been elevated 
 considerably' above the horizontal, and the left side turned to- 
 wards the person who gate the shot." 
 
 " Was the attitude such as a man would assume in grasping 
 another by the collar or throat 1" 
 
 " Precisely, sir." And he went on to explain — not exactly 
 eschewing scientific terms, nor using very pure English — no 
 doctor ever does either on such occasions — but c&^he whole 
 making his meaning tolerably plain. 'i^ 
 
 " Then, Doctor," said Leigh, 'J if I understandfySu, you mean 
 to testify that this wound was received when the muzzle of the 
 pistol was very near Eversham's body, and that he was in the 
 position of a man engaged in a personal struggle 1" 
 
 " Precisely, sir ; there can be no mistake about it." 
 
 "I will not mislead the attorney for the People," said Leigh. 
 " This is not our defence : it is a suggestion rtjade>for the bene- 
 fit of another person, the real perpetratoT of this 'crime." As 
 he spoke he cast a rapid glance at James, and again saw him 
 flush to the very temples. But he again withdrew his eyes, 
 and calmly went on with the examination. 
 
 Phineas Hart was called. ■' I am, and was at the time of 
 this affair," said he, "in the employment of Mr. Bradley. I 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 165 
 
 took a suit of clothes, by Mr. Bradley's directions, to Mr. Ever- 
 shatn's house, on the night of his death. On the putslrirts of 
 town I was accosted by a yoang man, who handed me a note, 
 and requested me to leave it at Mr. Eversham's. I took it and 
 delivered it with the clothes. I think the young man who 
 handed me the note was the prisoner at the bar ; but I cannot 
 swear positively, because he was disguised, and it was getting 
 dusk." 
 
 " How was he disguised ?" asjced Leigh, on cross-exs^mi- 
 nation. 
 
 " He wore a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, which fell 
 over his face, with a cloak — that cloak lying there, I think I can 
 say positively — which he drew up over his mouth and chin." 
 
 A3 this answer was given, a young man leaned over the rail- 
 ing and spoke to Leigh in an eager whisper. 
 
 " I know," said Leigh. " ^tay about here : I will call you if 
 we want you." 
 
 Ehineas was suffered to retire without further question. 
 
 " We have but two more witnesses," said the State's attor- 
 ney, rising and looking out among the crowd, " Fanny Vincent 
 and Maria Bates. Are they in court 1" 
 
 A movement took place among the crowd, and Fanny and 
 Maria were seen slowly following a sheriff's officer, who had 
 great difficulty in opening the way. Fanny was pale and 
 trembling,— even her former appearance on two occasions to 
 give her testimony, haying failed to steel her nerves against the 
 shrinking which every delicate female must feel on appearing 
 in a place so public. As she entered the bar, however, she 
 summoned all her firmness, and throwing back her veil, walked 
 to^the clerk's desk without much hesitation. The silence in 
 the court attested the interest with which her testimony was 
 awaited ; and when, having been sworn, she came forward and 
 took the chair offered her, every ear was inclined towards her, 
 as if to lose no syllable. 
 
 " Miss Vincent," commenced the State's attorney, in a sub- 
 dued tone, " will you tell the jury, as briefly as possible, where 
 you were on the night of the seventeenth of June last, at ten 
 o'clock, whomi you met, and what took place V,' 
 
 She was silent for several minutes, as if collecting her 
 strength and recalling the scene. But in reality, a struggle was 
 going on in her mind between love and truth. She was fully 
 apprised of the effect likely to be produced by her words. She 
 felth that the lifcjof one whom she yet loved above all earthly 
 beings, depended upon what she might say ; and though, in the 
 
166 THi^ GSLENNS. 
 
 contemplation of this scene, she had reasoned down these feel- 
 ings, repelled the temptation and resolved to speak only the 
 truth, the appalling consciousness came back upon her now 
 with redoubled force. During the pause not a foot was moved, 
 not a head was turned : the silence was so deep that the buzz- 
 ing of the flies upon the window, and the ruslli'ng of the leaves 
 without, could be distinct^ heard. At last the struggle was 
 over, truth had gained the victory, and in a low, trembling, 
 though clear voice, she answered : 
 
 " 1 was in the wood in front of my father's house. I went 
 there with Maria Bates, to meet Henry Glenn." 
 
 She stopped, and for a minute or more the same silence. 
 
 " Well ?" said the attorney, encouragingly. 
 
 " I went at his request to receive from him some letters of 
 mine which he refused to give me, except upon that condition." 
 
 She stopped again — still the same silence. 
 
 " Well '{" again said the attorney in the same tone. 
 
 " I got the letters," she continued,. " and gave him his in 
 return/' 
 
 " From whom did yoa receive them?" asked the attorney, 
 
 " From Henry Glenn" she answered, after a long pause. 
 
 James, who had stolen forward and taken a seat directly be- 
 hind her, drew a deep breath, and went slowly back to his 
 fbrmer position. Fanny covered her face with her hands, and 
 the attorney waited in respectful silence. 
 
 " What happened then ?" he asked, after a pause. 
 
 '' He whispered to me " she commenced. 
 
 " Who whispered to you ?" he interrupted gently. 
 
 '' Henry Glenn," she answered. '^A" ' 
 
 " Well, what did he say 1" ":] i^^ 
 
 " He toldme we were watched, and enjoined S^left^^He then 
 gave me the letters and took his. While he was doing so, I 
 saw Mr. Eversham approaching and cried out. He turned, and 
 I ran away as fast as I couldj with Maria." 
 
 '* Did you hear anything while you were going away ?" 
 
 " I heard the report of a pistol or gun, before we had reach- 
 ed the road. It was in that direction, but I do not know that 
 it was there." 
 
 " Did you see any one else near that place 1" 
 
 " No one but Mr. Eversham, — ^and I did not know him till 
 he spoke, just as I turned away." .r-'_ 
 
 " You can produce the note from Mifv^fenn making this ap- 
 pointment, I suppose?" said the,attorney. 
 
 " No, sir ; I gave it back with the others." g<^ 
 
A FAMILY HlSaORY. 167 
 
 "Ah I yes I I had forgotten," said he. ''You can take the 
 witness, Mf. Leigh." 
 
 "I have only one question to asls," said Leigh, coolly, " and 
 that is more for the benefit of another than of my client. It is 
 this: You say, Miss Vincent, that you recognized Mr. Ever- 
 sham by his voice ; tell the jury, if you please, what he said 1" 
 
 '' He ordered Mr. Glenn to stop and account to him," said 
 Fanny. " I heard voices afterwards, but was too far off to hear 
 distinctly what they s^id." 
 
 Leigh mused a moment. '' On reflection," he said, raising 
 his head, "I will ask one other question. '' Will you look at 
 this note*' — handing her, the note received by Eversham — " and 
 tell me whether you think it was written by;; Henry Glenn?" 
 
 ''It lopks a little like his hand," she replied, examining it, 
 " but I do not think he wrote it. It looks more like the writing 
 of his cousin, James." 
 
 James started as if a cannon had been fired at liis ear ; 
 but immediately settled back into his sea^ and assumed an 
 amused smile, as if the supposition were perfectly absurb. 
 
 '' I will not press this investigation further," said Leigh, and 
 Fanny was suffered to retire. A movement took place among 
 the crowd, as each individual shifted his position, and the 
 knowing ones exchanged significant glances and sapient nods. 
 Leigh's reputation was very high, both among by-standers and 
 lawyers; and usually any course he might take, however capri- 
 cious, was at once construed to be deep policy. How much 
 more curious then were the speculations about the course of his 
 defence, when,, even the dullest among all present could see 
 some significance in the mystery he maintained ! 
 
 " He knows what he's about," said a sallow-faced fellow, 
 with a white linen coat and slip-shod feet. 
 
 " Trust him," replied his neighbor, who ceased fanning a 
 very red face with a yellow straw hat, to listen to this wise 
 remark. 
 
 " Leigh'U fix this murder on somebody else yet," said a tall, 
 stoop-shouldered man, with a well-shaved face, a shirt not quite 
 so clean, and no vest at all. 
 
 " Or perhaps make it out no murder," added his interlocutor 
 — a sickly-looking man, who carried both an umbrella and a 
 cane. 
 
 " Maria Bates !" called the State's attorney; and with a 
 subdued, half-demure and half-impudent manner, she slid for- 
 ward, and took the seat recently vacated by her mistress. Her 
 testimony did ngt amount to much — merely corroborating the 
 
168 XpE GLENNS. 
 
 Statements of Fanny, and repeating a little more clearly the 
 words spoken by Eversham. Leigh gazed keenly at her, until 
 her face was crimson with embarrassment, and then suffered 
 her to retire without other cross-examination. 
 
 «' We will rest here," said the State's attorney. 
 
 '' Perhaps, then," said Leigh, " the court had better adjourn 
 for dinner." 
 
 The judge thought this a good suggestion, and the court 
 adjourned. 
 
 Before the hour for resuming the investigation had arrived, 
 Fanny, her father and Maria, were in the stage-coach, riding 
 with the usual speed of such conveyances; three miles per 
 hour, to the nearest river town. They would not even wait to 
 hear the result of the trial; but taking a boat on the same 
 evening, e.mbarked for New Orleans, en route for Galveston 
 and San Antonio, de Bexar. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 You kno? tho law ; yonr exposition 
 
 Hath beea moat sound. — Mjerchant or Venice. "t 
 
 A wise judge l)y the oraft of the law was neTer eedUfied from its-^tirpose. 
 
 ,*** SOXTTHET. 
 
 How poor au instTumeut 
 
 Maydoanoblo deei, — Antoht and Cleopatra. 
 The Justice and the truth o' the question carries 
 The due o" the verdict with it— Shakspeahe. 
 
 Mr. Vincent and his daughter have k^ft us," said Leigh to 
 Henry, as they resumed their places in court after a recess of 
 an hour. 
 
 " Did you want to use them in the defence V asked Henry. 
 
 " Oh, no !" said the lawyer, " but I had hoped the young 
 lady would remain to discover her mistake. One of your ene- 
 mies, it would seem, has discovered it, and acted accordingly.'" 
 
 " Who 1" asked his client. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 169 
 
 " Your Cousin James. He has absconded." 
 
 Henry made no reply, and Leigh continued : 
 
 ' A warrant was issued against him, of which he must have 
 got information in some way." ' 
 
 " Upon whose affidavit was it issued ?" Henry asked. But 
 Leigh was busy with his papers and did not answer. At the 
 same moment the sheriff mumbled a proclamation to open the 
 court " pursuant to adjournment." 
 
 " Go on, Mr. Leigh/' said the judge, and the crowd settled 
 at once into silent attention. 
 
 " Abram Glenn ."' called Leigh, and he appeared and was 
 sworn. 
 
 " Mr. Glejttn," said Leigh, when he had advanced from the 
 clerk's desk, " were you present when Henry Glenn was 
 arrested ?'' 
 
 " I was," Abram answered ; " at least I entered the room 
 
 nile the officer was still there." 
 
 " Tell the jury then, if you please, howTi^apted and talked." 
 
 Objection was made by the State's attorney ; but the court 
 mled that the question was allowable, in order to rebut testi- 
 mony introduced for the people. 
 
 " He) seemed very much bewildered," said Abram, when the 
 point Lad been settled, " as if under the influence of some 
 drug " 
 
 " Or of wine," suggested the State's attorney, 
 
 " Yes — drugged wine," hinted Leigh. 
 
 " H^e seemed 'at a loss," continued Abram, " to understand 
 his position. His eyes were very dull and glassy, and his lips 
 were ihin and ashy. A sort of drowsiness seemed almost to 
 overcome him, insomuch that a considerable time elapsed before 
 I could 'completely recall him. He talked ineo^jpiently, and 
 said " 
 
 " It is not allowable," said the court, interfering on the ap- 
 peal of the State's attorney, "to repeat what he said : the 
 furthest that this court can go, without violating the rule, is to 
 permit testimony as to his manner and appearance when 
 arrested.'' 
 
 ' '' And that manner," said Leigh, '' includes the characteris- 
 tics of his speech though not his words V 
 
 " Precisely, sir," said the court, and Abram continued, 
 
 " He talked incoherently at first, and it was only after a 
 great apparent effort, that he succeeded in commanding his 
 faculties. I cannot better describe his whole manner and 
 appearance than by saying, as at first, that they were those of 
 
170 THE GLENNS. 
 
 a man very recently, and even yet,- under the infiaencc of 
 some narcotic -drug." 
 
 ''Did yon see then,'' said Leigh, " any evidence of his hav- 
 ing taken such ?" 
 
 " I did," said Abraham, and •' and not being myself a chemist, 
 I gave it in charge to Doctor Holcomb.'' 
 " You may take the vi^itness," said Leigh. 
 " I do not wish to cross-examine him," said thfe State's attor 
 ney," and Abram gave place to Doctor Holcomb. 
 
 " Were you present, doctor," asked Leigh, " when Henry 
 Glerm was arrested ?" 
 
 " Not when first arrested," said the doctor, " I entered the 
 office but a few moments before he was taken away.'' 
 " Ah I" said Leigh. '' He had then recovered himself ?" 
 " Partially, sir," the doctor replied. " There were still the 
 appearances of which Mr. Glenn spoke, about his eyes and 
 mor^h, and there was yet some incoherence in his manner, 
 togSher with an uncertain, broken tone in his voice, which I 
 have observed in those who have taken a good deal of opium." 
 " Detail what took ,place and what you saw then," said 
 Leigh. 
 
 " I saw nothing," said Holcomb, except a disortoted room, 
 bottles and glasses scattered about the table, a pack%f cards 
 and some silver, looking as if there had been g^ing-. . Mr, 
 Abraham Glenn gave me the bottles and glasses iji charge to 
 examine, and I immediately went away with Ihem-, A|»th© 
 same time, I believe the crowd dispersed." -y /%'? 
 
 ''You have examined the wine and glasses V asked XSVh. 
 " Yes ; and found nothing unusual in any except one of the- 
 glasses. In that I found a considerable quanilj-ty of the acetate 
 (f morphine, dissolved in a little wine left iiiibe bottem of the 
 glass.'" 3 
 
 " What are the properties of that drug ?.'t '''^PR'! 
 ''It is a very powerful narcotic,''' the doctor answered; 
 " the addition of the acetic acid making the morphine (which is 
 the base of the preparation) evea more potent." 
 
 "How much wine, charged with that drug in an equal' 
 degree, would be required to enforce sleep against a man's- 
 will ?." 
 
 " That depeuds very much upon tlie temperament, habit 
 and frame of mind, when, -taken; under ordinary circumstances' 
 half a glass would produce sleep in spite of any effort to resist it.''"- 
 " Have you any means of ascertaining kow long this dru-o^ 
 had been in that wiue 1'' .„ '^ 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 171 
 
 '' Approximately, sir, "answered the doctor; and I have, in 
 addition to the. msual chemical knowledge on the subject, 
 made several experiments with that view. It must have been 
 in it about six hours — perhaps a little longer." 
 
 " How long after the drug is put in, will it be before the 
 wine possesses narcotic powers sufRcieut to enforce sleep ?" 
 
 " That,, also, depends upon circumstances," answered the 
 witness. " In this wine less than a minute would suffice, 
 though it would be several hours before it could be held in per- 
 fect solution." 
 
 " One more question, and I have done : Were Henry Glenn's 
 manner and appearance those of a man und^r the influence of 
 such a narcotic ?" 
 
 " Very plainly so, sir," said the doctor ; " though, evidently, 
 some hours' sleep had partially dissipated the effect." 
 
 " The doctor was, amid profound silence, indicating the most 
 wrapt attention, delivered over to cross-examination. 
 
 " Doctor," insinuatingly commenced the State's attorney, 
 " are not the inferences to be drawn from chemical tests uncer- 
 tain and unsafe ?" 
 
 " Very far from it," said the doctor, " There is no science 
 more exact than chemistry." 
 
 " Nqt evea mathematics," suggested the attorney. 
 
 " Jwt even mathematics," affirmed the witness. " The de- 
 mons&tions of chemistry are as positive as those of geonietry ; 
 ani^ne evidence of a chemical test is equal to any number of 
 efe^ale witnesses swearing to the fact." 
 
 "You caaftand aside," said thediscomfltted attorney. 
 
 " Youf science is soon exhausted,'' said Leigh, with a smile. 
 
 " Cal^your next witness," said the judge impatiently. 
 
 " "Vy^^ wish to swear the clerk of this court," said Leigh; 
 and a bustle about' the bar indicated the surprise produced by 
 the words! *pr f 
 
 " Mr. White," said Leigh, when he had been sworn by the 
 judge, and taken his stand, " where do you live '.'" 
 
 "I live on the western road, sir, about half way between this 
 place and Mr. Eversham's residence." 
 
 " Where were you just before dark on the seventeenth of 
 June last';" 
 
 " I was at home, sir." 
 
 " Tell the jury what you saw there, which bears on this 
 case." 
 
 *^ " I was standing just within my front gate," thfe clerk said, 
 " I suppose hidden by the branches of the trees, when Phineas 
 
172 THE GLENNS. 
 
 Hart passed with a large bundle on his arm. A moment after- 
 wards another man followed, and calling Phineas, gave hira a 
 note and turned back. I caught a view of his face as he went 
 by, and I moreover knew his voice. It was James Glenn.' 
 
 The State's attorney started to his feet in surprise ; but im- 
 mediately sat down again, conscious that his emotion might tell 
 ao'ainst the prosecution. The crowd pressed forward, until the 
 railing around the bar cracked with their weight, and the face 
 of several short men became purple with the pressure. The 
 deputies and constables raised a prodigious " row," and the 
 business of the court was interrupted for full five minutes. 
 
 "Go on, Mr. White," said Leigh, "the storm is abated, I 
 believe." 
 
 " Mr. Glenn — James Glenn, I mean" — continued the wit- 
 ness, '' had some papers belonging to my office, upon which I 
 ■wanted to issue process ; but I did not think of this until he 
 had passed. Supposing I could overtake him, I started out, but 
 didmot see him again until just as he entered his ofiice. I 
 knocked at the door several times before I gained admittance ; 
 when I entered he gave me the papers and J left him. The 
 cloak he had worn was lying on a chair ; I am pretty sure it 
 was the cloak shown here in court." ,,j**j- 
 
 " Look at this note now," said Leigh, handing liim that re- 
 ceived by Eversham," and tell the jury of whose writing it is." 
 
 " I have examined it before," said White, " I think .it is 
 James Glenn's. It is somewhat disguised, but 1 am very 
 familiar with both his hand and the prisoner's, and I am- cer- 
 tain it is James's." ^^» "* 
 
 " Do you wish to cross-examine 1" Leigh asked«of the State's 
 attorney. ," i^ 
 
 " Yes, sir," roughly answered the latter, rising to his feet. 
 
 " You are becoming excited," said his adversary, smSling. 
 
 The attorney made no reply, but proceeded to a rigid cross- 
 examin^jtion, during which it became evident that he considered 
 this the turning point of the case. He plied the witness with 
 tortuous and yet incoherent questionings for more than half 
 an hour ; but with no success. The clerk was too positive 
 even to admit a doubt that he was mistaken ; jind the conflict 
 tended only to show more conclusively the truth of the testi- 
 mony. The perspiration collected in great drops upon the 
 attorney's brow, and the witness constantly resorted to his 
 handkerchief from the same cause. Both were as much heated 
 and fatigued as if they had been engaged in a physical, instead 
 of a mental struggle. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 173 
 
 ''You had better save your strength, Conlin," said Leigh at 
 last, quietly watching the effort to invalidate White's convic- 
 tions, " we have two other witnesses to prove the same facts.'' 
 
 " Bring them on, then," said the attorney, with the air of a 
 man who awaited a personal attack. 
 
 White was told to stand aside, and Leigh paused to allow the 
 impression he had made time to take form and distinctness on 
 the minds of the jury. He called two other witnesses and 
 slowly examined them, bringing out answers corroborating the 
 testimony of White as to the identity of James and the writing 
 of the note. He then quietly turned them over to the State's 
 attorney. 
 
 The latter, however, grown wiser since his desperate strug- 
 gle with the former witness, contented himself with asking one 
 question to each — 
 
 " Were you present at Eversham's death ? — or were you so 
 near as to know positively that it was not Henry Glenn who 
 killed him 1" 
 
 To this, both witnesses returned a negative answer. 
 
 '' After all, said the State's attorney, '' this only proves that 
 ■ there we^e two engaged in the murder instead of only one." 
 
 " If that was so," said Leigh, " what motive had James for 
 imitating the hand-writing of Henry .'" 
 
 " That is an argument for the jury," said the State's attorney. 
 
 " It was for ihem that I intended it," answered Leigh coolly. 
 
 " Proceed, gentleman," said the judge sharply, '' the time has 
 not come^for the argument." 
 
 Leigh now called a young man to him, — a student in his of- 
 fice, whose keen eye and close-shut mouth indicated the shrewd- 
 ness which had niade him a fit agent for seeking testimony, — 
 and sent him out of court. So much interest attached to his 
 motions, that throughout a somewhat protracted absence, the 
 crowd did not shift their places, and even the judge forgot to 
 urge the necessity for haste. The stillness of expectation reign- 
 ed in the house for the space of ten minutes; when all eyes 
 were turned towards the door, and the student was seen return- 
 ing, followed by William Bates. As the latter was sworn, 
 and turned away from the clerk's desk, he threw a quick glance 
 around the room, and appeared to be disappointed when he did 
 not find the object of his search. He did not seem to notice or 
 care Tor the crowd, — was not the least agitated or embarrassed 
 by the intense gaze directed at his motions, — seemed, indeed, 
 not to know, young and inexperienced as he was, that he was 
 the central point of interest to an immense concourse of men. 
 
174 THE GtENNS. 
 
 His eye ranged slowly over the rows of fao?s among the by- 
 standers, and, without resting upon any one, turned to the bar 
 with the same scrutiny. 
 
 " The man you are looking-for is not here," said Leigh. 
 
 " Where is he V asked Billy quickly. " Has he escaped 1" 
 
 "We will k'now presently," said Leigh. ''In the meantime 
 take your place here and answer my questions." 
 
 " I want to know where he is; you promised me " 
 
 " What is this delay about*!" asked the judge sternly. ''-Let 
 the witness take the stand, and if he knows anything, tell 
 it." 
 
 " All in good time, if it please your Honor, said Leigh. 
 " Stand here, Billy," he continued to the witness, "and tell the 
 jury what you know about the death of Mr. Evershara.'' 
 
 " I know nothing about it," said Billy, " except that Hanry 
 Glenn did not kill him, and I believe that James Glenn did." 
 
 " Tell only what you know I" thundered the State's attorney. 
 
 " Begin at the beginning," said Leigh, " and tell not 
 only what you know, but also your reasons for believing as you 
 do." 
 
 " My reasons for believing that James Glenn killed him are 
 what I know," said Billy. " I was employed by my sister 
 Maria to carry several notes from Miss Vincent to James Glenn; 
 but I can read writing and I know that all those notes were 
 intended for Henry Glenn. James opeiled them (I knqw, be- 
 cause I watched him), and paid me for my services, tlifektetiing 
 me with punishmept if I did not always deliver them to him. 
 James wanted to marry Miss Vincent : I know this, because I 
 heard him propose to her : and at the same tirnehe persuaded 
 • my sister that it Was s/je, whom he was going to marry. I 
 know this, because I watched and overheard them, when they 
 met. Still, I delivered the notes to James, as Maria told me to 
 do, intending to expose him whenever I could convince her 
 that he was deceiving her. But before I could do so, he had 
 Succeeded in separatmg his cousin and Miss Vincent, and in 
 killing Mr. Eversham." 
 
 ■'Take up the story now," said Leigh, "on the day before 
 the murder, and tell it a little more coherently." 
 
 "Well,'' resumed the boy, " about noon on that day I got a 
 note for Henry which I took into town and gave to James as 
 usual. He went into another room and read it, and when he 
 came out, gave it to me again and told me to take it to his 
 cousin who was at " The Glen." He directed me, at the same 
 time, to wait long enough to allow him to reach there, aud then 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 175 
 
 come after him. I did so, Henry received the note, and he 
 and James walked away together. I followed them, and over- 
 heard James persuading Henry to force Miss Vincent to com- 
 mit herself, by meeting him in the wood at night for the pur- 
 pose of receiving the letters she wanted. When Henry agreed 
 to do so, they walked back to the house, and I returned to the 
 place where James had ordered me to wait; I had been there 
 only a few minutes when he brought me the note making the 
 appointment in the wood, where Miss Vincent met him, and 
 Mr. Eversham was killed.'' 
 
 " Tell us now," said Ijeigh, when the witness paused, " as 
 briefly as possible, what took place on the night of the 
 murder." 
 
 Billy drew a deep breath, as if collectinghimself for an effort ; 
 and the crowd leaned forward with increasing interest. 
 
 " About dusk," said the boy, "Mr. Evershara's clothes were 
 brought by-Phineas Hart, with the note here in Court. I laid 
 them before him and left him alone. On going out, I ran with 
 all my might to town, and entering the alley in the rear of 
 Henry Glenn's office, placed myself where I could see what was 
 going on in the back room. Five gentlemen were playing 
 cards around a table. A few moments after 1 got so fixed as to 
 see in, over the curtain, James Glenn got up and poured out 
 some wine. As he did so, he drew a small paper from his 
 pocket and shook some powder out of it into one of the glasses. 
 This glass beTeft for the last, and gave it to Henry. Henry 
 drank it in part, and they then went on.withthe game. I wait- 
 ed a long time, expecting to see some effect' follow Henry's 
 drinking; but it occurred to' me that I might be wanted at 
 home. I was about to get down, when James got up again 
 and did the same thing, again giving the drugged wine to 
 Henry. 1 then got down and r'an home. 
 
 " Well," laid Le*gh, as he paused again, "What happened 
 tlien V.' 
 
 " I got home," Billy continued, " just in time to an wer a 
 summons from Mr. Eversham. He seemed very much excited, 
 and asked me sharply who brought the note. I told him how 
 it came there — by the same man who brought the clothes ; and 
 he then asked me if I knew where Henry Glenn's office was. 
 1 told him I did. He ordered me to go to it and watch Henry, 
 bringing him an account of bis motions. I set out without de- 
 lay and ran back to the place I had left only a few minutes 
 before. When I looked in again, the gentlemen were all gone 
 but Henry Glenn, and he was lying on the bed, apparently sound 
 
176 • THE GLENWS. 
 
 asleep. While I gazed in, I heard a noise in the front room, 
 and a moment afterwards, James Glenn came in, and looked 
 stealthily at Henry, Apparently satisfied with the scrutiny, he 
 ■walked across the room and took out of a drawer a bundle of 
 letters or papers, and put them in his pocket. He then blew out 
 one of the candles, but, after a minute's reflection, lighted it 
 again, and went out. I got down and ran across an open lot to 
 the street that leads out the north-west road. Here I secreted 
 myself, and a minute afterwards James Glenn came past me, 
 with Henry's cloak on. I know it was James, for I saw his 
 face distinctly as he passed very near me." 
 
 "Is this the cloak?" asked Leigh, holding it up. 
 "It is," answered Billy ; " and," he continued, now needing 
 no prompting, ''I knew where he was going. But I went im- 
 mediately back to the window I had left, to see what had be- 
 come of Henry. He was lying just where James had left him, 
 still as death. I watched him for an hour, as it appeared to 
 me, and then getting down, went home as fast as I could. 
 When I entered the house Mr. Everaham was dead, and several 
 men were there waiting, as they said, for the coroner. And 
 this is all I know about the matter.'' 
 
 " Quite sufficient, I think," said Leigh. " Is it not so, Mr. 
 State's attorney'?" 
 
 " Sufficient, if true," said the attorney. ■' Are you through "!" 
 "Yes; go on." 
 
 A long cross-examination ensued, during which the State's 
 attorney resorted- to every art and stratagem known to skillful 
 lawyers, to confuse the witness or make him retract some part 
 of his testimony. It was all in vain, however. Billy had 
 told the plain truth, and no tortuous questioning could entice 
 or drive him from the path. The lawyer then changed his 
 tactics, and endeavored to affect his credibility, by bringing 
 prominently before the jury Billy's angry feeling towards James 
 Glenn, growing out of James's seduction of his sister. But he 
 failed in this also, as the averted faces and listless looks of the 
 jury soon convinced him. 
 
 " I hate him very much," said Billy, " and would like to see 
 him brought to justice. But he has committed crimes enough, 
 without my attempting to fix upon him anything of which he 
 is not guilty. What I have said is the plain, simple truth." 
 
 " Are you satisfied ?" said Leigh, smiling quietly, as the 
 attorney finally desisted in despair. 
 
 " Have you any more witnesses 1" asked the latter, without 
 deigning a direct reply. 
 
A PAMILT HISTORY. 177 
 
 " We have more," answered Leigh, "but I think these will 
 do." 
 
 " Go on with the argument then," said the judge. 
 
 " Perhaps the prosecution have some rebutting testimony," 
 said Leigh. 
 
 " No, sir," said the State's attorney ; " and unless it is 
 insisted upon, I do not wish to argue the case at all." 
 
 " Let the jury talie it without argument then," said Leigh. 
 
 " Let an officer be sworn," said the judge. 
 
 " I think it will not be necessary, sir," said one of the jury- 
 men, rising and addressing the court. " "We have already con- 
 sulted among ourselves, and are ready to give our verdict with- 
 out leaving the box." 
 
 A paper was handed up in silence. The judge read it in the 
 most imperturbable manner, made an entry in his docket, and 
 then looked at the jury. A silence as of death reigned through- 
 out the house, as at a sign from the sheriff the jury rose to 
 their feet. 
 
 " You say, gentlemen," said the judge, slowly, " that the 
 prisoner is Not Guilty, in manner and form as charged in 
 the indictment. Is that your verdict 1" 
 
 They bowed and took their seats. The crowd drew a deep 
 breath together, and an irrepressible murmur filled the house. 
 Henry's hand was clasped in that of his uncle ; and followed 
 by a large portion of the crowd, the two left the court-house. 
 
 CHAPTEU X. 
 
 I stood i' the level 
 Of a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks 
 To you that choked it.— Henry VIII. 
 I can easier teach twenty what were ^ood to he done, than he one of the 
 
 twenty to follow mine own teaching. — Merchant of Vinjck. 
 Farewell ! I will omit no opportunity 
 That maj" convey my greeting. — Romeo and Jui.iet. 
 
 "You see now," said Leigh, as he joined Henry and his 
 imcle on their way to The Glen, •' the propriety of my remarlt 
 
178 THE GLENNS. 
 
 that men were mistaken when they- supposed it a disadvantage 
 to us that the evidence was positive and not circumstantial?" 
 
 " I see very dimly," said' Abram in reply ; " though even to 
 my obtuse legal perception it was plain that the circumstantial 
 evidence sustained the defence." 
 
 "Not only that I" rejoined Leigh, eagerly. "It not only 
 supported the defence, but utterly demolished the case of the 
 prosecution — and it might have done the first without accom- 
 plishing the second. For it not unfrequently happens in our 
 courts that twn hypotheses, each supported by irrefragible tes- 
 timony, and each equally true, are yet apparently contradictory, 
 beyond all discoverable means of ' reconciliation. Witnesses 
 often swear positively and honestly, nay, truthfully, to pre- 
 cisely opposite states of facts ; and courts and juries are some- 
 times sorely puzzled how to- reconcile or choose between the 
 warring statements." 
 
 " And how do they choose at last?" asked Uncle Abram. 
 
 " "When the key is not discovered -which unlocks the difR- 
 culty," Leigh replied, " they sometimes decide it by a figurative 
 tossing of coppers ; that is, by a blind appeal to chance. When 
 the key is discovered, it frequently reconciles the conflicting 
 hypotheses, and manifests how the assumptions, ' it is so,' and 
 ' it is otherwise,' are perfectly harmonious. I have known 
 cases, have been engaged in trials, where this sort of contradic- 
 tion pervaded the evidence of two score witnesses, equally 
 divided and equally honest. And at last, after hours and even 
 days have been consumed in tedious inquiry, it has sometimes 
 come out accidentally — by lapsus lingua, as it might be — of 
 some witness, in the shape of a circumstance apparently imma- 
 terial — so viewed by the witness, and for that reason suppressed 
 or forgotten. Witnesses of the sort called ' knowing' often do 
 such things: and were it not for the science of evidence — as 
 exact a science, by-the-bye, as mathematics — much harm would 
 ensue." 
 
 " You ars a well-known advocate of the system," said 
 Abram, " and I shall say nothing to question the justice of your 
 convictions. But you are greatly in the minority, as you are 
 aware " 
 
 " True," said Leigh, quickly, " and I am sorry for it — not, 
 however, because I would not maintain my opinion against a 
 congress of wiseacres, who might reject the course of nature 
 and the known order of events, and pin their faith to the oaths 
 of ignorance, mistake, presumption, and perjury I T regret it, 
 because many a villain goes unwhipt of jualtce on account of 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 179 
 
 a maudlin tenderness men have about circumstantial evidence, 
 or what they deem such, and because many an innocent man 
 suffers unmerited penalties from this blind confidence in positive 
 swearing. 
 
 " Strictly spealung," lie continued, observing that neither of 
 his companions was inclined to controvert the point, " both 
 kinds of testimony are necessary to the existence of either — the 
 circumstances must be related by a witness under oath, who 
 must depose positively, and there must be some circumstance 
 or fact — for the words are synonymous — to support the oath. 
 But circumstantial evidence, properly so called, is a conclusion 
 inferred from one or more facts,consistent with each other, and 
 with this conclusion alone. It can be aptly illustrated thus : 
 Take' a block of Avood of a given form, and saw it through and 
 through in as many directions as you please, making of it many 
 pieces of various shapes and sizes. Throw them disordered- 
 in a pile, and then attempt to rearrange them. Get them all 
 back into form and fitness, except one. If, then, you find a 
 space which this one piece exactly fits, and which no other 
 piece will fit; ; if, moreover, this block will fit no other place, 
 and any transposition would derange the whole, I think your 
 inference would be irresistible, that this block came out of this 
 place, and that the form which- you have given the whole is 
 that originally possessed by the detached pieces. Now, in the 
 application, tliis last block is the final fact proven ; and so per- 
 fect, so consistent with the order of things is the system of 
 circumstantial evidence, that a precisely parallel case very fre- 
 quently occur;'. Fact after fact is established and laid agaiiist 
 others without as yet being shown to connect itself with any ; 
 the whole series is finally formed, and when you come to the 
 last remaining fact, and discover that the form you have given 
 the assembled circumstances is the only form in which they 
 will consist together — that the last is like all the others, exactly 
 fitted to its place, and not fitted for any other place — your con- 
 viction will be as firm^ that this is the only proper form, as if ir 
 had been sworn to by a hundred unprejudiced men. It will be 
 more so ; for if the hundred unprejudiced men came to you and 
 swore that the separate blocks were properly placed in some 
 other order, you might suspend your judgment, but you would 
 ask for the demonstration ; and failing that, you would recur to 
 your ovvn previous inference. The witnesses might be mis- 
 taken, or they might be deceiving you for their own purposes ; 
 hut the course of nature, the fixed and known order of events, 
 can have no st^ch purposes, and cannot be mistaken. 
 
180 THE GLENNS. 
 
 '' A man may accuse you of murder, and swear that he saw 
 you commit the deed ; but if you can prove that you are physi- 
 cally incapable of committing it in the manner which he 
 describes ; that he" could not have seen you from his alleged 
 position, or because he was in another .place ; or that the mur- 
 dered man was seen alive and well after the time stated, you at 
 once convince every reasonable man that you are innocent, and 
 that the accuser is either malicious or mistaken. Yet this 
 evidence is circumstantial — rtha^ is, it is not immediate but in- 
 ferential, is based upon other facts whose operation and eflFect 
 are Unown. 
 
 " Thus, in the rase which has just been so happily terminated, 
 it was positively sworn by several witnesses that you, Henry, 
 were the person who had the interview witli Miss Vincent, and 
 Eversham's dying declaration was distinctly that you were the 
 jtian who gave him the wound of which he died. Now, this 
 was what any one would call positive testimony. We showed 
 by the statements of the boy, Bates, not that it was not you, 
 precisely, for he was not present to see the man who committed 
 the crime, but that you were in your own office asleep at the 
 time when the affray took place. Here comes in the order of 
 nature ; it is an acknowledged fact that a man cannot be in two 
 places at once; consequently you were not in the wood north 
 of Eversham's house, and inccntestibly, therefore, (though in- 
 ferentially or circumstantially) you did not commit the murder. 
 Again, the man who did commit the murder wore a certain 
 cloak, as was proven by the prosecution. Now, we established 
 the fact that James wore that cloak, circumstantially, therefore, 
 James committed the crime — a perfect syllogism I And once 
 more, we prove that a certain quantity of the acetate of mor- 
 phine will produce certain results if taken into the stomach ; 
 we prove that its effects would incapacitate a man to commit 
 this act ; we prove that you took that quantity at that time ; 
 circumstantially, therefore, it is proven that you were incapa- 
 citated for the commission of the crime — a double syllogism ! 
 And once again : we prove that a certain form and character of 
 wound can be received only when the muscles around it are in 
 a certain relative position ; we establish the fact that this wound 
 is such an injury, consequently Eversham must have been in 
 this attitude when shot. That attitude indicates a personal 
 struggle ; inferentially, therefore, his declaration that there was 
 no quarrel, that the deed was done in cold blood, is not true ! 
 In short, throughout the investigation, the circumstantial has 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 181 
 
 overcome and demolished the positive evidence; and it is to 
 the strength of the former, alone, that yon owe your freedom." 
 '' Well, " said Uncle Abram, when the flow of Leigh's 
 logic came to a sort of pause, " ybu will have no trouble in 
 convincing Henry and me, whatever you might have done with 
 the jury. , But here is your ' Bachelor's Hall,' will yoti not 
 accompany us to 'The Glen,' and spend the evening there ?" 
 
 " I fear you must excuse me for this evening," replied Leigh, 
 " I have some knotty cases for to-morrow, and must malie my 
 preparations to-night." 
 
 "I shall not see you again, then," said Henry, speaking for 
 the first time since they had left the court-house. " I shall 
 start on a tour of some length to-morrow, and do not know 
 when I shall return. But," taking Leigh's extended hand, " I 
 shall not soon forget the zeal and ability you have shown in 
 my behalf, and I hope " 
 
 " Pooh ! nonsense !" interrupted Leigh. " I knew you were 
 innocent from the first moment in which I examined the evi- 
 dence ; and at all events, the discharge of plain duty deserves 
 nothing in the shape of praise or gratitude. I am only sorry 
 that in your defence I was compelled to disgrace your cousin. 
 
 " Let us not speak of him," said Abram. " The faults of 
 the parents are transmitted to the ofispring ; and in his case, it 
 is too easy to refer all this misery to the traits inherited from 
 his wilful and selfish mother." 
 
 "Ill-governed passions and constitutional selfishness make 
 much work for the courts," said Leigh ; and with this remark 
 they parted — Leigh entering the door of his bachelor establish- 
 ment, and Abram and Henry pursuing their way to " The 
 Glen." 
 
 " Your letters and bills I will prepare to-night," said Abram. 
 " Have you decided upon the direction of your journey ?" 
 
 " I think I will go first to New Orleans," Henry answered, 
 and thence into Texas." 
 
 " But the Vincents," suggested Abram, looking doubtfully at 
 him. 
 
 " Never fear," said Henry quickly, " I hope these occur- 
 rences have not totally destroyed my manliness ", 
 
 " I do not fear that I" interrrupted his uncle. " But you 
 may meet them in that country — and I, of all men, know the 
 temptation and inisery of such a meeting, even when you are 
 best fortified by just resentment." 
 
 " There will be no risk of my meeting them, I think," said 
 
182 THE GLENNS. 
 
 Henry, " and if I should, the pain Of the meeting will only 
 confirm me." 
 
 "There is one point in the late trial," said Abram, after 
 walking some distance in silence, "of which I believe yon have 
 not thought : William Bates' testimony makes it probable that 
 James widened the "breach between you and Fanny by altering 
 her letters. Now, may it not be that the whole difficulty was 
 a misunderstanding ?" 
 
 '' That could not justify her engagement to Eversham," said 
 Henry. 
 
 " No ; but it may explain it," urged the imcle. 
 
 " An explanation can be of -little avail now,-" Henry answer- 
 ed. " I already judge her as favorably as may be ; perhaps, 
 for her credit it were better that I receive no further light on 
 the subject." 
 
 " Proper resentment is by no m.eans to be foregone," said his 
 uncle, " but we should be first quite sure that our judgment is 
 not too severe," 
 
 " Severity is usually but another name for truth," said 
 Henry; "and no presumption in favor of open treachery should 
 ever be admitted." 
 
 "True," siaid Abram, and he became silent. Severe judg- 
 ment was too congenial to his nature, to allow of his combat- 
 ting it with much zeal. And though he had several times 
 thought that a full explanation might clear up all that was dark 
 in this affair, he was yet inclined both by pature and the cir- 
 cumstances, to agree with Henry in a harsh construction of 
 Fannf's motives. He, therefore, pressed him no further on the 
 subject, and soon afterwards ihey entered the gate of " The 
 Glen." 
 
 " Have any measures been taken to arrest James 1" asked 
 Henry, when they were seated in the library. 
 
 " No," answered Abram. '' It was found useless: he had 
 relays of horses ready between here and the river ; as a precau- 
 tion, I suppose, against discovery. Leigh's clerk had let fall 
 some hints which alarmed him, and the course of the defence 
 decided him upon flight." 
 
 " He must have reached the river then in time to intercept 
 the morning packet," said Henry. 
 
 "Yes, and is by this time beyond "pursuit. You may meet 
 him in Texas, too ; but I know I need not warn you against 
 any intercourse with him." 
 ' " He has as many reasons Tor avoiding me," said Henry, " as 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 183 
 
 I have to shun him. But is not his mother somewhere in 
 Texas?" 
 
 " I have heard so," said Abram. " Shelton, the man she 
 married, was an officer in the Republican army, but what has 
 become of him since I do not Isnow." 
 
 '' Who was he, and what'was his history ?" asked Henry. 
 It seems to me I have heard he was a relative of Mortimer 
 Eversham. Was. it so ?" 
 
 " His first wife," said Abram, " was Eversham's sister. 
 She died a few months before his union with James' toother. 
 He inherited considerable wealth, but it was all dissipated be- 
 fore his first marriage. The property he received by his wife 
 he sold and wasted in the same way, so that when he married 
 your uncle's widow, he was reduced to very discreditable shifts 
 for a suppoirt. James was then not five years old, and Shelton 
 was unwilling to be burthened with him. He had, besides, a 
 daughter by his first wife, only twelve months old at the 
 time of his marriage, and that child he at once took from its 
 nurse, and with it left the country. Since that, as I said, we 
 have lifiard but little of him ; though I believe he is still living 
 ill Texas." 
 
 " That child, then," said Henry, " is Eversham's only heir." 
 
 " If livins:," said Abram ; " but I have never heard whether 
 it lived or died. Indeed, the probability is that it is long since 
 dead." 
 
 " Leigh has administered, I believe," said Henry. 
 
 "Yes; lie was the only creditor to any considerable amount, 
 and toolc out his letters at the request of the others. He has 
 advertised for Shelton and his heirs for some time, but as yet to 
 no purpose." 
 
 He was interrupted by the opening of the door. 
 
 " A boy— Mr. Eversham's boy, Billy Bates — wants to see 
 Mr. Henry," said a servant, looking in. 
 
 "Send him here," said Henry; and a few moments after- 
 wards Billy entered, looking round him in the most self-pos- 
 sessed manner, and then advancing towards Henry with a step 
 perfectly assured. In spite, however, of his wonted bearing, 
 the two gentlemen could not^but see that he was altered. The 
 look of freedom had settled into one of determination, and 
 the mischievous cunning of his eyes had now a steady purpose. 
 He advanced without hesitation towards Henry, and not wait- 
 ing to be addressed, asked, in a free, open voice, whether he 
 was rightly informed that Henry was about to go towards the 
 South? 
 
184 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " Yes, my boy," said Henry, kindly, " I shall start early to- 
 morrow morning. In what can I serve you there ?" 
 
 " In nothing," said Billy, " either there or here, except in 
 allowing me to go with yon." 
 
 " To go with me !" exclaimed Henry, in surprise. '' Why, 
 what do you want to go with me for ?" 
 
 " I want to go South," said Billy, briefly. 
 
 " And why do you wish to go with me 7" agked Henry. 
 
 " Because I have never travelled," said the bay, " and I may 
 not be able to get on alone." 
 
 " In what capacity do you propose to go, my boy 1" asked 
 Uncle Abram, interrupting him. 
 
 " In any at all," said Billy, " so I get to go. I have an ob- 
 ject in going and the means are not material." 
 
 " Your principles are not likely to be in your way, at all 
 events," said Abram. But the boy turned his face to Henry, 
 inquiringly, without making any reply. Henry bent his eyes 
 to the floor in thought. 
 
 " You may, perhaps, be of service to me," said he, raising 
 his head, after a pause of some moments. '' But it will not 
 last longer than our journey to Nfew Orleans. And if I should 
 leave you adrift there you might come to some harm." 
 
 " Never fear," said Billy, " I can make my way if you will 
 take me there." 
 
 " What can you do ?" asked Henry. 
 
 " Anything at all," said the boy. '' Take care of baggage, 
 hire horses, pay stage fare, black boots, carry letters — anything 
 at all, so you only take me along." 
 
 " And what is your object in going V asked Abram. 
 
 " That I do not choose to tell," said he, calmly. 
 
 " Suppose I take you," said Henry, " have you no bargain 
 to make about wages ?" 
 
 " None, sir," said the boy. " I will leave that to you." 
 
 " In the positive certainty," said Abram, " that he will get 
 more from your generosity than he would have the conscience 
 to ask." 
 
 " I have sixty dollars laid up,'' said Billy, exhibiting a purse, 
 which he seemed to think was bottomless, " and for the pre- 
 sent I care nothing about wages." 
 
 " Very well,'' said Henry. " You shall go with me. But, 
 mind, our connection continues only so long as you please me ; 
 and, at the longest, only to New Orleans." 
 
 "Unless," said Billy, quietly, "I can give you good reasons 
 for continuing it longer." 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 185 
 
 " If you do that," said Henry, smiling faintly, " of course it 
 will extend beyond New Orleans." 
 
 " If I choose," said Billy. 
 
 "Very well," H«nry rejoined, amused at the boy's independ- 
 ence, " you had better be making your preparations, for I shall 
 set out early to-morrow morning." 
 
 " I am quite ready," the boy replied, " and will be with you 
 by day-break." 
 
 With this he turijed away and left the room. 
 
 About sunrise on the morrow a horn was heard, mellow in 
 the morning stillness, sounding from the gate. It had been 
 preceded by a tremendous rattling of wtjeels and chains down 
 the hill, and a very sudden halt, accompanied by all the usual 
 sounds of a stage-coach making an early start. Henry's bag- 
 gage was already at the gate in charge of Billy Bates, and with 
 his assistance it was shipped without delay. Soon afterwards, 
 Henry himself was visible in company with Uncle Abram, 
 walking — much to the discontent of the copper-aiosed driver — 
 very slowly down the path. 
 
 They reached the gate in good time, though not much has- 
 tened by the objurgation of the self-important functionary. 
 Then they pressed each other's hands in silence. Henry sprang 
 into the coach — " Take care of yourself, my boy," said Abram, 
 and away dashed the horses, apparently determined to recover 
 lost time. One or two hundred yards, however, reduced them 
 to a more sober pace, and in ten minutes they were jogging 
 along as quietly as hearts could wish. 
 
 End of Book Second. 
 
B-OOK THIRD 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " I do love these ancient ruing ; . 
 
 Wo never tread upon them, hut we set 
 
 Our foot upon some reverend history."— Duchess or Malfv. 
 " The aun hegins to Rild the western aky." — Two Gentlemen op Tkhona. 
 
 " I liold the world but as the world, Gratiano, 
 A stage, where every man must play a part."— Merchant or Venice. 
 
 In the eastern part of the ancient city of San Antonio de"^ 
 Bexar, in Western Texas, stand the ruins of an old fortress, 
 known in Texan story as the Alamo. It was originally a reli- 
 gious house, built by the Jesuit missionaries about one hundred 
 years ago ; but, in the chequered life led by those adventurous 
 men, it was probably often a place of security against the 
 treachery of the aborigines. The immense ruins, occupying a 
 space more than five hundred feet .square, attest the nobility of 
 the structure; and the thickness of the walls yet standing, in 
 spite of the action of wind and storm, and in defiance of the 
 destructive hand of man, manifests the wealth and labor ex- 
 pended in its erection. The beauty of the workmanship, the 
 elaborate .plan, the remains of costly decoration, and the sci- 
 entific disposition of its defences, all remind us of the taste and 
 magnificence of a race that has passed away. The main cciurt- 
 yard, originally surrounded on the inside by the stables and 
 offices of the establishment, has a front of more than five hun- 
 dred feet extending along the left bank of the river San Anto- 
 nio ; on-the south- side was the great gateway, on the north an 
 unbroken wall, two hundred and thirty feet long, and appar- 
 ently of great height, and on the east stand the cloisters, a 
 heavy oblong building, three hundred by thirty feet, and two 
 stories high. In the rear of this are two smaller courtyards. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 187 
 
 surrounded in like manner, and probably once the private gar- 
 dens of the monks. Through the width of the more southern 
 of these, and in the rear of the cloisters, runs a massive corridor, 
 still entire ; and through this lay the private passage of the 
 priests from the cloisters to the ohurch. This last was built in 
 au angle made by the several courtyards, outside of the walls, 
 probably for the purpose of assembling their parishioners for 
 worship, without the risk which would have attended their ad- 
 mission within the walls. • 
 
 '' It was a massive, building of stone, one hiindred and twenty 
 by fifty feet, built in the form of a cross, and surmounted by a 
 heavy dome. The north-west angle, which formed a part of 
 the southern wall of the gardens, is filled up, between the tran- 
 sept and the lower end of the nave, by several small rooms 
 used for religious purposes, and through these ran the private 
 passage mentioned above. The whole building was entire 
 until after the battle of San Jacinto, when it was blo%vn up by 
 General Filisola, in impotent anger, on being ordered by Santa 
 Anna to evacuate the country. Considerations of policy may, 
 perhaps, have assisted his Vandal .spirit ; for, but a short time 
 before, a small band of desperate men had thrown themselves 
 into the church and defended it with a fury which cost the 
 lives of many hundred Mexicans. In this band were Travis, 
 Milam, Bowie, and Crockett, with others of reckless spirit, 
 broken fortunes, and desperate courage ; and many are the 
 stories, fast becoming mere traditions, told in Saji Antonio, of 
 the seven days' slaughter of that terrible flight — of the acts of 
 individual prowess and the fearful deaths of these remarkable 
 men. 
 
 Milam fell (according to these traditions,) in the city, whither 
 tie had ventured in disguise upon some mission of gallantry ; 
 and the window is still shown where he stood when the bullet 
 of the assassin reached his heart. Crockett stood alone at the 
 low door which opens into the gardens, (through 'which the 
 Mexicans gained admittance,) and with pistol and knife fought 
 hand to hand in the darkened vault, until he fell pierced by an 
 hundred wounds. He died so obscurely, and the faith in his 
 prowess was so firm, that for years it was believed he had not 
 fallen. And many were the wild stories floating throughout 
 the West of his miserable fate among the mountains of Mexico, 
 where, it was believed, he was toiling in the silver mines for 
 the enemies whom he had so gloriously fought. But these 
 legends were only the fond imaginings of a people who had 
 been attached to his bold, free spirit while living — the struggles 
 
186 
 
 THE GLENNS. 
 
 of memory against oblivion! Bowie was the last of the 
 devoted band ; wounded, unable to rise, he lay with his pistols 
 and his knife — that terrible weapon to which his own name is 
 given — in an upper room in the north-west angle of the chureh. 
 Ha and Crockett were the last survivors of the besieged ; and 
 before the latter went below to sell his life so dearly, he placed 
 these arms beside his friend, and embracing him bade him fare- 
 well. Here, wounded, weakened, and alone, he waited the 
 approach of those from whom he could receive no mercy. An 
 hour passed away ; while directly beneath him he could hear 
 the din of battle, when Crockett did to death each man of hardi- 
 hood enough to thrust himself through the narrow opening. 
 It was a deadly struggle — five thousand men against one single 
 man ! At last the masonry was torn away, the crowd rushed 
 in, Crockett was trampled and mangled, and the soldiers 
 searched the building for those who had so long defended it. 
 They were all dead but one I And that one lay alone, wounded, 
 but resolute to sell the little remnant of his life as dearly as his 
 friend had done. They rushed into the small dark room where 
 he lay ; the foremost were shot down with an aim unerring ; 
 they recoiled, but again rushed forward ; Bowie's pistols were • 
 empty, but he held his knife with a grasp nerved by desperation 
 and approaching death. Seven of his assailants lay dead upon 
 the floor before their eyes were sufficiently accustomed to the 
 darkened light, to see by whom they were met. They fell 
 back in alarm ; but no further sound was heard ; they cau- 
 tiously advanced, and found a single man, dead ; but no new 
 wound had been given him ; the violence of his own efforts 
 had ended his life. 
 
 Such are the traditions told of these men — lawless and des- 
 perate in life, terrible even in death — and of this character are 
 most of the stories which compose the history of the city of San 
 Antonio. 
 
 .It is a ieeutiful place: still, quiet, dreamy; peopled by an 
 indolent, pleasure-loving race ; full of hazy memories, its history 
 a romance, its existence almost a dream ! In the heart of as 
 lovely a country as the sunhght gilds, on the banks of the sweet- 
 est river in the south-west, afar from the din of the busy world, 
 with a climate balmier than that of Italy ; ancient ruins, famous 
 in song and story ; waving prairies, where the Indian lives in 
 freedom ; deep forests, whose enchanted silence is broken only 
 by the rushing of clear streams ; tradition, romance, poetry, reli- 
 gion, barbarism, self-exile, civilization and decay, love, peace, 
 hatred, war : such are the elements of its existence. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 189 
 
 It is an old Spanish city ; and with the phrase how many 
 peaceful fancies, dim and shadowy as an autumn evening, rise 
 upon the mind, — imaginations which, in England, are evoked 
 by the mention of those pleasant, dreamy places, known as 
 " little cathedral cities." When founded, or by whom, it is im- 
 possible, even at this distance of time, to ascertain with any cer- 
 tainty. It was a place of some importance seventy years ago — 
 at least as far back as 1784 — probably of more importance then 
 than now. For by an inscription upon some old bells at the 
 Mission of San Jose, six miles below the town, we learn that 
 they were cast here in that year. Their weight, and the words 
 of the inscription alike preclude the supposition that they were 
 transported hither after having been cast elsewhere. At this 
 day no such thing as a foundry, or indeed a manufactory of 
 other description, is to be found' in the city. In one place, near 
 the river bank, a large pile of what appears to be iron cinders 
 and small pieces of broken castings, seems to attest that some- 
 thing of the kind once existed there ; but the building, if there 
 ever was such, has long since disappeared. The numerous large 
 churches in its vicinity indicate that the population was once 
 very considerable in places where now, excepting an occasional 
 lonely pile of stones, or winding aqueduct — a noble monument 
 of industry and science — no vestige of human habitation can be 
 found. The population has vanished ; and the numerous sieges 
 and sackings which the city has undergone, by the various par- 
 ties at vPar at different periods, and the spirit of Vandalism 
 which has characterised them all, have obliterated every means 
 of ascertaining even the commonest facts in relation to the his- 
 tory of the country. The public records have all been destroyed 
 or carried away. A few of them still remain in the Palacio or 
 Hall of Justice in the city of Monclova in Coahnila, where the 
 writer saw them in December, 1846; but they are in so torn 
 and fragmentary a condition, that scarcely any fact can be 
 gleaned from them without infinite research and complete ac- 
 quaintance with the history from other sources. Private man- 
 uscripts have been burnt or destroyed, as were many by the 
 garrison of the Alamo in 1836, when they wadded their guns 
 with parchments and built watch-fires with valuable books ; li- 
 braries, scanty as they were, but even more precious on that 
 account, have been consumed or suffered to moulder away, — as 
 was that of the Mission of San Jose, where neglect and igno- 
 rance, and rain and wind have made large numbers of books 
 totally illegible: while in the same room — striking monument 
 of piety and ignorance ! — a waxen image of the Virgin, dressed 
 
190 THE GLENNS. 
 
 in tawdry silks has been preserved with watchful devotion for 
 fifty years I Inscriptions have been defaced, apparently for no 
 other purpose than destruction of the carving around thera; in 
 short, every means of knowledge, except the dim recollections 
 of old, doting, and in most cases, ignorant and stupid men and 
 women, has been utterly destroyed. 
 
 Most of this barbarism is attributable to the Mexican armies 
 in their many marauding expeditions, undertaken professedly to 
 reconquer a rebellious province, but really to plunder and de- 
 stroy. The most of the enormities were perpetrated by the 
 motley hordes brought over the Rio Grande by Santa Anna in 
 1836^ when that general became a prisoner at San Jacinto, and 
 in order to save his life stipulated with Houston to evacuate the 
 country and recognize its independence. This agreement was 
 not fulfilled to the letter, as probably Houston did notexpect it 
 to be ; nor did any law of nations, or of good morais, require 
 that it should be. It was a promise extorted under duress ; 
 when, so far as Santa Anna knew, this was the only escape 
 from death. Sacrificing his life, however, under the cirxjum- 
 stances, even if he had refused to comply with the conditions, 
 would have been a, disgrace to the Texans. which no lapse of 
 time could have wiped out. Santa Anna's lieutenant, who com- 
 manded in San Antonio, obeyed his order to retire beyond the 
 E-io Grande — a movement on his part which ought to have 
 cashiered him, knowing as he must have known, or whether he 
 knew or notj that an order from a prisoner could not bind him. 
 But he evacuated the place, doing before he went all the injury 
 he was able to do in the city, and especially ruining the old 
 fortress-church known as the Alamo. This was the last time 
 that a Mexican force ever entered the city, excepting the expe-' 
 dition of General WoU in September, 1842. The Texans had 
 received information that a force was being collected in or 
 about Presidio del Rio Grande, for the purpose of invading their 
 country; and with characteristic promptness they despatched 
 several of their best and most reliable scouts to reconnoitre, 
 giving them orders to return with a full report. The scouts 
 were gone two or three weeks, and returned with the report that 
 there was no force in process of organization, and no appearance 
 of any intention to invade the country. The Texans had, how- 
 ever, hardly begun to felicitate themselves upon their safety, 
 when the alarm was given that WoU's column was entering 
 the suburbs of the city, and that his advance guard had already 
 taken up a position on the opposite side of the river ! So" sud- 
 den and complete was the surprise, that the District Court then 
 
A FAMILy HISTORY. 131 
 
 ill session had not time to adjourn, but were all taken prisoners,, 
 including judge, jury, lawyers, clerks aiid clients! WoU h^id 
 coUeoied his force in the face of the reconnaissance, crossed 
 thence into Texas, and- opening an entirely new road "one hun- 
 dred and eighty miles in length, entered the city simultaneously 
 with ihe spies sent to watch Kim I And having secured his 
 plunder and his prisoners, he made a rapid and succes^ul retreat 
 across the border 1 i '_ 
 
 . * # * * * *"* 
 
 The sun was declining towards the horizon on a pleasant 
 evening late in September ; the stately ruins of the Alamo were 
 bathed in the mellow light of that glorious season; when a 
 young man, mounted upon a horse of great power and beauty, 
 rode slowly out from among the low trees above the ruin, and 
 carefully picked his way across the wet ground on the east of 
 the church. He was closely followed by a Boy of about seven- 
 teen years, whom the reader would straightway have recog- 
 nized as his acquaintance Billy Bates. The year which had 
 elapse/l since he had set out on his travels had produced in his 
 appearance even more than the usual amount of change which 
 that period brings to one of his age; but the quick-glancing 
 eye and expressive mouth Were still the same. The texture of 
 his clothes, and a certain jauntiness with which they were 
 worn, indicated that the change was only development ; and 
 though both the expression of his features and the staidness of 
 his bearing manifested more earnestness, than formerly distin- 
 guished him, both seemed to be merely another stage in the 
 same progress. In his companion the change was more percep- 
 tible ; but with him also it was bijt the deepening of lines 
 already drawn. His eye was not so bright as formerly, but it 
 was steadier; and the expression of his mouth, though not so 
 pleasant, was firmer. His bearing was that of a man well 
 acquainted with the world, assured of his own position, arjd 
 having therefore no inclination to attack the position of others. 
 His complexion was somewhat embrowned by^ exposure to the 
 sun, and his whiskers and moustache, though black, were red- 
 dened by the same cause. .-w«, 
 
 As he crossed the last of the clear little currcfits, he turned 
 his horse to the right, and looking up at the crumbling walls, 
 rode slowly round them, and stopped" in front^ of the broken 
 church. "While gazing at the desolate pi;e, and endeavoring to 
 decipher the inscription above the entrance, he became aware 
 of the. presence of other persons in the building, and leaned 
 forward to look in. A tall, finely-formed man was standing in 
 
192 - THE GLENNS. 
 
 the nave of the church, looking up at a young girl who stood 
 upon a pile of rubbish several feet above him. He was dressed 
 plainly, but neatly, and though quite middle aged, evidently 
 paid close attendon to his personal appearance. He was tail, 
 as we have saic^ being quite six feet high, and the graceful 
 outline Of his form was in perfect keeping;. A clear though 
 brown cM^exion, dark flashing eye, aquiline nose, rather thin 
 lips, and||h*igh though narrow forehead, were the principal 
 features o^hls countenance. A certain recklessness might now 
 and then be observed in its expression ; and at all tintes, sudden 
 outbreaks of a fiery temper would not have been inconsistent 
 with its characteristics. Excepting these things, his whole ap- 
 pearance and bearing were those of a highly educated and 
 accomplished gentlemah. His daughter — for such was the lady 
 virho stood above him — was a feminine counterpart — tall, ele- 
 gantly shaped, with one of those faces to which, by common 
 consent, men apply the epithet j^?je; There was more fire than 
 tenderness in her eye, more command than affection in the 
 mouth. Her complexion was a pale olive, with the faintest 
 tinge of red in the cheeks ; her nose was high, though not so 
 aquiline as her fat^r's, and her forehead almost too high for 
 perfect beauty. Her dark hair, now uncovered, was braided 
 and carried back in heavy plaits beneath her ears, and fastened 
 with a silver comb ; and as the yellow sunlight, shining through 
 the wide door, bathed in its liquid flood, a thousand flashing 
 rays of gold reflected from its glossy folds, and changed with 
 every motion of her head. Around her neck she wore a mas- 
 sive chain of gold, and on her finger flashed a single jewelled 
 ring, the only sign of vanity about her. For well she knew 
 the matchless hand itself could need no ornament. A loose 
 plain dress of the purest white, confined at the neck and waist 
 by silken cords drawn through a hem, hupg in rich and grace- 
 ful: folds about the sweeping outlines of her figure ; and a low, 
 crimson velvet slipper, with golden clasps, served only to keep 
 her smaW, exquisitely formed feet from the ground. She wore 
 no stoj^ing^ and from the place where Henry Glenn was sit- 
 ting he couia^ee the blue veins trace themselves beneath the 
 polished*surface of the faintly-tmted skin. She had in her hand 
 a light rehoso or mantilla of changeable silk, and in the other a 
 slender fishing-rod, which, resting near her father's, feet, par- 
 tially supported her. 
 
 As Henry rode up to the door, both turned suddenly towards 
 him, and the gentleman advanced to answer his inquirieC As 
 he approached, Henry observed that he was armed in the fash- 
 
A rAMlL,! msi;u±ti. 193 
 
 ion of all men of that country : the hajndle of a revolviag pistol 
 displayed itself in his belt, and on the other side it was balanced 
 by a knife whose hilt was equally open to observation. The 
 lady was also armed, though not so formidably ; the red morocco 
 scabbard of a light two-edged dagger was ''supported by the 
 chain before mentioned, and thrust beneath a shken cord around 
 her waist ; , and the jewelled hilt was visible, convement to the 
 grasp. Notwithstanding his formidable appeara|^,^owever, 
 the man advanced courteously to the door, and pKely a«ked 
 Henry to repeat his question. ^J 
 
 '' Can you direct me to the best place of entertainJnent in the 
 city ?'•" Henry repeated. 
 
 " I can do little else here," said the other, eyeing him narrow- 
 ly, " than tell you the name of the hostess. But if you will 
 alight and remain with us for a few minutes, we shall be return- 
 ing, and can guide you to the house." 
 
 ''I will employ the time, then," said Henry, springing to the 
 ground and handing the reins to Billy, " in looking over these 
 ruins. They are those of the Alamo, are they not r 
 
 " Yes," answered the other, and, turning to his daughter, 
 " Mag," said he, " you- can keep a look out over the wall, while 
 I walk round the ruins with this gentleman." The young wo- 
 man made no reply, but walked further up the pile of rubbish, 
 and taking her stand on its highest point, near the top of the 
 wa,U, directed her gaze along the Seguin road, towards the 
 east. Henry gazed at her with some interest, until recalled by 
 the voice of his cicerone ; when he followed him out of the 
 church through a low door, which led into an oblong room with 
 one small window. She who was addressed as Mag, gazed 
 after him as he' turned away with an eager and yet abstracted 
 look of great interest. 
 
 " How very like I" she exclaimed in a low tone, as he disap- 
 peared. And for several minutes shega.ve but little heed to the 
 object of her outlook, — gazing absently into the waters beneath 
 her, and sighing, as if unconscious of all the world, except the 
 images of hei fancy. ^-.f 
 
 " We are waiting for a messenger with letters, "said Henry's 
 companion, in explanation, as he stopped and 'loSked iround the 
 little room in which they stood. 
 
 " Somewhere near this spot, according to the tradition," he 
 continued, " Colonel Crockett fellj fighting 'alone against hope- 
 less odds. His companions were nearly all killed above ; and 
 wittohem died as much courage as ever fell to the lot of an 
 equal number of men." 
 9 
 
194 THE GLENNS. 
 
 "Their courage partook largely of recklessness, I thinls," 
 said Henry. 
 
 " That is true of all the men engaged in the Texan revolu- 
 tibn," said the i^er, "from Sam Houston down. They were 
 for the most part men of broken fortunes, — many of them had 
 ' left their country for their country's good ' and their own safe- 
 ty; andflf«fear but few of them entered that contest with any 
 very burning love for liberty, excef)t such as grew out of a law- 
 less impatience of restraint, or any very high appreciation of 
 the glory of their cause." 
 
 " The cause ennobled their efforts, at all events," said Henry, 
 " whatever were their motives.'' 
 
 " True," said the other, leaning pensively upon a window sill ; 
 ■' they paid dearly for their temerity, and if the noblest daring 
 can atone for error, they should be forgiven. The world is just, 
 after all ; and though dead and gone, they are yet alive in the 
 memories of all men forever. Massacred in cold blood, shot like 
 so many dogs, by sections and platoons, they almost all exhibited 
 in the hour of death, a fortitude nobler than mere digged reck- 
 lessness, a stern philosophy higher than that of vulgar 
 despair.'' 
 
 '' It was a noble -struggle," he continued, after a pause, 
 speaking slowly and thoughtfully, " and to him who can see its 
 significance, a pregnant passage in the history of the world. It 
 was but the prolongation of a contest commenced many hun- 
 dreds of years ago. Two races of men, at war even before the 
 time of Philip's Armada, upon this continent always at war, met 
 in the wilds of the western world, years after the cessation of all 
 hostility on the other side of the ocean, to enact the sequel to a 
 drama long since closed. Upon the one side, whatever may have 
 been the motive of the champions, were arrayed progress and 
 emancipation and enlightenment, and to the fortunes of the other 
 clung establishments and forms and fetters ; and it thus became 
 
 an epitome of the grand struggle between liberty and slavery 
 
 a struggle wjiich has been going on, with more or less violence, 
 almost since theo^aw^n of creation, — which is going on now, and 
 which will continue, until every vestige of despotism shall be 
 swept from the face of the earth.'" 
 
 " You think, then," said Henry, surprised to meet so much 
 thoughtfulness and enthusiasm in a place like that, " that the 
 motives of men are of no consequence, if only their efforts tend, 
 hbVever unintentionally, to good results t" 
 f^' It is ordained," continued his companion, not so much in 
 reply, as in continuation of what he had been saying, " that 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 195 
 
 darkness shall give place to light, barbarism to civilization, des- 
 potism to freedom. The champions of liberty never have failed 
 and never will fail. A temporary defeat to them is no, failure, 
 — nay, vire know (if we would but remember it) that God's pro- 
 vidence does not allow their failure. What seems a defeat may 
 be, must be, a long stride forward, eventually a great victory. 
 The Ruler of the world advances the great cause, iri>His own 
 way and in his own time. From the moment when He spoke 
 the words, " Let there be light," tlie rays have been penetrating 
 into darkness ; and whatever may be men's motives, if they 
 open the way for it, they are true soldiers of the light. No man, 
 w^ho does not doubt the guiding hand, when he views the course 
 of human events, can question the justice of any conflict, which 
 promises to dissipate the cloud, to spread the benefits of civili- 
 zation, or to extend the limits of free institutions. It is not only 
 not wrong, but it is a duty which every nation, holding the 
 torch of Christianity and civilization, must fulfill, to diffuse its 
 light, to bear it a)oft, and let its rays shine over all the earth." 
 
 " You seem to be surprised," he added, observing Henry 
 looking at him in some wonder, " that a man whom you meet 
 in such a place as this should express suc]^ sentiments. But I 
 have an enthusiasm on this subject — unfortunately the only 
 subject upon which I can be said to be warmT— and I believe 
 with Byron, 
 
 ' That freedom's battle, oft begun, 
 Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son, 
 Though baffled oft, is ever lyon.' 
 
 I cannot claim any great merit for it, however, for when I en- 
 tered the armies of Texas, I was as little imbued with the true 
 spirit of freedom, as any man in the world. But let us go 
 through this door. 
 
 They passed out accordingly, and after spending some min- 
 utes in looking at the ruins, crossed the main court-yard and 
 seated themselves upon a stone bench at the /oot of an old 
 elm. It was overgrown ]t)y moss a;nd ivy, and, had probably 
 been placed there by the monks, for rest and meditation." 
 
 " It is a strange sensation, which one experiences in walk- 
 ing over ruins," said he who had hitherto borne the burden of 
 the conversation, " melancholy yet soothing, rriournful but plea- 
 sant. In the words of the poet I quoted awhile ago, 
 
 J*. ' ' There is given 
 
 Unto the things of earth which time hath bent, 
 A spirit's feeling ; and when he hath lent 
 
196 THE GLENNS. 
 
 His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
 And magic in the mined battlement.' 
 
 Doubtless it is attributable to the subdued tone of the spirit in 
 such scenes ; but I haVe often thought that nature is more 
 quiet, that the sounds are softer, the winds lower, even the sun- 
 light mellower, about a ruin, than in any other place. Certain 
 it is that the associations are more suggestive and thoughtful ; 
 that our minds are attuned to melancholy, by the sight of decay, 
 and that even inanimate objects assiame a sort of dreamy exist- 
 ence to our minds, as if they were conscious of the influence 
 of memory and association. I could lie here and dream for a 
 day, and listen to the wind among the boughs, and shape in 
 words the legends whispered among the rustling leaves. But," 
 he added suddenly rising and casting aside all his thoughtful- 
 ness, " I must return to the church, and we will then go'over 
 to Mrs. Burnham's. By the bye, are you a married man?" 
 
 " No," Henfy answered smiling ; " why do you ask '/" 
 
 "Because," said the other, "our hostess is on the look out 
 for a fresh young husband ; and if you have no fancy for a 
 rather ancient widoy, you must keep your guard. Never hav- 
 ing tried it, she believes that matrimony is a state much to be 
 coveted, and will go any length to be initiated." 
 
 " I thought you called her a widow," said Henry. 
 
 " So I did," said the other, " and so she is — by courtesy. 
 Shgi.h'sis a daughter whom she compels to call her " aunt," and 
 yet for fear some one may suspect the relationship, she gra- 
 ciously and sometimes tearfully acknowledges, that she has 
 once been led to the altar by ' a beloved husband, now in 
 Heaven.' Like all women of her Class, she acknowledges a 
 misfortune, to avoid the suspicion of a fault. She treats the 
 world as the timid schoolboy treats the tyrant of the play- 
 ground — hastening to give him part of his apple to prevent his 
 claiming all." 
 
 " If I may judge from what you say," said Henry, " her 
 stratagem has not been successful.'' 
 
 "Not altogether," the other replied. "But whatever her 
 character may be, she keeps a good house, and makes it the 
 interest of every gentleman who chances to drift upon the fron- 
 tier to stop with her. Here we are," he added, as they turned 
 the corner of the large rum and came in sight of the church 
 door, where Billy Bates, having moved a little aside, was still 
 holding the horses. " I see our messenger has arrived." 
 ^He pointed as he spoke to another horse tied within the 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 197 
 
 nave ; and as they advanced Henry eould see the figure of a 
 man standing with the lady on the pile of rubbish where he 
 had left her. He thought the form familiar to him ; but be- 
 fore he had time to make much observation, his companion 
 stepped within the door, and after speaking a few words to his 
 daughter, returned and asked Henry to walk with him in search 
 of Mrs^ Burnham's hotel. They passed out upon a little trian- 
 gular plaza, and took their way down the river towards a 
 dilapidated trestle bridge, which spans the river beneath a 
 double row of stately elms. 
 
 '' Do you expect to stay long among us?" asked ' Henry's 
 companion. 
 
 ■' That depends upon the sources of amusement and the flow 
 of my humor," he replied, " and as the latter is somewhat de- 
 pendent upon the former, probably you can guess as nearly as 
 I can myself." 
 
 " The sources of amusement here," said the other, " are not 
 very numerous, though sufficiently exciting; being chiefly 
 fighting Indians, visiting fandangoes, and playing monte. If 
 you are disposed to indulge in the last, the house just opposite 
 us is constantly thronged with votaries. But if you will take 
 the advice of an old stager, you will bend the knee to the fickle 
 goddess, in her San Antonio temples, as seldom as may be." 
 
 The house to which he pointed was a low stoue building 
 covering considerable space, and surrounded on three sides by 
 gardens which extended to the water's edge. They were in- 
 closed, and separated from similar grounds, by, a high stone 
 wall, over which were hanging the luxuriant foliage of numer- 
 ous acacias. The walks, which had once been gravelled, were 
 overgrown by weeds and grtiss, and along their edges were 
 thickets of young saplings, interwoven with vines and tall 
 weeds — presenting, an unpleasant contrast to the neat and trim 
 appearance of the neighboring grounds. The house itself 
 seemed neglected, and a broken shutter hanging upon one 
 hinge, indicated the progress of decay ; while the deep,, green 
 moss, enveloping the broken corner, told of the repentant ef- 
 forts of time to cover up his own ravages. 
 
 " I know but little about gaming," said Henry, after scan- 
 ning the building and grounds, " but I am here to make the 
 most of all the resources for amusement that I can command.'' 
 
 '' You have no objection to being a spectator, then, if I un- 
 derstand you," said the other, eyeing him as he had done 
 throughout the conversation, " or even a moderate participator." 
 
198 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " None," said Henry, carelessly, " provided it afford amuse- 
 ment ; and that I doubt not I shall find in its novelty.'' 
 
 " While it lasts, doubtless," said his companion, " though 
 that will probably not be long. Nothing overcomes novelty 
 faster than losing money ; but fortunately for those vi'ho live by 
 the weakness of others, infatuation soon replaces it." 
 
 " I have nothing to apprehend on that score," said Henry. 
 
 " Well," said the elder, " if you wish it, I will be your 
 cicerone among the moral, as I have just been among the phy- 
 sical, ruins ; and if you find not quite as much food for reflec- 
 tion there, as on the broken stones of the Alamo, you are no 
 philosopher. The conquests of time are rapid enough, eveir in 
 the calmesti^;^rsuits ; but gamesters spur their steeds with 
 bloody rowels, and gallop through their lives, as if their best 
 enjoyment were to waste them. ' Do you know what Sheridan 
 — no bad judge, by the bye — says of female gamesters ? 
 
 ' A night of fretful passion may consume 
 All that thou hast of beauty's gentle bloom ; 
 And one distempered hour 6f sordid fear, 
 Print on thy brow the wrinkles of a year.' 
 
 Gamblers soon lose their enjoyment of all other things, and 
 haying exhausted variety, spend their life in turning 
 
 ' The old sands in the failing glass of time.' " 
 
 " You never indulge in such amusements, then V said 
 Henry. 
 
 "O! yes I do, often I" replied his companion. "We have 
 no other resource here — unless, indeed, we trade horses or cut 
 each other's throats — amusements about equally respectable." 
 
 " And," said Henry, " I suppose equally common." 
 
 " Common enough, certainly. But where there are so many 
 whose throats are only fit for cutting, it is not often much la- 
 mented, and still more seldom punished. There are, however, 
 some respectable people here — thougti what induces them to 
 come, God knows ! For example, iti that neat house, next to 
 the Monte rendezvous, lives a man of considerable age, who 
 only arrived, bringing a daughter scarcely eighteen, some two 
 or three weeks ago. Having lived to a good age in some law- 
 abiding community, he has come to spend his declining years 
 among the wildest people in the West." 
 
 "I know what you are thinking,'' he added, observing Henry 
 looking inquiringly at him. " You think it strange that a re- 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 199 
 
 spectable man like me should live among such people. But 
 here we are at Mother Burnham's — you must, however, avoid 
 calling her so to her face. Call me Shelton — what shall I 
 name you?" 
 
 " Glenn,'''' said Henry. 
 
 " Humph I" muttered Shelton as he led the way around the 
 corner. " I thought I had seen some face like it." 
 
 CHAPTEB, II. 
 
 " I do nothing donbt, you hare store of thieves."— Ctubeliuk. 
 '* I will rememher this most giave adieu." — Fkstus. 
 " Oh ! the dear pleasures of the velvet plain ! 
 
 The painted tablets dealt and dealt again !" — Cowper, 
 " Look to thyself ! thou art in jeopardy." — King Joan. 
 
 The house, in front of which Henry found himself, was an 
 old stone building, long and narrow, one story high, with a flat 
 roof and low parapet w^alls. The unglazed windows were 
 protected by strong vertical wooden bars, and heavy shutters — 
 the latter, like the doors, looking as if made to withstand all 
 ordinary attack from without. A wide paved passage through 
 the centre led to an enclosed courtyard, and on each side were 
 doors opening into the public rooms of the house. In one of 
 these, as they passed the door, followed by Billy leading the 
 horses, Henry could see a long table set out in preparation for 
 the evening meal ; and in the other was assembled as motley a 
 crowd a§ can be found anywhere in the world. * 
 
 Outlaws, the perpetrators of every crime provided for in the 
 criminal code, fugitives from justice, and ruffling it among the 
 company as if their misdemeanors gave them a patent of no- 
 bility. Horse-jockeys, (many of whom had probably " traded" 
 once too often in the States, and found it convenient to ride 
 " over the border,") were here exercising their talent for blus- 
 tering, or chuckling over dishonest stratagems to defraud some 
 gull of his property. Blacklegs with calf-skin boots, white 
 hands, gold chains, and rings of French paste, knocked the 
 
200 THE GLENNS. 
 
 dust from th&ir cassimere pants with dainty riding-rods, cleaned 
 their nails with shining Bowie knives, discussed the last success- 
 ful cheat, or laid subtle plans to catch some unsophisticated 
 adventurer. Indian traders, bearing to the savages the means 
 of pampering their most barbarous propensities, and counting 
 in anticipation the gains of robbery and cunning. Rangers, 
 lawless, blood-thirsty and desperate, gloating over the last cold- 
 blooded massacre, or looking forward to a murdering, plunder- 
 ing foray across the Rio Grande. Mexicans, with their sneak- 
 ing, hound-like pace and look, paying court to every blustering 
 scoundrel, plotting an assassination or a theft, or pandering to 
 the jaded appetites of heartless debauchees. And mingled in 
 this goodly moral Salmagundi, too, were "many better men — 
 travelers for pastime, parties of merry hunters for the prairies, 
 soured and misanthropical self-exiles from organized society. 
 Chihuahua traders, shrewd, intelligent and honest, (as honesty 
 goes on that frontier,) officers of the new Republic, engaged in 
 the almost hopeless task of introducing rule and order, and 
 peaceful citizens, no doubt regretting heartily the folly which 
 brought them here, and equally anxious to propitiate the legal 
 officer and the lawless ruffian. .All these were there, and 
 many more ; not 
 
 ' The scum 
 That rises upmost, when the nation boils j' 
 
 but the drift and weeds and foam, cast forward on the beach by 
 the rolling waves of imiiiigration. 
 
 Henry cast but one glance into the room as he passed the 
 door, and proceeded to the oouftyard. 
 
 " You will soon know what it is to be a stranger in such a 
 place as this," said his companion. " Twenty of that crowd 
 will be in the yard in five minutes ; the gamblers will see in 
 you a new gull and will come to "take your measure;" the 
 horsejookeys will striye to cheat you of your horses, and, fail- 
 ing thti, will form a plan to steal them from you ; the rangers 
 are not so modest — they will probably proceed to the second 
 mode of getting possession without delay ; and you will be a 
 lucky man, if they do not cut your throat into the bargain. 
 The jyiexicans will hope to pick your pocket, or cut your sad- 
 dle-bags or your throat; and, failing in those attempts, will 
 endeavor to get your money by selling you a spavined horse, a 
 modest neioe, or a virtuous daughter. The devices of the 
 others you must guard against yourself, for here they come, a 
 notable crew, — 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 201 
 
 ' Thieves of renown and pilferers of fame,' 
 
 men unmatched in the wide world for ' intrepidity of face,' and 
 innocence of honesty or shame. The only chance of safety 
 among such men is neither to give nor take oflFence, give no 
 true answers, and let no man stand behind you." 
 
 " I am not very quarrelsome,'' said Henry, " but will still 
 remember your advice." A tall, stoop-shouldered fellow, in 
 coarse blue jeans and broad-brimmed hat, presented himself as 
 Henry spoke, and was immediately known as Mrs. Burnham's 
 factotum — the sole male representative of the sovereignty of the 
 house — a kind of cross between landlord and ostler. He took 
 no notice of Henry, however, other than a very hard stare, but 
 directed Billy to follow him with the horses. 
 
 " That's a nice piece of horse-flesh you have there, stranger," 
 observed a broad-shouldered fellow, arrayed in a buckskin hunt- 
 ing-sbirt, and pantaloons of the same material, with rows of 
 quarter dollars along the outside seams. He wore also a pair 
 of heavy silver spurs, and the hilt of a formidable bowie-knife, 
 gold mounted and richly chased, protruded from his bosom. 
 
 " Well — ye.s — rather," said Henry, as if hesitating to en- 
 dorse the qualities of his steed. " Would you like to buy ?" 
 
 " What may be the value of the bay 1" asked the other, 
 evidently somewhat cooled by Henry's readiness to sell. 
 
 " I am not much skilled in horse-flesh," said Henry , " but I 
 should think he might be sold for one hundred and fifty 
 dollars." 
 
 '' Not so much as that, I assure you," said the jocky, earn- 
 estly, with the air of one who knew what he was saying. 
 " However, I will look at him, and make you aji offer." 
 
 " I wish you would," said Henry, naively ; '' for in truth " 
 
 " What were you going on to say ?" asked the other, seeing 
 him stop suddenly, as if he had been about to betray himself. 
 
 " Nothing — nothing— you must judge for yourself," Henry 
 replied, and the other walked away towards the housef appa- 
 rently having no immediate curiosity. 
 
 " You have no need of my advice, I see," said Shelton, as 
 he and Henry followed the horses through a door in the wall. 
 " I dare swear now, there is not a better horse in San Antonio, 
 or one less deserving of the suspicion you have just given Tom 
 Hartner, than the bay you have been riding." 
 
 " He is a good horse beyond doubt," said Henry. " I should 
 be sorry to part with him ; and if I have understood you, the 
 9* 
 
202 THE GLENNS. 
 
 only way for a peaceable man to retain his praperty here'is to 
 make these gentry believe it is not worth the taking." 
 
 " I see you are in no danger," repeated Shelton. " You 
 have just overreached the sharpest trader and keenest robber in 
 Sair Antonio." 
 "^ " Who is he," asked Henry, " that you praise him so highly 1" 
 
 "His name is Hartner," answered Shelton. " He is the 
 leader of the raost lawless band of desperadoes on this frontier 
 — outlaws and murderers, cattle-lirfters, rangers, and highway 
 robbers — men who live by violence, and ought to die by the 
 cord. Their operations are carried on chiefly upon the other 
 bank of the Rio Grande ; but even this immediate neighbor- 
 hood does not entirely escape. They are mere marauders, who 
 use the hatred every Texan feels for a Mexican, as a cloak for 
 their bloody, ravenous propensities. They are cowards, too, 
 every one of them ; they attack only the weak and spare 
 neither age nor sex, and of course have no true courage : 
 
 ' For Fear and Cruelty were ever twins.' " 
 
 '' They seem to be tolerated notwithstanding their villanies," 
 said Henry. 
 
 " Tolerated ? They are honored, sir !" exclaimed Shelton. 
 " The people of the frontier must be at the mercy of some one, 
 they think, and as a choice of evils take these rangers, because 
 they are a terror to the Mexicans and savages. There is an- 
 other reason ; these men in most ' settlements' eompose the 
 majority of the population, and are of course omnipotent. But 
 here is the stable," he added, breaking off and entering a some- 
 what ruinous building of adobes or unburnt brick, which had 
 evidently once been used as a residence by some family now 
 extinct. Henry followed him in, and examined the provision 
 made for his horses ," while Shelton talked aside to the factotum 
 in jeans. 
 
 " Ben," said he, in a low voice, " this gentleman is an old 
 friend 'of mine, and his property must be as safe as if it belonged 
 to me. I will therefore hold you responsible for these horses ; 
 I have, you know, five hundred dollars of yours in my hands ; 
 and if anything should happen to them, such as so often does 
 in this stable, that money shall pay for it. So look out for them 
 and yourself." 
 
 •' I will put them in the other stable," said Ben, and forth- 
 with set about doing so. 
 
 '' Let us go back to the house now," said Shelton, coming 
 forward again. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 203 
 
 " Where is the boy ?'' asked Henry of Ben. 
 
 " He started off at a run towards the river, as soon as I got 
 the horses in the stable," answered the nondescript. 
 
 " He mnst have got a view of Blanca's daughter bathingriji_ 
 the river," said Shelton, " and wants a better sight. The river 
 is full by this hour — as goodly a sight of plashing nymphfe'as 
 heart could wish." 
 
 " Henry was not perfectly satisfied with this explanation of 
 Billy's absence ; but he had seen so much of his siirewdness 
 and ability to take care of himself, that he felt little apprehen- 
 sion for his safety, more particularly since he knew he had noth- 
 ing about him to tempt the cupidity of any outlaw. Content- 
 ing himself, therefore, with directing that he should be cared 
 for when he should return, he followed Shelton towards the 
 house. As they re-entered the court, they were met by the 
 hostess of the " Bexar Hotel," Mrs. Burnham. 
 
 '' Now,'' said Shelton, " hold your own, and you shall be 
 crowned king of all shrewd fellows, able diplomatists, and good 
 masters of fence !" 
 
 Mrs. Burnham must have been at least thirty-five years old ; 
 but by the judicious use of gay colors and cosmetics, she suc- 
 ceeded in appearing eight or ten years younger. A slender, 
 well-formed person, a neat foot and ankle coquettishly dis- 
 played ; small hands full of rings, a white round neck and 
 throat liberally uncovered ; a rather pretty face, with a small 
 red mouth, white teeth, and a sparkling black eye, composed 
 the inventory of her charms. These were accompanied by a 
 sprightly manner, a musical voice, and the most catholic disre- 
 gard of all prudish maxims. According to her social catechism, 
 the " chief end" of every man was to get married and make 
 one or more women happy ; the consequence was, that the first 
 object of her life was to find the husband fated to be hers ; and 
 if a diligent search was a discharge of duty in the premises, a 
 failure to discover him could not be counted as a fault in her. 
 She needed a protector, as she once told Shelton, and the hap- 
 piness she had experienced with her husband " now in heaven," 
 had given her a favorable opinion of all mankind. He had been 
 older than herself, she said, and had not died much before his 
 time ; which fact might account both for the moderation of her 
 grief, and the decided preference she gave to young men. No 
 one in San Antonio knew aught further of her history, except 
 from some unguarded words and actions of a mysterious visitor 
 she once had — a middle-aged man, of sober manners, to whom 
 a strong resemblance was discovered in her daughter. But 
 
204 THE GLENNS. 
 
 scEindal is a dainty dish to even ftontier people ; and charity and 
 manliness alike forbid that we should attack the character of " a 
 lone woman." 
 ,.y She approached Henry with a pleasant smile, and extending 
 her hand, rather unexpectedly, as Shelton introduced him, 
 warmly welcomed him to San Antonio, and pressed his fingers 
 cordially in hers. 
 
 '' You seem to have had a long ride, sir," saiii she, in her 
 pleasant voice. ' 
 
 " Not longer than I would willingly take to arrive at night 
 in such quarters as these," said Henry. 
 
 " We will take the best care of you in our power," she an- 
 swered, with a gratified smile. " Walk in — I am about to set 
 supper, and after that. Major,'' she continued, addressing Shel- 
 ton. " You must bring your friend to the east room ; we will 
 have some music. Bring Miss Margaret, too." 
 
 " I am sorry to say Mr. Glenn and I have already made an 
 engagement for the evening," answered Shelton, " But I will 
 certainly bring him on the first opportunity." 
 
 " He will stay among us some days, I hope 1" she said, with 
 a look of disappointment. 
 
 " Some weeks probably," said Henry. 
 
 *'Then let us see you in the family often," she rejoined, 
 " Major Shelton has the entrei, and can pilot you." She dis- 
 appeared as she spoke, entering the private precincts of the 
 building with a light, youthful step, while Shelton guided 
 Henry towards the public rooni. 
 
 '' 'A little music,' " said Shelton, as they went, " when she 
 uses the phrase, means some fiddling and dancing, more high 
 play, and a great deal of equivocal flirtation. Mrs. Burnham 
 is not 
 
 ' Fair to no purpose, artful to no end ;' 
 
 for even her amusements are profitable ; and the nets she 
 spreads for a husband gather also the dowry she is to bring 
 him. Being fall partner in the ' stifi"est' Monte Bank in the 
 city, she is a living example of the law of compensations, on 
 which the world proceeds ; the money lost to the bank by her 
 intended, she will return to him as a marriage portion." 
 
 " And the loser will get interest upon the loan," sain Henry, 
 " in the shape of a very pretty woman." 
 
 '' Yes," said Shelton, " and it will be interest alone ; for there 
 is cext&ialy no principle in hei." 
 
 They entered the public room as he spoke, where the same 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 205 
 
 crowd, somewhat augmented, was still assembled, waiting impati- 
 ently, for the evening meal, Henry was introduced to several 
 men and formed an-acquaintance with others, without the formal- 
 ity of an introduction. Soon after his entrance, the tall fellow in 
 jeans announced supper, and a simultaneous rush took place 
 across . the passage-way. » When the confusion had in some 
 measure subsided, Henry found himself seated beside Shelton 
 near the head of the table, and in the immediate neighborhood 
 of Mrs. Burnham. The latter occupied a high-backed chair at 
 the upper end, apparently more for the purpose of seeing her 
 guests than to partake with them of the good things on the 
 table. She had no plate before her and ate nothing, except a 
 small piece of bread, which she slowly crumbled wit& her 
 fingers. Every one was expected to help himself to what was 
 before him ; and the cups were occasionally refilled with strong 
 coffee (the only beverage there) by a yellow Mexican boy, who 
 went and came continually between the guests and a little table 
 in the corner. Ben, of the stooping shoulders, work^djljindustri- 
 ously at the bottom of the table, in carving into pieces of 
 respectable dimesnsions, a huge beef-steak, brought to the table 
 hot with fire and pepper. There were the usual noises of such 
 a place: the jingling of knives and forks, the rattling of plates, 
 and the cross purposes of a conversation carried on by twenty 
 men at once. 
 
 " Where is Margaret ?" asked Mrs. Burnham of Shelton. 
 
 " I left her with Van at the Alamo," said Shelton, '■ and I 
 suppose they have gone to the Mission." 
 
 " Van is back, then," said the'^hostess. " Does he bring any 
 news 1" 
 
 " Nothing of any consequence, I believe," Shelton answered ; 
 " tjiough I did not talk with him long." 
 
 Mrs. Burnham next turned her attention to Henry, but as her 
 blandishments have nothing to do With the progress of our 
 story, otherwise than as they show the vanity of character to be 
 met in such a place, we cannot stay to detail them. The sup- 
 per passed off, as such meals do, with the rapid consumption of 
 a large quantity of coarse viands, unceremoniously bolted down 
 the throats of hungry men, and the hurried start of each indi- 
 vidual, or of each httle party, as they finished their portions, for 
 their ■ places of evening rendezvous. Within fifteen minutes 
 from the announcement of supper, it had been bodily consumed, 
 and the chairs and benches were standing round the table, in the 
 confusion of hasty departure and in melancholy emptiness. 
 
 " In most countries," said Shelton, as he and Henry.emerged 
 
206 THE GLENNS. 
 
 from the house on their way to the monte room, and walked 
 lightly along, nnmindful of a light rain which now began to fall, 
 '' or, at least, in those where living is reduced to a ritual, 
 
 'The turnpike road to people's hearts 
 Lies through their mouths.' , 
 
 but here, eating is looked upon as a necessary sacrifice of time ; 
 and even when men are hungry, they are never disposed to 
 
 ' Protract the feast 
 To dull satiety.' 
 
 They bolt whatever is set before them, till their hunger is ap- 
 peased ; and though they do this ravenously enough, within five 
 minutes not one of them oah tell you what he has been eating. 
 They are all men of action; and whoever muddles his brain or 
 distracts his attention by immoderate feasting, had better stay 
 where^SPli things are no disadvantage." 
 
 "If^equires all one's time and attention, here, then," said 
 Henry, " to avoid being overreached by his companions ?" 
 
 '■ Yes," replied Shelton. "Life on this frontier is an endless 
 contest between wit, courage and unscrupulousness. In such a 
 conflict, as you may well believe, integrity and conscience have 
 but little chance; and, in the words of lago, 
 
 ' honesty's a fool 
 
 And loses that it works for,' 
 
 Quick observation, rapid decision and a ready hand, are the 
 only talents that are valued." 
 
 " Not a very desirable residence, from your account," said 
 Henry. 
 
 " That's altogether a matter of taste," replied the other. " A 
 few years' residence here attaches one to it wonderfully. Even 
 women become enamored of its lawlessness and wild excitement. 
 I have a daughter whom nothing would induce to go to the 
 States, — unless, indeed, she should fall in love with some peace- 
 able man. Then, of course, she would go whithersoever he 
 might lead ; for love, you knovtr, is the ' prince of all petticoats,' 
 against whose sovereignty no woman ever yet rebelled." 
 
 '• The beautiful girl I saw in the Alamo ?" asked Henry. 
 
 '' Yes," said Shelton ; and then added, as if thinking aloud, 
 "She is beautiful, and deserves a better fate." 
 
 A silence of some minutes succeeded, during which no sound 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 207 
 
 was heard, but the falling of the rain, fast increasing in violence, 
 and the roaring of the river which they were gradually approach- 
 ing. An occasional flash of lightning illuminated the way for a 
 moment, and showed them a glimpse of the comfortless mud 
 houses, the wet streets, or, now and then, a solitary foot passen- 
 ger hurrying along with, his serape drawn close across his 
 face, and his hand upon his weapons. It was by this light, 
 when they had nearly reached their destination, that Henry 
 thought he saw some one standing under a wall, as if in waiting, 
 and his impression was distrust that it was none other* than 
 Billy Bates. He stopped suddenly and called out ; but no an- 
 swer was returned, and when the next flash enabled him ip see 
 the wall, the watcher had retreated. 
 
 " This is strange!" Henry exclaimed, at the same time start- 
 ing in pursuit. But he was recalled by Shelton. 
 
 "You must have been mistaken," said the latter; "your 
 boy is at the hotel before this hour, and if he is not, J,t will do 
 you no good to follow him, for he evidently desires i& avoid 
 you." ",^.- 
 
 " Who lives in this house ?" Henry asked. 
 " The old gentlemen of whom I spoke this evening on the 
 other side of the river," Shelton replied. " His name I have 
 not heard. The next house is the Monte Bank." 
 " Strange that Billy should be here," said Henry. 
 " You must have been mistaken," repeated Shelton. " Let 
 us go on." 
 
 '' And now," he continued, as Henry followed him towards 
 a low stone building, from which no light proceeded, except 
 through a small crack in a heavy window shutter, '' remember 
 the maxim of safety : neither give nor take offence, return no 
 true answers, and let no man stand behind yon." 
 
 " I think I shall have no trouble," said Henry ; and as he 
 spoke his companion pushed open a wide door, and they enter- 
 ed a paved passage-way, dimly lighted by a stone lamp, and 
 having two doors leading from it. Through one of these a 
 light streamed from a room evidently, by the noise, full of 
 people. 
 
 " Is it your intention to play 1" said- Shelton, stopping. 
 ".What is your advice V asked Henry. 
 
 " That yon remain a spectator," said the other ; " or if you 
 wish to have some interest in the play, put one or two hundred 
 dollars with an equal amount of mine^ and let me play for 
 both." 
 
 Henry acquiesced without hesitation, and drawing forth a 
 
208 THE GLENNS. 
 
 pocket-book well filled with bills, counted out the amount. As 
 he did so, a sinister-looking fellow, heavily armed, entered the 
 hall, and casting a quick glance at the tempting display of the 
 wallet, looked keenly at its owner and passed in. 
 
 '' You show too much money for such a place as this," said 
 Shelton. " A display like that might cost your life, especially 
 when seen by such men as he who just entered." 
 
 " Who is he 1" Henry asked. 
 
 " Hartner's lieutenant, and a deeper villian than Hartner him- 
 self— iwhich is high praise to his wickedness. You must 
 watch him ; and above all remember the last clause of my 
 advice." 
 
 "V\^h this they entered the room, and were in the midst of 
 the sounds, which they had before but faintly heard. The buz- 
 zing of many voices, talking in several languages, was only 
 broken by the clink of silver, the ringing of gold,_ and -the rus- 
 tling sound of shufHing cards. A large table stood across one 
 corner.sf'the room, and around it were gathered a dozen men 
 or more, each holding rouleaus of gold and silver, or rolls of 
 crumpled bank notes in his hands, and watching with eyes 
 sharpened by cupidity, the progress of the shuffling and dealing. 
 Behind the table sat two men — -.the banker and his croupier — 
 of whom the latter received and paid out the money, counted 
 the cards to see that none were abstracted, and exercised a 
 general supervision of the game ; the other shuffled and dealt. 
 A little box of highly polished oak sat on the bench between 
 them, into which the money was thrown, or from which it was 
 taken, according as the bank won or lost. Across the opposite 
 corner of the room extended a narrow pine counter, and be- 
 hind this stood a young man, dealing out various kinds of 
 liquors from bottles of all shapes, colors and sizes. Segars, 
 too, were in request, and almost!, every man in the room held 
 one between his teeth ; more than half of the players, however, 
 puffed lustily without producing the least smoke — having in 
 their absorption either forgotten to light their segars, or uncon- 
 sciously allowed them to be extinguished. 
 
 Shelton and Henry, having honored the primitive bar, ac- 
 cording to the custom of the house, and each taken a segar, 
 advanced to the table ; and, while the other stood looking on, 
 the former engaged at once in the play. The Mexican game 
 of Monte is played in the following manner : After the pack 
 •' has been shuffled and cut, two cards are taken from the bottom 
 and laid face upward, side by side. When the dealing com- 
 mences, these are opposed in such a manner that the one which 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 209 
 
 comes first is the winning card, and he who bets upon it is of 
 course the winner. Two other cards are taken, generally be- 
 fore the betting commences, in like manner from the top, and 
 likewise laid out — the conditions of the game being the same. 
 After the bets are made, the pack is turned bottom upward and 
 the deal commences. It is obvious that the chances are equal ; 
 there being three others of each card laid out yet in the pack. 
 If one or more of these three can be abstracted, the chances are 
 of course against that card— there being three of its opposing 
 number or rank against two, or one, or none. There are other 
 rules immaterial to our purpose ; but as our object is to show 
 the characters of men, and not the modes of playing gambling- 
 games, we will not detail them. jfs 
 
 Shelton commenced playing moderately and indifferently, 
 putting down a few dollars when he lost, or carelessly taking 
 them up when he won. Meantime he kept his eyes fixed upon 
 the croupier, who was diligently paying and receiving money, 
 and alternately counting the two packs with which t^gy were 
 playing. He was apparently so absorbed in this employment, 
 that he did not look up for some time after Shelton had come 
 to the table. Then, however, turning the pack he had been 
 counting bottom-upward on the table, he placed his finger care- 
 lessly upon a " queen" there displayed, and cast a quick, furtive 
 glance at Shelton. The latter gave him the least perceptible 
 of nods, the pack was immediately turned over again, handed 
 to the dealer, shuffled and dealt. The croupier counted the 
 other pack, going through the same motions, and handing it to 
 the banker in like manner. This telegraphing attracted no at- 
 tention, and the game proceeded as before, while Shelton 
 gradually became more and more interested in the play. 
 
 " Come ' tap' my bank,* Major," said the banker, " you are in 
 luck and might break me." 
 
 " It is early yet," said the Major, " and I do not know 
 whether I am ' in luck' or not. I'll tap it directly, however, 
 How much have you in bank ?" 
 
 " About five thousand dollars," said the man, as he laid out 
 a ' queen' and a ' king' as opposing cards. 
 
 "Have you indeed so much ?" said Shelton, as if in surprise, 
 " that is worth trying for, certainly." 
 
 " Tap it, Major," said Tom Hartner, who had just come in. 
 
 * " Tapping is done in this wise : the better turns a card face downward, 
 and thus agrees to pay, if he lose, whatever amount there may be in bank 
 — and of course to take the bank if he win. ' ' 
 
210 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " How is the weather, Tom V asked Shelton ; " clearing 
 away?'' 
 
 " Bright moonlight," said Hartner ; and as he spoke, Henry- 
 tired of the monotony of the game, turned away and going out 
 into the hall, opened the door, which he knew must lead- into 
 the garden, and stepped out. 
 
 " Come, Major," said the banker, " we are wailing for 
 you." 
 
 " Tap it, tap it," urged two or three. " Tap it on the 
 ' queen.' " 
 
 " I like men better than women, I beli«ve," said Shelton, 
 " I will take the 'king.' " He took the card he had named, 
 as he spoke, and turned it upon its face. As he did so, he cast 
 a look at the croupier so darkly threatening, thai stouter hearts 
 than his might have trembled under its meaning. The cower- 
 ing employi had, however, not deceived him. He knew, as 
 well as if the deal had already been made, what the result 
 would be, and sat in silent though agitated expectation. Some 
 one bet one hundred dollars on the ' queen,' the two top cards 
 were taken off and the deal commenced. 
 
 "I shall not be broken, at all events. Major," said the 
 banker. "I shall have one hundred dollars, even if you win." 
 
 " And if he loses, [ shall have two hundred," said the other 
 better. 
 
 " And I ten thousand," rejoined the banker, coolly. 
 
 " One hundred or ten thousand, then," said Shelton. " Deal 
 away." 
 
 " Four, six, ace, knave, seven, five, four, six. King ! " You 
 have won. Major ; here is the bank, and this hundred is mine," 
 coolly said the banker, handing over the box. " Put in a hun- 
 dred with me, Tom," he continued to Hartne;', " and let us 
 open another bank." 
 
 " Let me count these cards, Major," said the croupier, " be- 
 fore you take the bank." 
 
 " See if the 'kings' and 'queens' are all there," said the 
 banker; '' the rest are not material.'' 
 
 " All right," said the croupier, showing four of each ; but 
 three of the 'queens,' let it be understood, he h^& just put in, 
 having had them ready concealed in his sleeve. The Major 
 had therefore been betting on a certainty, since there were three 
 kings in the pack, and not a single ' queen.' 
 
 Hartner without hesitation acceded to the banker's proposi- 
 tion ; a new bank was formed, though not so heavy as the for- 
 mer, and the game again commenced. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 211 
 
 In the meantime, Henry had passed out into the garden, 
 and was slowly pacing up and down its neglected walks. The 
 clouds, from which the rain had been descending, had broken 
 partially away, and were now lying piled in heavy masses along 
 the eastern horizon. The moon, as if just risen from a cloudy 
 couch, was shining cleat and bright, though now and then a 
 fragment of the storm came hastening by, was pervaded for a 
 moment by her light, and then merged into the general mass 
 beyond. The cragged outline, slowly receding towards the 
 east, was clearly cut against the sky, while, flashing through 
 the gloom beneath, incessant noiseless lightning, branched like 
 a tree of molten fire with many thousand boughs. ' In the west, 
 where another storm was rising, low rumbling thunder could be 
 heard, and floating mists and rolls of whitened cloud were fast 
 encroaching on the clear meridian. The stillness was profound ; 
 the leaves hung laden with pearly rain drops, and gems seemed 
 strewed among the grass and hung on every blade. Night, 
 
 ' in her starry shade 
 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness,' 
 
 had calmly glided in between the fragments of the storm, and 
 her reign, though brief, was more beautiful and touching than 
 when 
 
 ' No mist otscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, 
 Breaks the serene heaven.' 
 
 Henry walked pensively along the alleys, and threaded, with- 
 out aim or purpose, the various windipg walks, now gazing into 
 the clear sparkling water, now bending his head to the ground, 
 and anon turning his face to the sky, where the open blue was 
 fast decreasing, as the clouds encroached and swallowed star 
 by star. Once he stopped, and leaning full of thought against 
 a tree, forgot the time, the place, and all things but his own 
 "unpleasant memories. He was suddenly recalled by hearing a 
 noise, as if some one were softly stealing on him. He turned 
 suddenly, and the sound ceased. He gazed into the thicket 
 from whence he thought the noise proceeded, but could discover 
 nothing. He was satisfied that he had been mistaken; but,his 
 thoughts had been distuibed, and crossing the lower part of the 
 garden, he approached the wall dividing it from that which he 
 had noticed in the evening, and walked slowly towards the 
 house. A stone bench placed against the wall attracted his 
 attention ; the graceful beauty of the clustering vines about it, 
 and the quiet, still repose of its position, tempted him to seat 
 
218 THE GLENNS. 
 
 himself. He had remained thus for ten or fifteen minutes, 
 gazing pensively upon the stars, when suddenly somethiug 
 white fluttered past his face, and fell upon the ground before 
 him. He started and picked it up ; and as he did so, heard a 
 hasty whisper from the wall above. 
 
 " Hasten to the light and read it !" said the voice. " Haste !" 
 He looked- up but could see nothing ; the word '' ha.ste" was 
 again repeated, however, and without seeking further to fathom 
 the mystery, he walked rapidly to the house. He heard a mut- 
 tered curse as he walked away ; but was more intent upon the 
 writing, which he found was traced upon a card, than upon 
 aught else. He entered the room where the play was still 
 going on, though not so noisy, and approached a light which 
 sat upon the rude counter. Holding the card close to it, he read, 
 hastily and unevenly written as if traced in the dark, the fol- 
 lowing words : 
 
 " Beware I — a man follows you with a naked knife !" ■ 
 The words themselves were startling enough ; but their pur- 
 port was entirely forgotten, for the writing, he was almost cer- 
 tain, was in the hand of Fanny Vincent I He gazed upon the 
 well-remembered characters, absorbed in recollections of no 
 happy tone, until his abstraction was observed by Shelton, who 
 had left the monte table, and was standing on one side of the 
 room, calmly watching the movements of the motley crowd 
 about him. 
 
 " What now ?" said he, approaching Henry. " You stand 
 as, according to Milton, Adam stood, when he heard of ' the 
 fatal trespass done by Eve' — , 
 
 ' Speechless he Stood, and pale' — 
 
 And it will not surprise me to find that some one pf Eve's 
 daughters is the mover of this emotion too. What is it "i" 
 
 " Come with me into the garden," said Henry ; and they both 
 passed out in silence. 
 
 " The garden is not a very safe place just now," said Shel- 
 ton. " However, we need only pass through it." 
 
 Henry hastened to explain. 
 
 " You were just in time," said the voice from the wall ; and 
 at the same moment a man was seen to spring out. of the gar- 
 den on the other side, and heard walking rapidly away. 
 
 Henry ran to the wall and called out ; but if he used the 
 right name, its owner did not stop to be questioned. The 
 glimpse of white drapery, as she disappeared within the house, 
 was all he could discover. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 I never knew bo young a body with bo old a hoad. — MiincHAKT or Vesice. 
 
 Haste IB needful in BLdesperate case,. — Henry TI. 
 
 The waters in their hrilliant path have seen 
 The desperate strife, — Mrs, Eljcet, 
 
 Remnanta of things that have passed away, 
 
 Fragments of stone, reared by creatures of clay.— Siige or Corinth. 
 
 For more than a year Henry had schooled himself against all 
 thought of his unfortunate attachment ; and though the effort 
 had made him melancholy and unsocial, he had succeeded in 
 securing tranquillity. But with the sound of a voice which he 
 deemed hers, came back the long-resisted flood, and overflowed 
 his heast with a tenderness which had only accumulated behind 
 the stern barrier set against its flow. He stood where he had 
 last seen her fluttering dress, as if rooted to the spot, — full of re- 
 collections, even indulging hopes. Shelton's voice recalled 
 him, and the airy castles he was building crumbled to the 
 dust. 
 
 " Did you recognize the voice?" asked his companion. 
 
 " I thought I did," said Henry ; " but I must have been mis- 
 taken. 8he would not have retreated so suddenly." 
 
 " Perhaps she did know you," remarked Shelton. " And at 
 all events, lovers do not like witnesses." 
 
 "Lovers!" said Henry, recalled by the wcard. "No, no!" 
 And with a bitter, painlul smile, he turned away. At the same 
 moment, Billy Bates stepped suddenly out from among a 
 thicket of briars and shrubs, and rapidly advanced to meet 
 him. 
 
 '■' What brings you here 1" demanded Henry. 
 
 " I came here to warn you of danger," said the boy coolly. 
 " There are five or six men skulking about the upper end of the 
 garden ; and I overheard enough to know that they are seeking 
 this gentleman and you." 
 
214 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " Well," said Henry impatiently, " what does that signify." 
 
 " It signifies,'' said the boy, lowering his voice, " that you 
 have each enough money to make you worth murdering and 
 robbing: and they are therefore about to do both." 
 
 " Did you say they are seeking us now?" asked Shelton. 
 
 " Yes," answered Billy. 
 
 " I did not think they would be so impatient," said the Major ; 
 " though I knew they designed to waylay us in the street. 
 Where are they now, my boy ?" 
 
 " In the upper end of the garden," said Billy, " unless they 
 have already approached you by the alleys." 
 
 " Hist I" said the Major, suddenly, holding up his finger and 
 bending his ear towards the ground. He listened profoundly 
 for a few moments, and then raising his head, examined his 
 arms and loosened them to his grasp. 
 
 '' You have your arms, of course'!" said he to Henry. 
 
 " Yes," replied the other, in a whisper ; " what say you 1 
 Can you hear them ? 
 
 " They are slowly approaching us on both sides," said Shel- 
 ton ; '' but it has grown so dark, 1 cannot see them." 
 
 " How many of them are there, Billy?" 
 
 *' Six, at least," the boy answered: "perhaps seven." 
 
 " They are too many for us," said Shelton. '' We must re- 
 treat. Is the house closed, my boy ?" 
 
 " Yes, and the men are all gone but these." 
 
 " This is the only way, then," said the Major. " Follow me 
 as silently as possible ; if we encounter them, we must fight it 
 out as we best can." 
 
 All Shelton's levity was gone, and in its stead there distin- 
 guished his movements, a cool, firm promptitude, whjch showed 
 that beneath the cynical coating of his character, lay a fund of 
 true, manly courage. .,rj,l 
 
 Henry followed him as quietly as possible, and behind him 
 came Billy, as cool, perhaps, as either of his companions. They 
 walked slowly and cautiously towards the river, whose roar be- 
 came more and more audible. Shelton stopped from time to 
 time to listen ; and could occasionally hear the breaking of a 
 twig or the rustle of a bush, as their enemies approached with 
 stealthy steps. After pausing thus two or three times, they 
 found themselves within a broken gateway, opening upon a 
 broad flat stpne, which was now partially submerged by the 
 rising waters. They could hear nothing but the roar of the 
 torrent, — the rain having swollen it two or three feet, and the 
 velocity of the current being increased in proportion. Nor 
 
"i FAMILY HISTORY. ' 215 
 
 could they see anything in the dense blackness, except the dark 
 outline of the opposite shore, and the occasional flash of a ripple 
 on the lime-charged waters. The cloud liad finally spread over 
 the whole heavens, and the falling of a few drops of rain, with 
 one or two peals of rumbling thunder, announced the near ap- 
 proach of the storm. 
 
 " There should be a boat here," said Shelton, stepping into 
 the water, and feeling in the darkness for its chain. 
 
 " We must take water, then," said Henry. 
 
 "Yes; or remain and fight. Ah! here is the chain. Just 
 loosen it, while I keep her from fioitingoff ; and be quick, too, 
 for our friends must be approaching." 
 
 Henry did as he directed, and with Billy stepped into the 
 frajl craft while Shelton held her to the bank. The Major 
 followed them without delay, giving her a shove as he did so. 
 He then seized a stout pole which lay in the bottom and, 
 placing it against the rocks, pushed ofl" with all his strength. 
 This operation was unavoidably noisy ; and as they reached the 
 middle of the river, a flash of lightning, the precursor of the 
 storm, enabled them to see a group of men rush into the open 
 gateway. 
 
 " A fair good-night to you, gentlemen !'' shouted the Major, 
 with a laugh of derision. Several pistol shots were fired at 
 random without effect, and then above the roar of the current 
 our friends could hear the word ' bridge' shouted in a loud, clear 
 voice. At the same moment th« whole group set ofl' at a swift 
 run down the bank of the river. 
 
 " It is to be a trial of speed," said the Major, coolly, " and, if 
 they can reach the bridge ahead of us, a trial of strength." 
 
 " We can pass under, I suppose ?" said Henry. 
 
 '' I am not so sure of it," returned the Major. " The upper 
 side is broken, and, since the rain, must swing very near the 
 water's edge. At all events, it is low enough to give them a 
 great advantage, since, to pass under at all, we must lie down 
 in the bottom." 
 
 "Then, of course, we must fight," said Henry. 
 
 " Can't we land V asked the boy, looking at the eastern 
 shore. 
 
 " Not if we had a dozen oars," said Shelton. " This current 
 runs at the rate of ten miles an hour." 
 
 " Well, we can beat them in a fair fight," said Billy ; " for 
 they'll be blown by the rtin, and we'll be fresh.'' 
 
 " Well calculated, my lad !'' laughed Shelton, recklessly : " I'll 
 swear there's ' game' in you !" 
 
216 
 
 THE -GLENNS. 
 
 During this hurried consultation, they had been whirled along 
 with fearful velocity by the foaming current ; and when Shelton 
 expressed his confidence in Billy's courage, they had already 
 made half the distance of the bridge. The flashes of lightning, 
 momently increasing in frequency and intensity, revealed the 
 banks rushing past them with dizzy speed ; and the frightful 
 pitching and whirling of the boat evinced still more sensibly the 
 fury of the torrent. Their enemies had taken the lead before 
 the boat was fairly in the current, and were now much nearer 
 the bridge than their intended victims. But every moment the 
 speed of the boat increased, as the furious waters seized its Iteel 
 and dashed it madly forward ; and though the distance was 
 much shorter by land, it was an even chance which first reached 
 the trestle*in the current. They approached a bend, where the 
 force of the current dashed the wat&r in foam across the rocks, 
 and their speed sensibly diminished. The party on the bant 
 saw their advantage, and a shout announced their triumph. 
 But the boat only touched the rocks, and, swinging round, 
 caught the strength of the waters and shot off again with 
 redoubled velocity. 
 
 " Handle your firearms," commanded Shelton, calmly. '' I'll 
 keep her bow down stream. When we are within twenty feet, 
 fire in their faces and fall down in the bottom of the boatl" 
 
 "You think they will beat us 1" said Henry. 
 
 " It's a close race. Xiook I" exclain:^,ed the Major, as a flash 
 of lightning revealed the bridge scarcely more than one hundred 
 yards before them, and their competitors in the race fast nearing 
 its western extremity. " Be firm now : ten seconds will decide 
 the race!" 
 
 Another flash of lightning, succeeded' by a crash of thunder 
 as if the heavens were rent, blinded even the keenest vision. 
 The rain dashed down in sheets until the river was covered with 
 a frying foam ; the rush of the torrent round the trestles of the 
 bridge became more audible, and the boiling waters almost leap- 
 ed across the gunwale of the ^oat. Another and another flash, 
 succeeded by tremendous peals of thunder, lit up the watery 
 landscape lighter than the sun, and left it darker than the night. 
 Only a few yards lay between them and the bridge, and their 
 pursuers were already on the western end. 
 
 " Steady now, steady !" Shelton saidr-while with his pole he 
 guided the boat towards the highest place. 
 
 "Down! downP'' he shouted, and threw himself upon the 
 bottom. 
 
 Several lariats fell like snakes upon the water, but they 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 217 
 
 missed their aim'. A roaring sound above as well as below, a 
 dash among the eddying waters, a rush at lightning speed past 
 two or three piers, and the little craft shot out with undiminish- 
 ed speed into the river below the bridge ! 
 
 " W'e beat them by a length !'' laughed Shelton, springing to 
 his feet and resuming his pole. 
 
 " One of them slipped into the water," said Billy. 
 
 " Dead, for a ducat !" said the Major, attempting to bring to. 
 
 "Is not that a man 1" exclaimed Henry suddenly, as some- 
 thing passed him, borne swiftly by the current. 
 
 " I have him I"' said Billy ; and at the next moment a flash 
 showed the quick-.«ighted boy, with his fitigers firmly tangled 
 in the hair of a man who was evidently insensible. 
 
 " Hold tight, my lad I" said Shelton, casting loose from the 
 willow by which he had checked the boat, and rapidly making 
 his way to Billy's side. With the assistance of his companions 
 he soon drew the rescued man within the gunwale, and stretched 
 him on the bottom. 
 
 '' Jack Burrel, by all that's good !" he exclaimed, and at the 
 same moment Henry recognized the features of the croupier by 
 whose assistance Shelton had broken the Monte Bank I " The 
 miserable puppy !" continued the Major ; •' I've a notion to 
 throw him overboard again I" 
 
 " That would never do, Major !" said Henry. " Let us en- 
 deavor to resuscitate him." 
 
 '' We can't do that without shelter ; this rain would drown 
 him if the river had not. However," he added, " here, my boy, 
 hold him across your knee " 
 
 ■' Breakers ahead I" shouted Billy. 
 
 " Heavens I" exclaimed the Major ; " w^e are close upon the 
 • Foofv^ay !' And the scoundrels may be there before usl" He 
 sprang ito iiis feet, letting the- drowned man fall heavily down, 
 and seizSg the pole again, gave his orders rapidly and 
 promptly. 
 
 "Lie low now, and draw your knives to cut away lareats ! Let 
 the ingrate alone — your own lives are more in danger than his I 
 The devils are there sure enough I" He sheered the boat, as he 
 spoke, into a current which was hollow like a trough, so fearful 
 was the velocity of its concentrated torrent. Immediately be- 
 fore them, glittering as the lightning played upon its foam, was 
 f.he " Footway," where immense rocks almost dam the current 
 quite across the river, thus forming a giant bridge. Between 
 ■i;hese rocks, which are in no place more than ten feet apart, the 
 water runs at all times with terrible velocity ; but particularly 
 10 
 
218 THE GLEMNS. 
 
 was it furious when our friends approa&hed it. The heavy 
 rains had swollen the river above, and the whole flood was 
 coming down as if over a broken dam, roaring through the 
 rocks and narrow passages, and leaping wildly up against the 
 barriers, or rushing over them in foaming torrents. The widest 
 chutes — those alone through which the boat could pass — were 
 bridged with heavy, broad planks, thrown from rock to rock ; 
 and upon that which spanned the current on which they floated, 
 they could see their pursuers. The shortness of the way by 
 land, and the delay caused by the saving of Burrel, had enabled 
 them to outstrip the boat. Two or three had lareats in their 
 hands, and by the incessanfflashes of lightning our friends could 
 see their preparations to cast them. 
 
 " Lie down !" Shelton ordered. " Your inives are of no 
 avail !" 
 
 He sheered the boat a little, placing her directly in the chute, 
 gave her a tremendous push forward, and threw down his pole. 
 As he did so, he drew a revolving pistol, and casting himself 
 into the bottom of the boat, fired four barrels in quick succes- 
 sion at the men upon the bridge. Seizing a firm hold on the 
 ribs of the boat with one hand, he received upon the other the 
 lareats which were cast at that moment, and grasped them 
 firmly on his powerful arm. The boat rushed madly beneath 
 the feet of the assailants — the ropes ran rapidly under with her 
 — the men above braced themselves to bring ujp their prey — but 
 it was in vain I Shelton's prodigious strength and the force of 
 the boat jerked them over^— a plash of two or three men falling 
 into the torrent, and one or two cries of agony, mingled with 
 the pealing thunder and the roaring flood I Shelton sprang to 
 his feet and cast loose the lareats, the boat shot down the 
 sloping current, whirled once or twice in a foaming eddy, and 
 then dashed away with a speed but slightly diminished by the 
 momentary pause. 
 
 _" There will be a chance," said the Majcr, resuming his pole, 
 and with it his sneering, cynical manner, " to ascertain whether 
 those fellows are like our friend Burrel here, ' born to be 
 hung ;' for if they are not drowned now, the gallows is not to 
 be cheated!" 
 
 " Can we not pick some of them up ?" asked Henry. 
 
 '' If you'll stop the boat we will try," the other answered, 
 with a smile. 
 
 ■ This was obviously impossible ; and though the lightning 
 enabled them to see two or three heads dashing along with the 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 219 
 
 current among the foam, and then suddenly disappearing, they 
 could do nothing to assist them. 
 
 "They were not ' born to be hung,' " said.Shelton, coolly, 
 after watching them until the last went down ; and then turn- 
 ing round, calmly resumed his steering, repeating as he did so 
 a couplet from Tam O'Shanter, slightly altered to his pur- 
 pose : 
 
 ' This night, A child might understand, 
 The Deil has business on his hand." 
 
 Having passed the ford below the Footway, they continued 
 to drift in silence, but with diminis^ied speed, until beyond the 
 city limits, when Henry suggested that they land and return to 
 the hotel. 
 
 " We can scarcely do that with safety to-night, after what 
 has occurred," said Shelton. " Our be.st course now will be to 
 go on to San Jose, which is scarcely four miles from us, and 
 may be reached in less than an hour. We will find my daugh- 
 ter and some friends there, and can get dry, clothes and a com- 
 fortable bed." 
 
 " Henry was unwilling to leave even temporarily a place in 
 which he had recently had so much reason for wishing to 
 remain ; but comforting himself with the reflection that only a 
 few hours would elapse before his return, he yielded to the 
 representations of Shelton, and continued in silence to drift 
 with the stream. He had left home, as the reader knows, de- 
 termined to avoid a meeting with Fanny, even if fate should 
 bring his footsteps within her neighborhood. But though 
 twelve months had elapsed, during which he had schooled him- 
 self thoroughly to this purpose, the mere sound of her voice 
 sufficed to change the whole current of his thoughts, to make 
 him not onlj^ forego, but even forget his long-formed resolution. 
 Let him not be thought fickle or undecided in this either ; for 
 in truth no one could be more firm or resolute. In his reflec- 
 tions he had found reason to suspect that he had been deceived ; 
 and he could not avoid believing that Fanny had been unfairly 
 dealt with; of this he had determined to satisfy himself ; and 
 now that an opportunity seemed offered, he resolved at once to 
 improve it. Billy Bates sat apparently intent only upon hold- 
 ing the head of Burrel, who was now reviving; but though he 
 said nothing, it was plain, from his disappointed look when it 
 was decided that they should go on, that he would much rather 
 have returned to the city. 
 
 The storm abated as suddenly as it had begun ; the wind 
 
220 THE GLENNS. 
 
 subsided so rapidly, that they could almost fix the moment 
 when it ceased to blow ; the clouds rolled away towards the 
 east, and, drawn back like a curtain, left the moon sailing in 
 serene majesty among the twinkling stars. An occasional flash 
 of pale lightning, followed by low distant thunder, marked the 
 retreating footsteps of the tempest ; the ram-drops hanging in 
 the moonligiit on the trees, sparkled like diamonds in their 
 " emerald crowns." The river rushed with diminished speed 
 between high banks, along which were growing low trees ; the 
 branches, hanging in the water, gently rose and fell upon the 
 ripples ; and on the surface of the current the moon and' stars 
 were dancing faii:y-like and merrily. The httle boat, but 
 slightly guided by the pole, swept with the waters round each 
 point, or swiftly shot along the arrowy reaches from bend to 
 bend. Now and then the twittering note or prolonged whoop 
 of a night bird could be heard ; or mingling with the mellow 
 stillness of the scene, the distant howling ■ of a watch-dog 
 floated on the air. A quiet wind arose and came abroad, and 
 sighed among the glittering leaves, or whispered on the spark- 
 ling waters, and made the stillness musical. 
 
 ' Look how the floor of heaven 
 Is thickly inlaid with patines of bright gold,' 
 
 said Shelton, casting his eyes thoughtfully upward, and break- 
 ing a silence of many minutes. " Shakspeare says there is not 
 one of all that myriad, 
 
 ' But in his motion, like an angel sings ;' 
 
 and in a night like this, when the storm has thoroughly refresh' 
 ed the earth and purified the atmosphere, I often think I can 
 hear their harmony." "-^-- 
 
 Henry was too much absorbed by his own reflections tomaUe 
 an immediate reply ; and, when he roused himself, surprise, to 
 hear a man wlio had so recently exhibited his aptitude and in- 
 difference to violence and blood, expressing such a sentiment, 
 still kept him silent. ■ They proceeded as before, for some min- 
 utes, when the stillness was again broken by Shelton. 
 
 " I am sorry those poor devils were drowned,'' said he ; " be* 
 cause some of them were capable of better things, and their 
 errors were as much the fault. of the state of society in which 
 they lived, as of their own natures.'' 
 
 " No state of society," said Henry, " however rude, can justify 
 robbery and murder." 
 
 " Perhaps not; but those men were punished for the intention 
 
jl familt history. 221 
 
 Qnly," said the otheK- " True, it was necessary, in order to de- 
 feat their purpose ; but if it could have been avoided, I would 
 rather not have drowned them." 
 
 " Of course," said Henry. 
 
 " However," continued the elder, raising his head and looking 
 round, " I am not the man to regret an act of necessity. We 
 have probably saved other men's lives as well as our own ; for, 
 God kajqws, murder was common enough among those fellows." 
 
 " This man is reviving," said Henry suddenly. 
 
 " Let hig head hang down," ?aid Slielion. " We will be at 
 San Jose aftei; a while, and tliere ,we can do more for him. 
 That is. ;the 'Mission of Conception,' " he added, pointing 
 through an opening in the trees towards a large building, partly 
 in ruins, which lay in the moonlight, a short distance from 
 the liver. 
 
 " It is one of the series of establishments, similar in construc- 
 tion to the Alamo, and probably intended for the same purposes- 
 There are four of them, built at intervals of one league, — this is 
 the first, and the next is San Jose, whither we are bound. 
 There are two others below, ' San Juan'' and • La Espada,'' 
 but the finest of them all, and the best preserved, is San Jose. 
 Thoy have, however, all been suffered to go to decay for about 
 ten years; and, in a ciimate like this, ten years make very 
 great ravages. They were all built by the same men about thfi 
 same period, and are a startling commentary on the decay and 
 ruin of this country. All of them, except Conception, are yet 
 inhabited ; but instead of the proud race of niilitary monks of 
 former days, their occupants are now miserable Mexican ran- 
 okeras. Excepting the rooms actually occupied, — and, in some 
 cases, these too — they are used as stables and cavalladas, in 
 which are herded cattle and hogs. Swallows and bats inhabit 
 the greater part of them all, and, from present appearances, their 
 reign will not. soon be disturbed. Would you not like to vi^it 
 and examine them '!" 
 
 " If I remain in the neighborhood long enough," said Henrys 
 " I should like it exceedingly." 
 
 "I will continue my character- of cicerone, then," said 
 Shehon. 
 
 They held on their way thus for nearly half an hour, — abrupt- 
 ly turning two or three sharp points, but the greater part of the 
 time rushing with the current, with no deviation from a straight 
 line other than an occasional slight bend. At the end of that time 
 Shelton changed his position to the bow of the boat, and gradu- 
 ally sheered her in towards the right bank. 
 
222 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " Stand by, now," said he, " to swing on to the trees when 
 I give the word : and take care that you are not dragged into 
 the water." 
 
 Their speed began gradually to slacken, as they left the cur- 
 rent, and the boat passed beneath the low branches, many of 
 which dipped in the rising waters. 
 
 " Now !" said Shelton suddenly, " seize and hold fast !*' And 
 as Henry obeyed the order, the other gave the boat a sudden 
 shove with his pole, and she shot up to the shore. 
 
 " Help Burrel out, my lad," he continued, as he fastened the 
 skiff to a root, and held her broadside against the bank. 
 
 The half-drowned man received Billy's assistance in silence ; 
 and passing through the heavy timber for a few rods, they all 
 suddenly found themselves in front of a massive building of im- 
 mense extent, surrounded by ruins covering a space still greater. 
 The main building was yet entire, containing room enough to 
 accommodate a regiment of soldiers. It was built, like all these 
 establishments, in the form of a cross ; but one of the angles 
 was, as usual,- filled by suites of rooms, cloisters, refectories, 
 libraries and chapels ; and in the rear, the building was extend- 
 ed for a hundred feet or more, and divided in like manner. Only 
 one turret or belfry had been finished — over the western arm of 
 the cross — but so far from detracting from the appearance of the 
 whole, this incongruity but added fo the solemn interest of such 
 a building, standing solitary in the moonlight in the midst of a 
 scene so wild. The lofty front was highly decorated ; sundry 
 figures of the cross were worked into the panels of the massive 
 door and small grated windows, — and apostles, saints and angels, 
 cut in stone, were standing among vines and trees and flowers, 
 and allegorical and religious emblems. Seen by daylight, they 
 were blackened and disfigured by the wind and rain ; but now 
 the moon shone slanting on the front, and cast her silvery man- 
 tle over every weather-stain and broken ornament. The ragged 
 outline of the ruin, the air of desolation and decay, the melan- 
 choly loneliness, were relieved and mellowed by the same soft- 
 ening agent ; and the silence of the place, which would otherwise 
 have been oppressive, seemed but the quiet breathing of the 
 sleeping genius of the solitude. 
 
 They all stopped as they entered the enclosure, and gazed in 
 silence at the scene before them ; and though to Shelton it was 
 quite familiar, there was always food for thought to one of his 
 reflective nature, in a scene so calm, subdued and peaceful. 
 
 '' How tranquil this is !" said he, in a low voice. " Do you 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 223 
 
 recollect Manfred's apostrophe to the moon, in speaking of an 
 hour spent among the ruins of the Coliseum ? — 
 
 ' And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 All this, and casta wide and tender light, 
 Which softened down the hoar austerity 
 Of rugged desolation, and filled up 
 T As 'twere, the gaps of centuries : 
 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
 And making that which was not, till the place 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 With silent worship of the great of old !' 
 
 Is it not a perfect description of this scene 1" 
 
 Henry was about to reply, when^ on casting his eyes to the 
 turret, he perceived two persons standing in it; and at the same 
 moment a clear, soft voice broke on the air from above. 
 
 " Father, are you there 1" It was Shelton's daughter, 
 Margaret. 
 
 " Yes," said her father, in a tone which at once decided the 
 terms upon which they lived. " Don't be alarmed ; whom have 
 you with you 1" 
 
 The reply was a single word : " Van." 
 
 " So I supposed," said her father, drily ; but, without further 
 remark, he led the way around the building, and ushered his 
 gnests up a broad flight of stone steps upon a heavy corridor. 
 Opening a door, the first to which he came, he entered ; and 
 striking a light, revealed a small bed-chamber in which, after 
 providing dry clothes for them, with a few words of ordinary 
 politeness, he left Henry and Billy. Telling Burrel to follow 
 him, he left our friends to their much needed repose. Henry 
 threw himself upon the low bed, leaving Billy to take the other, 
 and thus ended his first day in San Antonio. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 If I may counsel yon, some day or two 
 
 Tonr highness shftl! repose you at the tower. — Richard 111. 
 
 I cannot, nor 1 will not, yield to ybn. — Idxh. 
 
 I am not made of stone. 
 But penetrable te your kind entreaties,— Ipz». 
 Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.— Mxasvrz tor Hxasvrk. 
 
 After the fatigues of the day and night, Henry slept sound- 
 lyand well : so well, indeed, that he did not hear Billy, who 
 rose and left the room about daybreak. , Thesi;in wa.s streaming 
 in at the little square window when he awoke, and the cool 
 moirning air, which blew through the half open door, had already 
 begun to feel the influence of the advancing day. He immedi- 
 ately arose — even before he had fully recalled the chain of events 
 which had brought him there — and having hurriedly thrown on 
 his clothes, stepped out upon the stone-paved corridor, and gazed 
 admiringly upon the peaceful scene before him. A large extent 
 of ruins, enclosed by a broken, crumbling wall, and overgrown 
 by moss and vines, lay immediately around ; while beyond were 
 thickets and groves, and stately, solitary trees, among which, 
 old and grey and rugged, but still beautiful, were here and there 
 visible piles of stones or roofless walls and single columns. The 
 morning breeze was blowing as yet but gently, and the quiet 
 waving of the leaves and branches, and the mellow sunlight 
 streaming through the aisles and vistas of the forest, gave life 
 and spirit to the stillness. Not a living thing was anywhere in 
 sight, and not a human voice or footstep broke the calm. The 
 rushing sound of the river, which had already fallen to its usual 
 volume, was only faintly audible : alternately swelling and sub- 
 siding on the ear, and harmonizing with the whispering wind. 
 Filled with the thoughts which such a scene inspires, Henry 
 stood gazing abstractedly upon the landscape, unconscious of a 
 light, though firm footstep, approaching him along the corridor 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 225 
 
 . " Good morning, sir," was spoken in a female voice, whose 
 melody and character he recognized at once. '' You liave slept 
 late, and in a less bospitabFe rflansion might have lost your 
 breakfast." 
 
 There was a calm; free, dignified tone and manner in the 
 greetingi which gave a better index to her character than any 
 long description could convey. That tfee speaker was the 
 daughter of Sfaelton, it needed no family record to declare; and 
 th^t she possessed, with the jqnalities derived from him, a strong 
 w^omanly heart and mind was equally plain. She was dressed 
 in a flowing robe of white, and round her waist was tied a crim- 
 son sash, whose silken fringes almost swept the ground. Her- 
 hair was drawn back in heavy plaits and confined by a richly- 
 chased and ornamented comb of silver Around her neck was 
 hung the chain of gold, which Henry had seen on the evening 
 before; and at its end was still the jewelled dagger, but par- 
 tially concealed beneath the sash. Blue velvet slippers,, trimmed 
 with silver, graced her well-formed, feet, and on her beautiful 
 white hand, Henry could see the single priceless ring. She 
 wore no other ornament, except a blue and white silver band 
 across her forehead ; and this simplicity imparted to her lofty 
 bearing, a dignity which no profusion of gold and jewels could 
 ■ have given. 
 
 " That would be scarcely fair," said Henry in reply, " sinee 
 my late rising is only the consequence of fatigues incurred in 
 coming here." 
 
 " The penalty is remitted," she replied smiling. " You were 
 out in the storm and had something of an adventure, also, I be- 
 lieve ?" 
 
 " An attempt to rob us," said Henry, " which unfortunately 
 ended in the death of two or three of our assailants." 
 
 " My father told me," she said, looking thoughtfully down, 
 " Such attempts are but too common here ; and, what is worse, 
 they always end in bloodshed." 
 
 " Where there is no law to obey," said Henry, " men cannot 
 be expected to be very peaceable." 
 
 " True," she replied. "But I came to call you to your for- 
 feited breakfast. Your name is Glenn, I believe 1" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, as jhe followed her down the stairs, 
 " Henry Glenn." 
 
 " You are the nephew of the late George Glenn, then," said 
 she ; " can you tell me what has become of your Cousin James 1" 
 " I cannot," Henry replied ; " though I supposed he was 
 IQ* 
 
226 THE GLENNS. 
 
 somewhere on this frontier. His mother is your step-mother, 
 is she not J" 4^y^ 
 
 " She was," said Margaret ■' She died about two years 
 ago." 
 
 She had conducted hirn during this conversation to the lower 
 corridor, and along the length of it to a door, before which she 
 stopped to make the reply just given. She now pu^ed it 
 open, and ushered him into a small room where preparations 
 were made for his refreshment. He took the seat to which 
 she, pointed him, opposite to that taken by herself, and received 
 from her a cup of strong coffee. Helping himself from the 
 ample store upon the table, while she sat q^uietly looking at 
 him, his fast was soon broken. 
 
 " My father directed me to say," she remarked, as she rose 
 from the table, "that you had better remain at the Mission for 
 a few days ; and, for to-day, you are on my hands for enter- 
 tainment. What can I do to amuse you,?" 
 
 " Why does he wish me to remain here ?" asked Henry. 
 
 " Because," said she, " he thinks it unsafe for you to go else- 
 where. He told me to say further, that since the only induce- 
 ment you can have to return immediately to the city, is to make 
 inquiries about the person from whom you last night received 
 a timely warning, he will himself make those inquiries, and in- 
 form you of the result on his return this evening." 
 
 "He is gone to the city himself, then?" said Henry. 
 
 " Yes, and took your boy with him, for the purpose of send- 
 ing down your horses and baggage." 
 
 " Is it safer then for him than for me," asked Henry. 
 
 " The scenes of last night lead you to doubt it, I suppose," 
 she said. «< But he Is well protected to-day ; as indeed he 
 would have been yesterday, had his friends known his situation. 
 Captain Caldwell is in the city with a score or two of his 
 Rangers." 
 
 " Well," said Henry, seating himself upon a stone bench to 
 which she led him, at the lower end of the corridor, " I suppose 
 I must avail myself of your'hospitality — though I would will- 
 ingly take all the risk of returning forthwith to the city." 
 
 " You would Incur more peril than even an interview with 
 the lady would repay," said she with a smile. 
 
 Henry started suddenly and looked up, as if his thoughts had 
 been unexpectedly fathomed. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed," she added ; " I have no desire to probe 
 your wounds— for that would be but doubtful hospitality., I'll 
 give you a sedative which everybody uses here" — she rose and 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 227 
 
 entering a room, re appeared with a handful of segars — "and 
 if that does not sootiie you, P must take yon to the river on a 
 fishing excursion. Do not be so polite as to refuse them,'' she 
 continued, as Henry hesitatedT " for I bring them as much for 
 my own enjoyment as yours." « 
 
 "You have adop!§d the fashion* of the Mexican women 
 then ?"' ■ 
 
 " Not quite," said she ; " I am fond of the perfume, but 
 would rather use the mouth of some one else as a censer." 
 
 There was a loftiness in her tone and manner, wliich, in a 
 man, would have been resented as an assumption of supe- 
 riority, but which, in her, was only an index to the womanly 
 pride and purity of her character"! It was more conspicuous, 
 too, on account of the circumstances by which she was sur- 
 rounded ; and the view of her character in that place excited 
 the same wonder which we would feel in finding a garden 
 flower on a wild prairie. There was refinement without for- 
 mality, freedom without boldness, and pride without haughti- 
 ness. The curl of her beautiful lip, and the quick glance of 
 her dark eye, indicated the capacity for high excitement ;■ while 
 the decided tones of her voice and the firmness of her bearing, 
 pointed to a deep, earnest spirit, fiery in its resentment of a 
 wrong, and steadfast in the pursuit of right. Tenderness of 
 feeling was not wanting — else had she been far from the 
 woman we have painted — but the clear lines of a lofty charac- 
 ter enclosed and governed it ; while a sort of reserve, produced 
 by frequent contact with the elements of a society, with whose 
 corruption, she held no sympathy — lay between it and the light. 
 Henry, for a short time, felt a little uneasy under her quiet 
 manner, but the congeniality between his character and hers, 
 soon made itself felt — not that congeniality (in reality, opposi- 
 tion) which produces love, but that which lays the only firm 
 foundation for a friendship : coincidence of lofty sentiments 
 and strong feelings — and a few minutes conversation put them 
 both at their ease. Henry took the segar she urged upon him, 
 and lighting it at a little censer full of coals, which she had 
 also brought out, commenced smoking. His companion entered 
 the house again, and, after a few moments' absence, re-appeared 
 with a small stand, on which were pencils, pens, paper, and 
 drawing instruments. This she placed where the sun would 
 not be likely to reach her for some hours, and seated herself be- 
 side it. 
 
 " I have several times attempted to draw this landscape," 
 she said, " but always without success. I will try again now. 
 
228 THE GLENNS. 
 
 unless you want me to amuse ypu in some oilier way. Shall 1 
 bring you a book, or would yapl&thet talk to me ?" 
 
 " 1 would ralher hear you talfeto me," said Henry. 
 . " you bad better reserve your 0ompliments till after dinner," 
 said she, calmly ; " for ■». are* likely toiSMud most of the day 
 together, apd if you he§§[ too early, you toay exhaust yourself 
 before night." * 
 
 "I spoke ratker from indolence than gallantry," said Henry, 
 smiling qiiietlj£^' though I might sincerely repeat what I said 
 in the sense in which you seem to have_2aken it." 
 
 " That is to say," she replied, " thai?.' it was my vanity and 
 not your gallantry, which j^nferred the flattering meanin*. 
 Fairly shot I I see an encounter of wits would be no safe 
 pastime With yoji." 
 
 " And J see you are for taking the chances," lie rejoined. 
 
 " By no means I" said sfi^, quickly, arranging her paper and 
 pencils. " I am all for peace, and even the sliadow of strife 
 always frightens me." 
 
 , " I took you for a thorough heroine," said Henry, smiling, 
 and pointing to the dagger she wore at.her girdle. 
 
 " I wear that for ornament — and defence," she said. " T have 
 never had to use it for the latter purpose, and hope I never 
 shall ; but this is a wild country, wilder than when it was in- 
 habited by the savages alone, and it is better to be always pre- 
 pared. It would seem too much for ornament, and not enough 
 for defence ; but the former depends upon the taste, and the 
 latter upon one's oourage." 
 
 As Henry gazed upon the beautiful figure before him, he 
 thought, not incorrectly, that neither of the qualities she had 
 named could be wanting in her character ; but he made no 
 further remark at the moment, and both relapsed ipto silence. 
 
 This continued for fifteen or twenty minutes, during which 
 Margaret occupied herself completely with her drawing, in 
 which, by-the-bye, she was not very proficieitt, and Henry 
 calmly continued his smoking — gazing now at the lovely wo- 
 man before him, now at the quiet scene beyond the rujflS, and 
 anon at the curling wreaths of thin blue smoke, as it fldatM 
 gracefully and slowly away upon the gentle morning breeze. 
 At the end of the time we have indicated, his attention was 
 suddenly attracted by a lowj but shrill whistle, like the note of 
 a young bird, repeated at short intervals four or five time|r>nd 
 apparently coming from the grove immediately southjM the 
 Mission. His companion looked suddenly up as the' fitstlnSte 
 struck her ear; but meeting the eye of Henry, she resutfiijd the 
 
A FAMILY HISTORT. 229 
 
 pencU which she had droppecL^nd recommenced her drawing. 
 Without attempting to pry i^fcwhat did not concern him, he 
 could still not avoid seeing'a fl^^ come to her'forehead at each 
 re>petition of the sountJ. Shg earned distressed that he should 
 have, observed her Minion, and wjiii. the purpose of relieving 
 her, he made some iiP&rent remaS about the ruins which he 
 saw she was then sketching. To this shS ans\yered in a rather 
 agitated manner; and a moment or two aftpcwards, as the 
 signal (fo. such he now saw it was) was repeated again, she 
 rose from the table, and hurriedly asking him to excuse her for 
 a few minutes, pass^ down stairs and disappeared. He sa^w 
 there was some mystery ; but was too thoroughly a gentleman 
 to attempt to explain it. He cbntinued therefore to examine 
 the sketches which she had given him as she hasteifted away, 
 for some time ; when, on coming to one which seemed an unfin- 
 ished drawing of the scene before him, he looked up and began 
 to compare it, with the view. As he cast 'his eyes round 
 towards the w«st, he saw a figure, whom he took for Margaret, 
 slowly crossing an open vista in the trees, probably unconscious 
 that she was in sight df the mission. Beside her was the same 
 man whom Henry had seen with her at the Alamo on the pre- 
 ceding evening, and though the distance was near a quarter of 
 a mile, he again thought he had seen the form before. They 
 passed into the grove too quickly, however, to admit a clear 
 sight of him ; and recollecting that it did not concern him, he 
 turned away, and continued to examine the drawing. 
 
 He was not mistaken in supposing the female figure that of 
 his hostess. She passed rapidly through the lower rooms of the 
 Mission, and issuing from the southern end by a break in the 
 wall, hurried away in the direction of the signal. Rapidly 
 threading the mazes of the forest for one or two hundred yards, 
 she came suddenly upon a little open space,^ where the ground 
 sloped gradually towards the river, and the sun was excluded 
 by the luxuriant foliage of a large acacia. At the foot of this 
 stood a young man, apparently about seven-and-twenty, consid- 
 erably above the medium height, elegantlyformed, and possess- 
 Hig dark, handsome features. Brown hair, a very black eye, a 
 little sinister in its expression, a straight nose and clear com- 
 plexion, with a handsome mouth and very white teeth, were the 
 principal features of his physiognomy. Intensely black mousT 
 taohips and whiskers, their sable hue setting off the whiteness 
 of M^eth, giving them indeed a rather fierce expression, de- 
 coraSr his upper lip and chin. A short rifle was leaning 
 against the tree beside him, and his broad hat was hanging on 
 
230 THE GLENNS, 
 
 a branch above his head, the absence of the latter revealing his 
 luxuriant hair, carefully arranged, and- a high, white, and intel- 
 lectual forehead.' He wore also alDowie-knife and a revolving 
 pistol ; and like that of the lady wlio approached him, his waist 
 was bound by a crimson sash, the tassais of which reached to 
 his knee. It confined a graceful huntiiig-shirt of green and- 
 gold ; and over his shoulder was thrown in ^weeping lines a 
 fine serape of^rresponding colors. His neatly-fitting boots 
 were ornamented by heavy silver spurs, and a curiously-wrOUght 
 chain of the same material was thrown across his shoulder, and 
 supported at his side a silver-mount^ powder flask. The 
 horse he had ridden — a clean limbed, powerful mustang — was 
 feeding on the sweet grass at a little distance from him, and 
 the trappMgs were in keeping with the costliness of the rider's 
 costume. 
 
 As Margaret entered the little area, he stepped briskly for- 
 ward, as if to re'ceive her in his arms ; but she drew back, and 
 simply extended her hand. He took it with a rather disap- 
 pointed look, and carried it to his lips. 
 
 '' I am sorry to see you here, John," were the first word.s 
 she spoke, " when my father is in danger among those ruffians 
 in the city." 
 
 " He is perfectly safe, Margaret," said the other, leading her 
 to the foot of the tree. " Caldwell is with him with a dozen 
 of his men ; and when that is so, how could I forego this op- 
 portunity of meeting you alone V 
 
 " I know you love me " she commenced. 
 
 " You never could doubt it 1" he interrupted ; " though you 
 have not always treated me with the confidence I have a right 
 to expect." As he spoke he attempted to place his arm about 
 her waist; but she moved slightly away from him, aud'inter- 
 cepting his hand, prevented his doing so. 
 
 " And now again !" he exclaimed, angrily withdrawing his 
 hand, and gazing upon her with an eye full of reproach, 
 " How am I to believe you love me, when you treat me with 
 so much suspicion 1" 
 
 " You mistake me, John," she said, earnestly ; " indeed yoit 
 do ! It is not suspicion that makes me treat you thus — very 
 far from it I But you know how I am situated — you know how 
 necessary it is that I should be prudent ; and you ought not to 
 expect me to allow the smallest liberty, even to yourself. Were 
 we living in a place peopled by a better society — were my own 
 position less equivocal, and yours more defined, I could not 
 deny you any confidence or fregdonj consistent with modesty 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 231 
 
 and prudence. But here, John, as I have told you again and 
 again, you must be governed by .the rule I have adopted." 
 
 " A very proper rule I" cried he, bitterly ; " very proper 
 indeed 1" And he rose and walked towards his horse, as if to 
 leave hex. She gazed ^t. him for a_ few moments in evident 
 pain, though it seemed that the pride of her spirit would induce 
 her to let him go,. But as usual, love gained the mastery, the 
 struggle vi;-as over in a moment, and with a voice in which its 
 power was evident, she called — 
 
 "John, you will not leave me thus ?" 
 
 He stopped as her voice reached him, and turning slowly 
 round, walked back to her side, and looked coldly down into her 
 upturned eyes. 
 
 "I would not leave you for worlds, Margaret," he said at 
 last, " if I-could stay with you and be happy." 
 
 " And why can you not ?" she asked, in a low voice. 
 
 "Because when with you I meet only distrust," he said, im- 
 petuously, " and I would rather be absent, when I can imagine 
 you kind and affectionate, than present to find you cold and 
 suispicious." 
 
 " Indeed, I am not cold or suspicious, John !" she said, 
 warmly, and extended her hand. He took it, and seating him- 
 self again by her side, with but little resistance placed his arm 
 about her waist, and drew her warmly to his side. 
 
 • I Why not treat me so always 1" he whispered, while a 
 glance, as much of triumph as of love, flashed from his dark 
 eyes. 
 
 '■ T would, John," she said, trembling, " if I could do so with 
 safety." 
 
 " Safety !" he exclaimed, drawing her more closely and 
 forcibly pressing his lips to hers. " Do you doubt your safety 
 now ?" 
 
 She only murmured a hesitating negative ; and after an in- 
 effectual struggle to free herself, allowed her head to lie quietly 
 on his shoulder, and received, though reluctantly, the caresses 
 which he showered upon her without intermission. She, how- 
 ever, soon recovered herself — an end to which the ardor of his 
 caresses contributed almost as much as her sense of propriety — 
 and gradually withdiaiving herself from his embrace, covered 
 her face with her hands, and sobbed with contending emotions. 
 He attempted to draw her back ; but she again intercepted his 
 hand and firmly said : 
 
 " John, this must not be repeated. If I am to be your wife, 
 I must go to you more pure than I could be, did I permit it 
 
232 . THE GLENNS. 
 
 again. Even now I feel " She was about to say " de- 
 graded," but she hesitated. 
 
 " Feel what 1" said he, again attempting to renew his em- 
 brace. 
 
 " Hold 1" said she, quickly. " You will make me angry. .1 
 cannot permit it-^you ought not to expect it I If our lips are 
 to meet again, it must be after -the law has sanctioned our 
 union." 
 
 An almost imperceptible sneer curled his lips as be replied — 
 
 " The law of love is the law of God — it has sanctioned it 
 already." 
 
 " That sanction," said she, now wholly recovered, " must be 
 given in form as well as in substance. It may be unmaidenly 
 and bold in me to ask when it shall be ; and yet I have a right 
 to know. I am tired of the life I have lived so long, and I 
 have become far more so since I have known you. I am un- 
 willing to remain in San Antonio longer thaja is absolutely 
 necessary. When may I calculate upon leaving it 1" 
 
 " The bnsJHess that brought me here " he commenced. 
 
 " You have told me that many times," she interrupted, rather 
 impatiently. '' I. do not wish to inquire into your private 
 affairs, further than you are willing to tell me without iriquiry ; 
 but it seems to me tliis business has kept you unreasonably 
 long." 
 
 " It has indeed I" said he. " But I think in the course of one 
 month I shall be able to finish it." 
 
 '' Then at the end of one month," said she, looking up— ^ 
 
 ■' We will be married," he said ; " shall it not be so '.'" 
 
 " If you wish it," she assented. 
 
 " You cannot doubt that I" he exclaimed, again placing his 
 arm about her waist. She submitted to the caress he gave her, 
 but immediately afterwards disengaged herself and said — - 
 
 " Now remember, that is to be the. last until ■" 
 
 " Until I can claim it as a right,'' he said, smiling, " which I 
 do now." 
 
 Her caught her suddenly as he spoke, and held her firmly in 
 his arms, kissing her again and again. 
 
 " This is positively too mucli 1" she exclaimed, spring to her 
 feet, with eyes flashing fire. 
 
 " Take your dagger and kill me," said he, smilingly, opening 
 his bosom. " I am all yours, and you have a right to do with 
 me as you please." 
 
 What woman could withstand an appeal like that? Her 
 look softened at once ; and as he rose to his feet and extended 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 233 
 
 his arms, she suffered him to press lier to his bosom as warmly 
 as he wished. He was too good a tactician, however, to risli 
 his advantage, by pressing it too'far and too rapidly. 
 
 " Do you not believe me now '."' he whispered. 
 
 " T never doubted you," she answered. " But," she added, 
 slowly withdrawing as he reluctantly permitted, " I must now 
 return to the Mission. Will you not go and spend the day 
 with me ?" 
 
 " You have some one else there,'' said John. " Who is 
 he?" 
 
 "His name is Glenn, a jiephew of my late stepmother, and 
 a very pleasant, though rather taciturn, young man." 
 
 " What is he doing here ?" asked the other, with a look 
 which indicated no friendly feeling to the subject of his 
 inquiry. 
 
 " I know nothing of him, except what I have told you," 
 Margaret replied, " and that he came here, as you know, about 
 midnight, whea you and I were in the turret." , .^ ,-*', 
 
 " I do. not care to meet him, I believe," said ' Vaaj' ai)d wit^ 
 another attempted embrace, which, however, she resisted, and 
 after making another appointment for the evening, when it 
 was expected Henry would be gone to the city, they parted. 
 Van mounted his horse, and making a considerable circuit to 
 avoid the Mission, galloped along the banks of the river, crossed 
 the ford near Conception, and rode on towards the city. Mar- 
 garet watched him until he disappeared behind the ruins, and 
 then with a slow, pensive step, took her way back to the 
 Mission. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 1 never knew so young a body vith go old a head. 
 
 Merchant of Tenicb, 
 I fallow him to serve my turn. — OTHEr.i.0, 
 To-night we hold a aolemn supper, sir, 
 And I'll request your presence. — Macbeth. 
 
 No SOONER had Billy Bates issued, as we have related, from 
 the room in which he had passed the night with Henry, than 
 he was accosted by Margaret, and taken at once to brea-kfast, 
 When he had finished the agreeable employment of filling a by 
 no means dainty stomach, he was met by the Major, who com- 
 manded him to mount and ride with him to San Antonio. Now 
 Billy was not too eagerly inclined to obedience, even in his 
 most amiable moments ; and it is therefore probable that rebel- 
 lion would forthwith have ensued, had not the order jumped 
 precisely with his humor. Indeed, the alacrity with which he 
 set about his preparations, and the anxiety he showed to be in 
 the saddle, might liave advertised a duller person than Major 
 Shelton, that his command was only an expression of the young 
 man's wishes. And, though the Major Isnew nothing of the 
 motives which induced the wish, he had seen enough of Billy's 
 movements on the night before to satisfy him that the boy had 
 thoughts and designs of his own, connected in some way with 
 persons in the city. He, however, made no remark upon the 
 subject, contenting himself with the accession of respect which 
 this discovery gave him for his young companion, and mounted 
 his horse in silence. Billy was not slow in following his exam- 
 ple ; and seated upon a wiry " mustang," he was soon capering 
 jauntily beside the Major, on his way to the city. 
 
 The elder eyed the boy from time to time as they pursued 
 their way, and seemed to be forming an estimate of his char- 
 acter. He, however, said nothing until they had almost reached 
 the ford near Conception ; when — probably more in continua- 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 235 
 
 lion of his scrutiny than for information, for the reader is aware 
 that he already knew who Henry was — he suddenly addressed 
 hira with the question — 
 
 " Who is your jaaster 1" 
 
 " One William Bates," said the boy, quickly. 
 
 " I am to understand then," rejoined the Major, with a smile, 
 " that you are your own master 1" 
 
 •' Exactly," the boy replied, draW'ing himself up in the stir- 
 rups, as if in conscious dignity. " I accompany Mr. Glenn, it 
 is true ; but I follow hira only as long as he rides on the path 
 I wish to pursue." 
 
 " You are a very independent young man," said the Major, 
 " and I doubt not quite as shrewd as you are independent." 
 
 " Pretty well, I thank you," said Billy, with a sort of leer, 
 expressing quite as much shrewdness as the Major had prognos- 
 ticated. 
 
 " You are a good horseman, too," remarked the Major. 
 
 " Only tolerable,"- said Billy. But, as if to belie his own 
 words, at the same moment he drew his reign tight, and stick- 
 ing his heels into the horse's flanks, made him bound suddenly 
 from the ground, as if taking a ditch with a flying leap. 
 
 " Pretty well done," said the Major patronizingly, as he rode 
 cautiously down the still slippery bank into the river, where 
 Billy's feats of horsemanship were quite out of place. " I 
 doubt not you are quite equal to ' young Harry,' or ' Old Harry' 
 either, for that matter, and are fully prepared 
 
 ' To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus; 
 
 And witch the world with noble horsemanship.' 
 
 But you have not yet told me who this Mr. Glenn is." 
 
 " Why don't you inquire of himself?" said Billy. 
 
 " 1 have not had time to do that yet,'' answered the Major, 
 smiling at the boy's caution. " And, besides, you know a man's 
 account of himself is never so complete and reliable, as that 
 given by an intelligent and impartial witness, like yourself." 
 
 " May be so," said Billy, looking cunningly at the Major, 
 though still somewhat mollified by the flattery. " But I'll 
 make a bargain with you : I'll tell you all about Henry Glenn 
 — at least all that 1 know — if you will do the same about the 
 man who was in the belfry with Miss Margaret last night when 
 we'landed — I think she called him Van.'' 
 
 " Agreed," said Shelton laughing; "for I suspect my story 
 will be a great deal shorter than yours." 
 
236 TBB GLENKS. 
 
 "That depends," said Billy significantly, "upon hoiw Jar 
 baek you know his history. But I will tell you my story first." 
 
 He then proceeded, as they rode past the Mission of Concep- 
 tion, to relate such portions of Henry's hif^ry as he thought 
 proper, until the deal h of Eversbam. "^^ ■ 
 
 " Mortimer .Evershapi I" exclaimed Sheltasj^'T'' Is he dejad?" 
 
 " He was shot as I tell you," ;said Billy. .:fe;>i 
 
 '' Had any one claimed the estate when you left ?" *1 
 
 " No one," said Billy. " Eversham had no chijdren, and as 
 far as I Itoow, he had mo relative alive. I did hear something 
 of a neice — the daughter of her sister I think '' 
 
 " Who was the sole heir 1" interrupted Sheltoii. 
 
 "Yes. But it was not known to any one there whether she 
 was alive. She was brought to this country by her father 
 when she was a child, and ^" 
 
 •' And is yet alive," said Shelton, suddenly drawing his rein 
 and turning as if to return to the Mission. A monient's reflec- 
 tion, however, changed his purpose ; and striking his spurs into 
 the horseJs flanks, he rode on at Billy's side. 
 ' " You bring me good news, my lad," said he calmly. ''But 
 continue your story." 
 
 " There is very little more to tell," said the boy. " Henry 
 Glenn left home soon after his acquittal, and since that time 
 we have been travelling in the southern States, the West 
 Indies, and this country! He is now thinking about returning 
 home, and I think I shall go with him, unless he starts too 
 ?oon,'' 
 
 " What is this Eversbam estate worth 1" asked Shelton. 
 
 " Fifteen or twenty thousand a year 1 have heard," said 
 Billy. 
 
 " Hump I" said his companion, relapsing into thought, and 
 riding some distance in silence. The youth eyed him for a 
 time as if endeavoring to fathom the depth of interest he seemed 
 to take in Eversham's estate. Billy, as the reader knows, was 
 a shrewd boy naturally, and the view he had had of the world, 
 with Henry Glenn, had by no means dulled his perceptiops. It 
 was not long, therefore, before he arrived at a conclusion near 
 the truth, and the discovery, for reasons best known to himselfj 
 whetted not a little his curiosity to hear the history Shelton 
 had agreed to tell him. He waited, however, without mani- 
 festing his anxiety, until it seemed that his companion had for- 
 gotten his promise. 
 
 " I have finished my story," he said then, " and yet you have 
 not begun yours." 
 
A FAMILY HfSTOHr. 237 
 
 " What do you want to know ?" asked Shelton. 
 
 " All you know about this ' Van,' said Billy. ' 
 
 " You deserve a better compensation than that," said the 
 MajoT, " for the good news you have brought me ; for I really 
 know but little Ipboiit him. Perhaps you know more yourself." 
 
 " ferhaps I do,",said Billy, returning Shelton's sharp glance 
 •with interest. " But you promised to tell me what yoU 
 know." 
 
 " Well," said the Major'-with a smile. '' His name is John 
 Van Eaton — he comes from New York — is a young man of 
 some wealth and good family — came to this frontier in search 
 of adventure — has been kept here by various causes for nearly 
 a year — and is now thinking about going home." 
 
 "AH of which I supposo you have from himself," said 
 Billy. 
 
 " Yes," answered Shelton. - " What more can you tell me ?" 
 
 " Nothing," said Billy. " I thought I had seen him before, 
 but I must have been mistaken." 
 
 As he spoke he drew his rein suddenly upon the brink of si 
 little- stream which crossed the road, and pressirg his heels 
 against his horse's flanks, made him spring over it. Shelton 
 looked smilingly at him, fully aware of the purpose for which 
 he was fretting his horse into an uneasy prancing pace ; and 
 thoilgh he knew from these signs and the boy's ihanner, that 
 questioning would be in vain, he longed td seek some further 
 information. While he was revolving the means of approach- 
 ing the subject to some purpose, they turned a point of the 
 low timber and found themselves'in the south-eastern suburb of 
 the city. Inwardly resolving to question him again at another 
 time, he abandoned the purpose for the present, and minding 
 his horse's pace, rode briskly along^ between the river and a 
 row of mean, mud houses, which lined the street upon his 
 right. Having reached the western bank of the river, by cros- 
 ing the trestle bridge before mentioned, he turned sharply to 
 the right, and rode over the ground traversed by the men in 
 pursuit of him on the preeeeding night. Billy continued up 
 the Alameda into the city, and made the best of his way to the 
 " Bexar Hotel." Shelton had directed him to take Glenn's 
 horses and return forthwith to the Mission ; but we have inti- 
 mated before that Billy was not overfond of obedience, except 
 when it lay in his own chosen path ; and accordingly, as this 
 command of the Major did not suit his purposes, instead of 
 obeying it, he stabled his horse as hastily as possible, and, 
 avoiding observation by a circuitous route around the Hotel, 
 
238 THE GLENNS. 
 
 Started at a rapid* walk for that part of the city just sought by 
 the Major himself. 
 
 As he reached the street upon which stood the scenes of his 
 last night's watching— for Henry was no t naistaken when he 
 supposed he saw Billy under the wall — he 'tokened his pace 
 and walked leisurely along towards the monte room. WJ^en he 
 came to the last street he had to cross before reaching it, how- 
 ever, he halted and gazed at the house on the opposite corner, 
 alternately watching the door, the window, and a little gate in 
 the high wall. Several persons passed, eying him somewhat 
 suspiciously : interested, perhaps, by the intentness of his 
 watching. Some stopped to observe him, and one even ques- 
 tioned him about his singular employment. Finding this some- 
 what uncomfortable, and probably convinced that nothing but 
 inconvenience to himself could result from this mode of exanw- 
 nation, he shook off the inquisitive passenger and, turning down 
 the cross street, approached the little gate. This he opened 
 without hesitation, and entering, found himself in the trim and 
 well-kept garden, which had attracted Henry's notice on the 
 everiing before. Closing the gate behind him and looking cau- 
 tiously about, he slowly advanced towards the house — pausing, 
 from time to time, and turning bis ear in that direction to listen. 
 The crying of a young child attracted his attention to the corner 
 room ; and as his eyes fell to the ground, an expression of rage 
 and hatred sat upon his features, such as, it is to be hoped, sel- 
 dom darkens a face so young. ' As if decided by the sound, he 
 turned from the path, and crossing an open grass-plot, rapidly 
 approached the door through which the crying was heard. He 
 stopped again on the threshold, while a low plaintive voice, 
 singing a lullaby, came floating through the door, and mingling 
 with the harsher notes of the screaming child. He waited but 
 to hear one strain, and then without hesitation stepped into 
 the room. 
 
 A young woiban, though faded and careworn, not much be- 
 yond twenty, and still retaining a portion of her early bloom, 
 was walking up and down the floor, endeavoring by her singing 
 to quiet the cries of the child she bore in her arms. It was not 
 more than six or eight months old ; and it was evident from her 
 assiduity that its nurse was also its mother. Billy recognized 
 her at once ; but without moving further than his first step with- 
 in had taken him, he folded his arms upon his breast and gazed 
 upon her with a look whose rage was distorted by contempt. A 
 very devil seemed to have been born within him ; but this Was 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 239 
 
 only the culminating point of the hatred he had always 
 cherished. 
 
 " William ! My brother [" she exclaimed, as she observed 
 him, eagarly springing forward. 
 
 ".Keep back W said he fiercely ; and the youthful tones of his 
 voice contrasted gtrangely with the sternness of his manner. 
 She shrank from him in fear, and, recalled by the direction of 
 his gaze, drew her child suddenly to his breast, and endeavored 
 to hide a crimson blush by bending her head to its face. 
 
 "Whose child is that'!" demanded her brother. But she 
 gave him no answer. 
 
 " Whose child is it, I ask you 1" he repeated more violently. 
 " Tell me," he added, stepping forward as if to take it from her. 
 '' Tell me, or I will beat out its brains against the wall I" 
 
 She shuddered and, clasping the child closer, retreated to- 
 wards a door which led to another part of the building. But 
 Billy placed himself before her and drew a heavy knife from his 
 breast. 
 
 "Brother!" she almost screamed, as she recoiled from the 
 shining blade. " I'll tell you ! I'll tell you all about it ! O ! put 
 away that knife! Do put it away!'' 
 
 " Whose child is it, 1 say?" shouted Billy again, seizing her 
 by the arm, and elevating the knife above the child. The lat- 
 ter, quieted by the clamor, gazed wonderingly with its large 
 dark eyes at its frightened mother and the furious boy.- 
 
 " It is James Glenn's — -Oh, put away the knife !" implored 
 Maria, as she endeavored to shield the child with her hands. 
 
 " And you married him, did you 1" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 " Fool !" he exclaimed in that low, half-broken tone, which 
 expresses the very acme of contempt ; and from this he heaped 
 upon her, in a voice furious with passion, the most opprobrious 
 epithets our vocabulary affords. He seeiiied on the very point of 
 thrusting his knife either to the heart of the innocent child or in 
 the breast of its unhappy mother, when the door was hastily 
 opened and, pale with ej^citement, her eyes flashing the fire of 
 intense anger, Fanny Vincent entered I She sprang to Maria's 
 side, and with a grasp confiirmed by rage, t.eized Billy by thp 
 wrist with one hand, and dashed the back of the other into his 
 distorted mouth. 
 
 " Unhand her, sir I" she commanded, with an imperiousness 
 which unclosed Billy's grasp at once. "Here, sir," she contin- 
 ued, leading him unresisting to the door, and hurrying him, 
 stupified by the suddenness of her interference, and quelledby 
 
'240 THE GI.ENNS. 
 
 the sternness of her manner, tofflrards the gate by which he had 
 entered. Without giving him a "moment's pause, sh« threw it 
 angrily open and thrust him out. 
 
 " Begone !" she exclaimed, as she held the gate back for a 
 moment, to give him a look of mingled anger and disgust. 
 ." Beg<Jne ! -and never dare to put your unnatural foot within 
 this do'oragain!" 
 
 She closed the door sharply in his face. 
 
 " The heartless young villian I*' she exelaimed'j as with height- 
 ened color and flashing eyes sbte walked rapidly back to the 
 house. , 
 
 '■■'''. Billy's ejection had been so sudden and overpowering, that for 
 *feveral minutes after he found himself in the street, he could 
 scarcely realizethe scene that had just been enacted. He still 
 ■fteli the knife in a threatening attitude, and the same furious 
 expression, though gradually giving way to astonishment, mark- 
 ed his excited, features. He slowly recovered himself, and re- 
 placing his knife in his bosom, turned away, muttering curses 
 against James Glenn, and forming plans of vengeance. Billy's 
 was one of those smouldering tempers so often combined with 
 cunning, which, like fire concealed by ashes, never mani- 
 fests' its existence until raked over by some new provocation, or 
 fed by new fuel ; but, unlike that fire, it never ceased to burn 
 when the blaze was no longer visible. Such tempers cherish a 
 wrong until they enter the grave ; and, with them, vengeance 
 is the very first of duties. Had James Glenn been near, and 
 known the deadly spirit bf the youth, his own ruthless nature 
 would have prompted him to a. coup de main ; for he would 
 have seen at once that he could never be safe while the boy 
 lived. James, however, was not there ; and Billy smootljed his 
 brow and concealed his knife. Having done so, he took his 
 way quietly back to the hotel. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Fanny \" sobbed Maria, as her young mistress re- 
 entered the room, where she was still pacing up and down the 
 floor, endeavoring to quiet the renewed cries of the child ; but 
 her agitation prevented further utterance, and her voice choked 
 even in the attempt to sing it asleep. She drew it passionately 
 to her breast, and walked with hurried, uncertain steps from one 
 corner of the room to the other. She had sinned, but she was 
 now bitterly atoning it ; and though, with the instinct of her 
 sex, Fanny had been inclined to condemn her, the repentance 
 and distress of the culprit had touched her heart ; and her pity 
 was not a little assisted by the active manner in which she had, 
 but a moment before, interfered in her favor. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 241 
 
 " Let me take the child, Maria," said she, approaching her ; 
 '' and do you stop crying, and go and bathe you face. I will 
 see that you are protected from such intrusion hereafter." 
 
 Maria h^itated a moment, as if doubtful whether she ought 
 to entrust Her charge to another ; but gazing into Fanny's face, 
 she observed the compassion, whose presence no woman fails 
 to detect, and with a grateful look, though in silence, she 
 yielded. Fanny toot the child in her arras, and using those 
 arts which are natural to her sex, soon pacified its cries, and 
 laid it upon the bed in a deep sleep. She gazed for a few 
 moments on its lovely face, to see that its slumbers were un- 
 broken, and then turning away, disappeared through the inner 
 door. 
 
 She was thinner than when we saw her last, and her face 
 wore. the paleness of mental suffering. Her eye was not so 
 bright nor her step so elastic ; but a corresponding change in 
 her character, so far from detracting from its loveliness, had 
 only added to its force ; and the resiliency belonging to all 
 proud natures, had enabled her to regain, after the agitations 
 and griefs of former days, a cheerfulness fat more desirable than 
 the levity of mere animal spirits. In the train of misfortune 
 and change had come reflection, and following this dignity, 
 composure, and a more just estimate of life and its objects. 
 She was now possessed of wealth, the desire for which had 
 formerly been so prominent in her character ; and with the op- 
 portunity, she had gained the disposition calmly to compare its 
 advantages with what she might have lost, indeed was willing 
 to give up, for its possession. The circumstances of her early 
 life, the course of her education, perhaps a constitutional bias, 
 had led her to over-value all that comes with money. She had 
 been taught, almost literally, that nothing was worth striving for 
 but luxurious ease and high social position ; and that these could 
 only be procured by wealth. That wealth she now possessed ; 
 and, perhaps, as much because of the exaggeration of these les- 
 sons, as from any want of realization in the opulence itself, the 
 possession was a disappointment. She soon learned — a lesson 
 known to but few who are not rich — that one may be at the 
 same moment very wealthy and very miserable ; and that there 
 were other, and better, and higher, and nobler ends in life than 
 the ease brought by money, or the social position which is a 
 consequence of its possession. 
 
 With the discovery that wealth was unsatisfying, came back 
 memories of what would have been amply sufficient for her 
 happiness. She had never heard of the circumstances under 
 II 
 
242 THE GLENNS. 
 
 which Henry Glenn had been acquitted, or of the events which 
 followed the trial ; but of the acquittal itself she had heard, 
 and (from Maria) she had learned in Galveston that James 
 Glenn was in Texas. In reviewing her own actions, and the 
 course of events which had estranged her from Heftry, by the 
 light of a better nature she had sometimes thought his actions 
 susceptible of explanation upon another supposition than that 
 he did not love her ; and the pleasure which the thought gave 
 her sufficiently attested his interest in her heart. James's 
 baseness towards Maria had opened her eyes to his unscrupu- 
 lous nature, more fully than had been done by her discovery of 
 his designs upon herself ; and though she was at a los^ to con- 
 nect him with the transactions, she could not help believing 
 that her misfortunes and Henry's estrangement were in some 
 manner attributable to him. Henry had been acquitted of the 
 murder of Eversham she knew ; the inference was that he had 
 found means to prove his innocence : if he had been falsely ac- 
 cused in that, why might she not have been mistaken in other 
 things ? In a word, she had. reasoned herself into the belief 
 that Henry was innocent, wronged, and still loved hei: ; and 
 that if she could see him once more, all would be explained, 
 and both would be again happy. The appearance of Billy 
 Bates, who had borne so prominent a part in the mystery and 
 misfortunes which had ended so unhappily, renewed all these 
 thoughts ; and when, after quieting Maria's child, she retired 
 from the room, it was to seek her own chamber, which over- 
 looked the garden, and there, leaning upon the sill of the bay- 
 window, and gazing out upon the goodly scene of river, rocks 
 and ruins, to indulge once more a dream which had of late be- 
 come the leading vision of her fancy. 
 
 A few minutes before she took her station there, Major Shel- 
 ton had ridden along the river bank in the rear of the garden, 
 and passing through the gate out of which he had escaped on 
 the night preceding, had piquetted his horse in a thicket near 
 by. He was pacing quietly up and down one of the neglected 
 walks, and halting from time to time to gaze towards the house, 
 now closed and silent, or to look thoughtfully over the wall 
 into the clear water, as it rushed merrily sparkling past tiie 
 gravelly bank. He was. evidently waiting for someone; for 
 at each successive look he cast towards the house, increasing 
 impatience was visible in his face. But it was plain, also, that 
 he bad more serious thoughts than those which pertained to his 
 appointment ; for he relapsed at short intervals into deep reflec- 
 tion — indulging memory, perhaps, or imagination, or more pro- 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 243 
 
 bably both, in mingled retrospection and anticipation. He was 
 reviewing his life, and forming plans for its reformation. But 
 he was unaccustomed to any but rapid and decisive thought ; 
 the shades of past errors, as they slowly rose before his fancy, 
 chafed him into consciousness ; and, • at each recollection of 
 himself, he turned sharply to the house and looked eagerly at 
 its still closed doors. At last, when his patience was well nigh 
 exhausted, and he had made a stride towards his horse with the 
 intention of riding off, he heard the door creak upon its hinges, 
 and on turning again, beheld the man for whom he had been 
 waiting. It was Burrel, whom he had saved from drowning, 
 and whom he had on that morning started from the Mission at 
 the same time at which he had himself set out. The man ap- 
 proached him with a downcast look, which perhaps expressed 
 more shame for his failure than repentance for his crime. 
 
 " You have been very slow. Jack," said Shelton, as the man 
 came near, " I have been waiting quite an hour." 
 
 " I had to leave my horse at the hotel," said Burrel, humbly, 
 " and walk from thence here." 
 
 " Well, no matter,'' said the Major. "I appointed a meet- 
 ing here in order to gain time for reflection ; and, luckily per- 
 haps for you, I have heard news which has wholly changed ray 
 purpose." 
 
 Burrel looked inquiringly at him, but said nothing. 
 " The news does not concern you," continued Shelton ; " and 
 on the subject of our appointment I have but a few words to 
 say. I agreed to give you one thousand dollars to take out the 
 ' queens' froSi Ellis's cards ; you thought this a good bargain 
 then ; but when you found the bank and my purse so much 
 larger than you expected, you concluded you would fare better 
 by dividing with others both my money and that of Ellis." 
 
 Burrel attempted to speak, but Shelton stopped him, and-con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " Now I might at the least refuse to give you your wages ; 
 for your attempt on my life wipes out all obligations. But even 
 your villainy shall not make me break my word ; and as I 
 intend to restore to Ellis all I won of him by that trick, I shall 
 have to pay you out of my own pocket. ' Here is the money ; 
 take it, fool; don't affect any ridiculJfe, scruples with me; for 
 I know your very heart leaps to get ^Ksession of it." 
 
 " And now," he continued, as Burrel humbly took the money, 
 " to-night I intend tc^^l monte myself; and as it wUl be the 
 last time I shall play^Wyant to see all those with whom I have 
 
244 THE GLENNS. 
 
 heretofore been associated at my table. I shall deal at the Mis- 
 sion — will you come 1" 
 
 Burrel assented, and after a few words, whose humor mani- 
 fested his contempt, Shelton mounted his horse and rode away 
 into the city. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The saa liegins to gild the western sky. — Two Gentlsuen or Tbboita. 
 
 I will hear further reason for this. — Othelx.0.- 
 
 1*11 have her, hut I will not keep her long. — Riohabd III. 
 
 The time 'twixt six and now, 
 Must hy us hoth he spent most preciously. — Tempest, 
 
 , Henky had occupied himself during the day in wandering 
 about the ruins, exploring the recesses of the forest, and in sit- 
 ting listlessly upon the bank of the river. Margaret had for- 
 gotten her engagement to lake him on a fishing excursion ; 
 indeed, he had seen but little of her after her return from the 
 rendezvous of the morning. The Major had arrived a little 
 after noon, and was busy from that time in preparations for his 
 guests. He had given a general invitation in the city to such 
 of his associates as he met, and had then hastened home to ap- 
 prise his daughter of their, or rather her, change of fortune. 
 The reader is already aware that she was sole heiress of Ever- 
 sham's estate, being the daughter of -his only sister ; and though 
 this sudden accession of wealth could -not have failed to affect 
 any one," It gave her even more satisfaction than might have 
 been expeotedi* • Yet it was not the wealth itself which gave 
 her so much pleasure — far from it. She had long been weary 
 and disgusted with the life she led ; and she disliked it espe- 
 cially on account of her|fcier. She saw him growing day by 
 day more attached to companions and pursuits which were 
 inimical to honor and happiness ; and she longed for the means 
 to rescue^him. He had led a floating, qaertain life, as far back 
 as she could remember ; and even withw^her recollection, she 
 could observe the gradual deepening of the traits which made 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. ^ 245 
 
 him reckless and eccentric. Wliatever truth, therefore, there 
 may tiave been in Shelton's general remark, that even women 
 become attached to the life of a frontier town like San Antonio, 
 his daughter was certainly an exception. The Major, though 
 he loved her with a genuine parental affection, in reality knew 
 but little about her — a circumstance accounted for (if ignorance 
 of a child in the parent needs any explanation) by the careless 
 nature of his habits. So far, then, from being unwilling to 
 leave the scenes of such society, it was in fact the first desire 
 of her heart; and it was with spirits more elated tlian the 
 Major expected that she received his communication. Here 
 were the means of escape from the disgusting contact of black- 
 legs and plunderers, who made up the body of her father's asso- 
 ciates ; and above all, here were the means of rescuing him 
 from a life which could only be precarious while it continued, 
 and would probably have a violent end. 
 
 Her father desired her to assist in his preparations ; and 
 though they were principally arrangements to receive such 
 men as we have indicated, it was for the last time, and she 
 obeyed him with an alacrity which he did not fully understand. 
 
 Henry left her about sunset, giving the finishing touches to 
 these preparations, and taking a cigar, strolled up the spiral 
 stairway which ascends in the south-west angle of the build- 
 ing, to the massive, square belfry. From this he looked out 
 upon one of the loveliest of those quiet scenes so often met in 
 prairie lands. Looking over the lops of the trees in his imme- 
 diate vicinity, he could see the level or slightly undulating 
 country, stretching away in the distance, bounded only by 
 the haze which hung upon the far horizon. A waving prairie, 
 with here and there a strip of timber venturing out upon its 
 waste, or a solitary grove gathered together, as it were with 
 the instinct of companionship in a lonely place, lay green and 
 lovely in the evening sunlight. Towards the north a broad 
 belt of timber, enclosin«Kits winding precinctsj|ie noble San 
 Antonio, extended as far' as the eye could reach, broken only at 
 the city, whose single tower (that of the chi«h of San Fer- 
 nando,) shone pure and white against the living green beyond. 
 Here and there, where the timber was thin or low, or where a 
 straight reach opened a vista, could.toe caught a glimpse of the 
 white water of the river ; and along its banks, adding to the 
 loneliness of the scene, were standing many piles of crumbling 
 ruins. Two Or three sparkling streams came winding like sil- 
 very serpents through the grass ; and along their banks were 
 standing tenantless ranches, with broken enclosures and neg- 
 
246 THE GLENNS. 
 
 lected fields; or solitary trees, like travellers halting, bewilder- J 
 ed, in a desert. Towards the west, the undulating prairie was 
 bourided by the heavy timber along the Medina ; and behind 
 this, with his blood-red face clearly .defined in the mellow 
 haze, the autumn sun was slowly sinking away. There was 
 not a sign of wind upon the landscape, excepting here and 
 there a little eddy in the grass, waving spirally the graceful 
 blades, and dying, out into the general calm. The sky was 
 cloudless, and of that deep, holy blue, seen in a southern 
 clime, fading, however, towards the horizon into a faint green, 
 and terminated by a band of deepening orange. There was 
 no sound, except the murmuring of the river, rising soft and 
 low among the trees, and losing, as it came to be diffused upon 
 the upper air, all traces of its origin. 
 
 Henry sat upon the parapet and gazed in silence out upon 
 the lovely scene ; and trooping through his mind came all the 
 melancholy fancies which the time and place were fitted to 
 inspire. It scarcely need be said that his reflections were per- 
 sonal to himself and to one other ; or that they partook of the 
 subdued and pensive spirit of the view around him. The pro- 
 found stillness — the air of repose — the deep solitude — though 
 he had forgotten all, mingled with and tinged his every 
 thought. 
 
 He was aroused from his reverie by the noise of two or three 
 horsemen riding into the court below ; and at the same mo- 
 ment he heard a light footstep ascending the stair. 
 
 " You have chosen a good retreat," said Margaret, as she 
 perceived him on entering the belfry. 
 
 " The compdny below," said Henry, " I suppose, will soon' 
 be past climbing even intp bed, much less this stairway." 
 
 " No," Margaret replied ; " drunkenness is not at all common 
 among them ; indeed sobriety is almost their only virtue." 
 
 " And," rejoined Henry, recallins what Shelton had told 
 him, J' even|||iat ceases to be a virtdBkvhen it is only practised 
 in ofde^o keep a clear head for villShous thoughts." ( 
 
 " Sobnety isi|o be commended," said she, " whatever be its 
 motive; thougW there is certainly truth in what you say." 
 
 " What does your father mean," asked Henry, as they strolled 
 out upon the roof and across to the eastern side of the building, 
 "by saying that he meets these men to-night for the last time ?'' 
 
 " He means simply what he says," she replied. " In three 
 days we shall leave San Antonio for the States." 
 
 " You have heard some news from theiioe V 
 
 " Yes — news which you might have told us, had you been so 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 247 
 
 disposed. At all events, no man knows it better than you 
 do." 
 
 " You mean the death of your uncle, and your succession to 
 liis estate 1 I might have told you, it is true ; but my connec- 
 tion with that affair was not such as to make me fond of speak- 
 ing of it." 
 
 " We had beard of it before, though but partially, said she ; 
 " and yesterday when we first saw you, were waiting the re- 
 turn of a messenger who had undertaken to go to Seguin for us. 
 He arrived while you and father were exploring the ruins." 
 
 " And what news did he bring?" asked her companion. 
 
 " Not anything decisive," she replied. '' The gentleman 
 whom he saw had heard of my uncle's marriage, but not of 
 his death, though he had been there within a few weeks ; and 
 the inference was that the whole story was a mistake." 
 
 "The informant," said Henry, " either never was in the 
 place, or else grossly deceived your messenger, without any 
 conceiveable motive. Or, perhaps, the messenger himself " 
 
 " That supposition is not admissible," said she quickly. 
 
 " If I knew what interest he might have in keeping you 
 here, I could form a better opinion, ' said Henry ; for vague, un- 
 defined suspicions began to enter his mind. 
 
 " It is not necessE^ry that you should form any opinion at all," 
 said~ she, somewhat sharply, turning away and gazing, as she 
 spoke, along the road, which was fast fading in the twilight. 
 While she looked, a party of five or six horsemen issued from 
 the shadows a few hundred yards in front and rode towards the 
 great gateway. One of them, whom Henry thought he recog- 
 nized as Margaret's companion of the morning, fell gradually 
 behind; and, as his comrades entered the court-yard, turned 
 sharply off to the left, and disappeared in the direction of the 
 river. A faw minutes elapsed, during which the noise of ar- 
 rival in the court gradually subsided, and Margaret walked 
 a little apart from himy towards the southern end of the build- 
 ing. As the guests entered the rooms and silence reigned 
 again, Henry suddenly heard the Same bird-call w'hich had 
 summoned Margaret in the morning, repeated four or five 
 times in the thicket to the east of the Mission. As the sound 
 reached her ear Margaret turned towards him. 
 
 "Do you intend to remain here during the evening?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " What do you advise V 
 
 " It will perhaps be better," she answered, '' to show yourself 
 for a time, at least, in the room with the company. Some of 
 
243 THE GLENNS. 
 
 them know you are here, and your absence might be miscon- 
 strued." 
 
 " You will not be visible, I suppose ?" said he. 
 
 " I have no taste for such company," she replied, as she walk- 
 ed towards the belfry, " and therefore always avoid it," 
 
 "You will not be invisible to me ?" he asked. " I can find 
 you after I shall have paid my respects Ed the company 1" 
 
 '' You are one of the guests of the house," she replied, " and 
 I fear must be included in the same category." 
 
 " Do you apply the rule ." He stopped, conscious that 
 
 he was about to commit an impropriety. But she " took him 
 up.'' 
 
 " I apply the rule to all," she said, with some emphasis, " with 
 such limitations and exceptions as I think proper to make," 
 
 The call from the thicket was repeated again as she 
 spoke, and, without further remark, she disappeared down the 
 stairway. 
 
 The shades of evening were rapidly closing in ; the view be- 
 came more limited, and the woods darkened to a mere undefined 
 shadow on the liorizon. As the light faded out in the west, a 
 faint glimmering became visible in the east ; and soon the yel- 
 low moon, moving slowly like a heavy-laden argosy, rose from 
 the horizon, and, growing paler as the sunlight disappeared, 
 sailed proudly up the diamond-studded lieavens, until ' the pale 
 de}uge' floated wide upon the peaceful scene, and 'the whole air 
 was whitened ' 
 
 ' with a boundless tide 
 Of silver radiance, trembling round the world.' 
 
 If enry walked pensively up and down the roof, or leaned over 
 the battlements, and gazed out upon the lovely scene. The still- 
 ness was occasionally broken by the noise of a new party of 
 revellers, their loud voices and ringing footsteps. But these 
 became gradually fewer, and finally they ceased. All had 
 arrived and entered ; and the scene without was left to the un- 
 disturbed dominion of silence, — broken only now and then by the 
 impatient stamping of a picketed horse, or a loud laugh, mellow- 
 ed as it rose, from the rooms below. This ceased as the inte- 
 rest of the play deepened ; and then the low whispering of 
 the gentle night-wind could be heard, or the ghost-like rust- 
 ling of the leaves; while, to the music of the night, the 
 murmuring of the ever- flowing river played a quiet bass, subdued 
 and low. 
 
 Henry was unwilling to leave a scene so lovely for the crowd 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 249 
 
 which he knew awaited him below ; and even when, urged by 
 the lapse of more than an hour, he stepped into the belfry, 
 intending to go down, he lingered still ; so little was his mind 
 attuned to aught but meditation. At last, however, a laugh 
 louder than usual recalled his wandering thoughts ; and turning 
 with a sigh he slowly descended and sought the room where the 
 guests were assembled. 
 
 In the mean time, Margaret had run hastily down the stair- 
 way and, passing round the- front of the Mission, sought the 
 ■wood which grew between it and the river. Climbing the piles 
 of rubbish which had once been a wall, she descended for a 
 short distance to the edge of an old canal, and turned down its 
 grassy bank. A few steps brought her to the foot of a. large, old 
 tree ; and here, as she expected, she was received by her lover. 
 He at once drew her to him and passionately kissed het : a pro- 
 ceeding which she resisted, though but faintly. It would be 
 vain to repeat their conversation, could we even do so literally ; 
 let it be sufficient that it was such as lovers' conversations 
 usually are, except that Van Eaton's manner was more encroach- 
 ing, and his expressions more sophistical, than was entirely 
 consonant with genuine love. This Margaret did not realize ; 
 though she several times checked his freedom, and once even 
 threatened to leave him. Warm protestations and a certain 
 laughing manner, which made' her ashamed of taking him too 
 seriously, always overcame her resolution, and, too well pleased 
 to let a slight thing part them, she remained with him nearly an 
 hour. She told him of the sudden change of fortune to herself, 
 certain that the news would be welcome to him as to her — since 
 he had several times hinted pecuniary difficulties as a reason for 
 delaying their marriage. He received the communication in 
 silence and without surprise, — a manner as unexpected to Mar- 
 garet as insane joy could have been. It never occurred to her, 
 however, that he had known of the circumstances for a long 
 time, and that he had an interest in keeping the knowledge from 
 those best entitled to it. Indeed, she gave the subject no 
 thought, — satisfied, as every truly loving woman is, that her 
 lover had reasons, good and sufficient as well as honorable, for 
 everything he did. And besides, after her communication of 
 her father's resolution, to set out in a few days for the States, 
 she observed even more warmth in his manner, more fondness 
 in his bearing ; and this alone was enough to disarm suspicion, 
 had any entered her mind. The near approach of their separa- 
 tion, he said, was all that affected him in the matter ; for he 
 loved her equally, rich or poor. And even that would not be 
 11 
 
250 THE GLENNS. 
 
 very serious, for in a month or two he would be at liberty to 
 follow her, and then they would be married. 
 
 She silently assented, and suffered him to draw her closer to 
 his bosom, where, however, she remained but a few moments. 
 
 " Come," said she, raising her head and disengaging herself, 
 "you must go into the house — your absence will be observed." 
 
 " You will see me again after a while?" he asked. 
 
 -' Perhaps so," she answered, endeavoring to escape from him. 
 '' But you must go." 
 
 " Not till you promise to see me again, when I have blessed 
 these fellows with my presence long enough," he said, retaining 
 Ws hold upon her. 
 
 '' Well, well,'' she said, " I will think about it. If any op- 
 portunity should offer, perhaps I will," 
 
 " That will never do," said he, laughing. " Promise me." 
 
 " I promise," she said at last; " but you are really too unrea- 
 sonable.'' 
 
 '■ I am unreasonably fond of being with you," said he. " But 
 you must remember how soon we are to be separated. Where 
 and at what hour shall I see you." 
 
 " In the belfry at nine o'clock — there, that will do. You 
 must go — indeed you must — I'll not meet you " 
 
 He stifled her utterance with a warm caress, and at last, bid- 
 ding her adieu for an hour or two, turned up the canal and 
 disappeared. She was unwilling, in her state of mind, to return 
 to the house,— knowing what company she could not avoid 
 meeting, and perhaps, finding in the stillness and beauty of the 
 night, a spirit more in unison with her feelings. She crossed the 
 canal and, approaching the river bank, seated herself upon a pile 
 of crumbling stone, where the shadows of the thicket and the 
 close underbrush would hide her completely from the view of 
 any chance passenger. Resting her head upon her hand she 
 fell into thought, pleasant and deep ; and so motionless was her 
 posture, that one might have stood quite near her, and thought 
 her form but a part of the grey and mossy ruin. 
 
 Her lover entered the house, and cautiously approached the 
 'door through which the light was shining, and within which 
 many men were engaged in such amusements as were in vogue 
 among them. The principal point of interest was a table at 
 which Shelton sat, "dealing monte," with Burrel for his crou- 
 pier; and around him were grouped the most of the company. 
 Among them were Henry Glenn and Tom Hartner, with Ellis 
 the banjter, to whom Shelton had restored the money won of 
 him on the night before, and who was now losing it again with 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. i51 
 
 almost equal rapidity. Neither Henry nor Hartner was playing, 
 though both looked on with the interest which always accom- 
 panies such appeals to chance. The Ranger, however, did not 
 seem so much interested as usual. He turned" at short intervals 
 to survey the crowd around him, and seemed disappointed at 
 each examination, as if he failed to find some one for whom he 
 was looking. He turned thus soon after Van Eaton approached 
 the door ; and seeing his eyes bent upon him, he nodded slightly 
 and, soon afterwards, turned from the table and strolled leisurely 
 out. On the corridor the two worthies met, and without speak- 
 ing, walked down to the court-yard and passed round the front 
 of the Mission. Taking the same path followed by Margaret an 
 hour before, they crossed the broken wall, and followed the course 
 of the little canal almost to the river. Margaret heard them 
 coming, and would have moved ; but perceiving that they were 
 on the opposite side of the canal, though only a few feet from 
 her, and unw^illing to betray her presence to such men as she 
 supposed them, she sat still. They approached still closer, till 
 they were only concealed from her view by the willows which 
 grew along the margin of the water. 
 
 "We are far enough, certainly," said Hartner, halting sud- 
 denly where Margaret could have touched him with one of the 
 willow wands. 
 
 " It is a very fit place, too," answered Van, whose voice 
 Margaret immediately recognized, as she had that of. his com- 
 panion. " I have held another conference in this neighborhood 
 to-night, which might have come to something, had I not been 
 forced to seek you." 
 
 " A conference with Margaret, I suppose," said Hartner. 
 " When are you to be married 1 Not soon, I hope ?" 
 
 " Not if I can secure her without," coolly replied the other ; 
 "and that I think I can soon do. I have already taken the 
 outworks, and shall prosecute the siege vigorously." 
 
 " What is there about her so attractive?" asked the E-anger. 
 " I've seen many a prettier girl than she, on this frontier." 
 
 " You measure beauty by complaisance, I think, Tom," said 
 Van ; " and, to say the truth, it is not a very bad standard. 
 But, you know, most things in this world are valued in propoiT 
 tion to the difficulty of their attainmsnt : and I have had a 
 devil of a time in pursuit of this girl." 
 
 " And do you think you will succeed at last V asked the 
 Ranger. 
 
 ••. If sl^e remains three days in this neighborhood, and dqos 
 
252 THE GLENNS. 
 
 not smoke my desigas, I have not a doubt of it," said Van. 
 " But we forget the object of our meeting." 
 
 Every syllable of this atrocious conversation had fallen dis- 
 tinctly aiid cyushingly upon the ears of Margaret I Every 
 word entered like iron into her soul ; and without strength to 
 move, bereft even of the power of utterance, she sat as motion- 
 less as the ruins which supported her! She was all ear — no 
 other sense w^as active — she could neither. see nor feel — she 
 could only hear ! All love was crushed out of her heart, and 
 in its stead came a burning thirst for revenge ! But even oi 
 this she was not conscious — she knew nothing except what she 
 heard ! 
 
 " Your men are here I see," continued Van. 
 
 " Six of them are," said Hartner ; " the most resolute of the 
 band. But you know I never move in an affair of this sort 
 without first knowing a why and a wherefore. Tell me then 
 candidly and fully the reasons why you want to dispose of this 
 — what is his name ?" 
 
 " Glenn — Henry Glenn," answered the other. 
 
 " Well, go on now, and tell my all about it." 
 
 '' He is in my way," said Van ; " is not that sufficient be- 
 tween friends 1" 
 
 " No," Hartner answered. " I never go bhndfold into any- 
 thing ; and unless I know precisely, and from the beginning, 
 all the circumstances, you must give up my assistance. What 
 I do in this matter, I do as the captain of a company of Regu- 
 lators, the conservators of the peace of the frontier ; and though 
 I am not very scrupulous about reasons, etc., I must always 
 know ,what I am doing. 
 
 " Well," said Van, after a pause, as if yielding rel-uctantly 
 to the demand, and recalling the circumstances to be detailed ; 
 " we have not much time to lose, and I suppose the shortest 
 way is to tell you the whole story." 
 
 Hartner nodded without speaking, and Van continued — 
 
 " You have seen the young girl who has lately come with 
 her father to reside in the house next to Ellis's Bank 1" The 
 ranger nodded again. " Well," continued Van, " that girl was 
 once engaged to be married to a cousin of mine, and that cousin 
 is no other than this Henry Glenn." 
 
 " Your name is Glenn then, and not Van Eaton,'' said Hart- 
 ner, quietly. 
 
 "Yes," said James, for he it was. " A sort of rivalry grew 
 up between him and me, in which I got the better in this : I 
 obtained from the messenger letters which were passing be- 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 253 
 
 tween them, and by retaining some and delivering others, with 
 such alterations and emendations as were best, I succeeded 
 in wholly estranging them. I thought I was now safe ; but 
 imagine my mortification when I found that I had only de- 
 prived him of the prize to throw it into the arms of another — 
 an old peacock, who was uncle to Mag Shelton. 
 
 '' That was a good joke, to say the least," laughed Hartner. 
 
 " There was very little joking in the matter, as you will 
 presently see," said James. " I could not stand that, but im- 
 mediately set about rebuilding my house. I will not detail the 
 whole story ; let it suffice that I formed a plan by which I was 
 to rid myself of both rivals at once — to put one absolutely out 
 of the way^ and to ruin the prospects of the other by having 
 him accused (at least) of the — deed. Time rolled on, and the 
 day set for the marriage had almost arrived, before I could 
 bring my artillery to bear. At last, however, on the night be- 
 fore the day appointed, I got Henry to arrange a meeting with 
 her, and then apprized her bridegroom-expectant of the appoint- 
 ment. My object was to bring him, at the moment of his 
 death, ta the place where it could be proven that Henry was. I 
 then so managed as to insure that Henry should not be there — 
 failing in the very nick of time, after sundry persons had been 
 witnesses to his preparations." 
 
 " And you went in his place," suggested Hartner, as James 
 paused. , 
 
 '' About that we will say nothing," James replied, signifi- 
 cantly. " It was enough that there was somebody there in his 
 stead — that the bridegroom, that was to be, was true to time 
 and place — that an afiray took place, and that the bridegroom 
 was killed." V" 
 
 He paused for a few moments, and then went om more 
 rapidly. 
 
 " The next day Henry was arrested upon the verdict of a 
 coroner's jury, for murder ; various witnesses appeared against 
 him, among whom was the young lady herself, who supposed 
 it was Henry whom she had met. There was, however, a leak 
 somewhere ; and before the end of the trial I discovered that 
 he must be acquitted, and, in a word, that I had better be off 
 while I might. I came to this country — Henry was acquitted 
 — and about the same time the Vincents, father and daughter, 
 came here also. They are now in San Antonio, and this cousin 
 of mine is here after her." 
 
 " What brought them to Texas ■!" asked Hartner. 
 
254 THE GLENNS. 
 
 " The death of some relative who died very rich ; they came 
 here to talie possession of his property." 
 
 " And it is that property that you want," said Hartner. 
 
 " In palrt," said James, " though I wanted the girl before she 
 had the property. For that matter, the death of her uncle has 
 made Mag Shelton rich in her own right " 
 
 " But," said Hartner, laughing, " it would not be convenient 
 for you to go the States after her property." 
 
 '■ Precisely," said James. " Nor do I wish her to go imtil 
 
 "And so forth," said Hartner, laughing, as James hesitated. 
 " Well, now, do you think you can get the girl if this man is 
 put out of the way V 
 
 " I am certain of it," said James. " There is some slight 
 dissatisfaction with me now, on account of a little affair which 
 occurred some months ago ; but if Henry is once out of the 
 way that can be easily smoothed over." 
 
 " Well," said Hartner, after a pause, '' suppose then my men 
 ' lynch' him, so that he will no longer be in your way, whatever 
 plunder they get from him is theirs ; how what advantage am' I 
 to derive from the affair 1" 
 
 " He has two fine horses," answered James, '' which will fall 
 to your lot " 
 
 '' You forget," interrupted Hartner. " One of those horses 
 is to be claimed and sworn to by Barton, and will of course fall 
 to him as his property." 
 
 " You have so arranged it then ?". said James. " Well, then 
 the other will be yours, besides whatever amount of money 
 you -may find among his baggage ; and as soon as I have 
 secured the girl I will pay you ten thousand dollars." 
 
 " But suppose you fail in getting her ?" said Hartner. 
 
 " But I tell you I shall Hot fail, said James, impatiently. 
 " If I cannot get her by fair means, I can use force, can't I ?" 
 
 " Certainly," said Hartner, laughing. " If you are resolved 
 to have her, willing or not, you will certainly succeed." 
 
 " I am, resolved,'' said James, firmly. 
 
 " Well," said Hartner, " let us set about it immediately." 
 
 The hopeful pair walked away, leaving Margaret almost 
 stupified by what she had heard. But the necessity for instant 
 action forced her to summon back her thoughts. She slowly 
 raised her head and painfully rose to her feet. Her knees 
 •»trembled as she stood up, and the prespiration stood in spark- 
 ling drops upon her forehead. But there was a fierce gleam in 
 her eye, and a firm, stern expression on her cofnpressed lips, 
 
A FAMILY H [STORY. 255 
 
 ■which told more plainly still of the conflict within. She threw 
 out her hands as if to feel her way, and her steps were totter- 
 ing and uncertain. She paused, and stamped impatiently upon 
 the ground, and set her teeth hard against each other. The 
 effort of will brought back her strength, and she walked firmly 
 and hastily towards the house. She had gone but a few paces, 
 however, and was about to cross the canal, when her progress 
 was suddenly stopped by some one stepping out from the 
 thicket, and placing himself directly before her. It was Billy 
 Bates. 
 
 " So ! you have been listening too, have you V he said, 
 sneeringly. " I thought I was the only one here, who had 
 sense enough to expect evil to come from the Devil I" 
 
 " Have you heard what these men have said '!" she asked, 
 at once resolving to use him in compassing her meditated ven- 
 geance. 
 
 "Every word of it," said Billy. 
 
 " And will you assist me in my revenge 1" she demanded. 
 
 " Will you assist m,e ?" asked Billy. 
 
 " Have you anything to revenge upon James Glenn 1" 
 
 " I have," returned he in a low voice. 
 
 " Then you are my brother," she said eagerly. " Let us go 
 to the house and be avenged at once !" 
 
 " Stop I" exclaimed the boy, as she grasped his arm and 
 started rapidly off. " You promised to meet him in the belfry 
 at nine o'clock ; if you will just show me the way to it, and 
 put Henry Glen in some place where he will be safe from these 
 cut-throats, you shall have a vengeance that shall satisfy you 
 perfectly." 
 
 " Will you bring him there to me," she asked. 
 
 " I will," answered Billy, " if you will show me the way." 
 
 " Come, then, " she said, retaining her hold of his arm as if 
 fearful of losing him, and hurrying toward the Mission. She 
 took him to the foot of the stairway and pointed up it ; then 
 turning led him to the door of the room where the guests were 
 assembled. 
 
 " Send Henry to me immediately," she said, and pushed him 
 in. 
 
 Billy was not long in obeying her direction. He sought 
 Henry out and whispered to him that Margaret was wailing 
 at the door. He passed out without speaking, and followed 
 her to the foot of the often-mentioned stairway. Taking him 
 up about half way, she hastily explained the reasons of her 
 
256 THE GLENNS. 
 
 action, and touching a spring swung back a narrow door and 
 hurried him in. 
 
 "Stay there now," she .said, " till I call you out." She 
 closed the door and hastily ascended to the belfry. Henry 
 found himself in a little gallery overlooking the nave of the 
 church, from which there was no escape ; whose existence, 
 indeed, would not have been suspected even on close examina- 
 tion. Here we must leave him. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Bring In the evidence."— Liar. 
 " It's nine o'clook. ' — Kichakd III. 
 " Ten maata at caoli mallie not the altitude, 
 
 Which then haat perpendicularly fell." — LEAR, 
 '* So, good^uigfat-unto you all." — Midsummer Night's Drxau. 
 
 A GREAT commotion arose in one end of the room ; evi- 
 dently sometliing either had happened, or was about to happen. 
 The crowd were collecting about a small man, with pale blue 
 eyes, a very thin nose, and enormous mouth, and were assisting 
 him to work himself into a passion. Shelton gathered up his 
 cards and money and came forward. 
 
 " What is all this," he demanded. 
 
 " Barton says he lost a horse a few days ago from the Brazos 
 Bottom, and found him to-night in your refectory stable." 
 
 'A What horse is it 1" the Major asked, turning to Barton. 
 
 " Dark bay, sixteen hands high, black mane and tail, and one 
 forefoot white," Barton answered glibly, pulling nervously at 
 the lappets of his buckskin hunting-shirt, and seeking the face 
 of every one but Shelton. 
 
 " Which forefoot is white ?" the Major demanded quickly. 
 
 The man hesitated, and Shelton smiled in his face ; but he 
 made a desperate effort and answered, "The near one." 
 
 " You are willing to be sworn of course ?" said the Major. 
 
 « Of course ! of course I" was echoed from half a dozen 
 voices. 
 
A FAMILY HISTOEY. 257 
 
 " Seilor Martinez," who had been an Alcalde in the days of 
 Mexican supremacy, and even yet executed some of his func- 
 tions, when permitted or required by the people, was now 
 called ; and a brisk little man in a light fioMcAaanswered with 
 alacrity to the summgns. 
 
 The detection of a horse-thief among these men, a large part 
 of whose property was of this kind, was of more consequence 
 than the apprehension of a murderer and the news that a 
 neighbor's horse had been stolen always created a greater ex- 
 citement, than the announcement that the neighbor himself had 
 been waylaid and shot. Accordingly, when it was said that a 
 theft had been committed, that the offender had been traced and 
 his booty discovered, the interest at once overcame even that 
 of gaming ; and when it was whispered that the young stran- 
 ger was the malefactor, it increased in depth most rapidly. 
 For this announcement was no small relief to all the gentry 
 there assembled ; because so long as the thief was unknown, 
 no one could be sure that the crime would not be fixed upon 
 some one of his nearest friends. Against a stranger all could 
 unite ; and accordingly when Sefior Martinez advanced to 
 ' administer the oath to Barton, the crowd gathered still closer, 
 the clamor ceased, and the interest became breathless. Barton 
 swore to the statement be had made, describing the horse as 
 he had done to Shelton, and saying that he had just discovered 
 him among the horses in the " Refectory stable." 
 
 " What does all this mean, Van ?" asked Shelton in a low 
 tone of James, who stood aloof, taking no part in the excite- 
 ment, but encouraging it by an occasional well-considered 
 word. 
 
 "You are as wise as I am," said James with a shrug. 
 " Hartner says a crime has been committed, which it is his 
 duty to punish, and you hear what Barton says." 
 
 " No man who knows Barton believes that he ever owned 
 such a horse,'' said the Major, positively. 
 
 " Then it promises to be somewhat to his advantage, that he 
 is a stranger to most of the company," said James, smiling and 
 turning away, too intent upon the proceeding, to listen further 
 even to the Major. 
 
 "And that villain wants — nay, expects — to marry Magi" 
 thought Shelton, looking after him with no equivocal expres- 
 sion of contempt. 
 
 "Tom," he said, as Hartner approached him after listening j 
 to Barton's oath, " the horse that Barton claims belongs to a 
 friend of mine, for whose honesty I can vouch; and," he con- 
 
258 THE GLENNS. 
 
 tinued, raising his voice, " he has sworn to a certain descrip' 
 tion. Now, let the company remain here while you and I go 
 to examine the horse, taking Barton with us to point him out. 
 For," he added in a lower voice, " if my memory serves me, 
 he has made a mistake about the white foot." 
 
 Hartner assented, though coldly; but before they left the 
 room he turned suddenly and said — 
 
 " It is but proper, Major, that I should require the presence 
 of your friend also, in ord«r' that he may not escape the punish- 
 ment due him, if we find him guilty." 
 
 " Certainly," said Shelton. " He in here — or, at least, was 
 here but a few moments ago." 
 
 " He is not now, however," said Hartner, with a sneer. 
 " Come, let us search for him first. Regulators ! " he shouted, 
 " the bird has flown ! Let every true man assist in the pursuit I 
 Major, this speaks little for his innocence." 
 
 A great tumult again arose among the company, nearly all of 
 whom rushed at once, with clashing cries and discordant coun- 
 sels, upon the corridor. A cry was raised, " Look to the horSes I" 
 and like a flock of sheep, moved by a common impulse, the 
 crowd rushed down stairs and out to the stables and thickets. 
 
 " He has not left the house, Tom," said James, whispering to 
 Hartner as he walked past him ; and, taking the hint, in five 
 minutes the Regulator captain had the whole Mission sur- 
 rounded and guarded. Those who had gone to the stables, 
 finding their horses safe, came back one by one", each in a high 
 state of excitement, and all anxious to assist in the apprehension 
 of the fugitive. Each reported himself at once to Hartner, the 
 recognized captain, and was without delay assigned to some 
 portion of the duty. A systematic search was soon organized 
 and commenced ; the crowd rushing first to the rooms occupied 
 by the ' family, then spreading themselves over the deserted 
 portions of the building ; and rushing tumultuously into the body 
 of the church, clamoring loudly for the fugitive. Hartner 
 placed a guard, by James's advice, at several doors, and himself 
 stood at the foot of the staircase, having learned that Henry had 
 been seen to go in that direction. James took a station near 
 him, watching the progress of the search, and apparently 
 waiting for some announcement. While he stood thus, with 
 his hat drawn over his brow and his arms folded in a serape, 
 he suddenly felt the corner of the latter pulled by some one who 
 stood close beside him. 
 
 " You have forgotten me, haven't you ?" said Billy Bates, as 
 James turned suddenly upon him. 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 259 
 
 " 0, no ■" said James. " I knew you were here, and wanted 
 to have seen you. Where have you been?" 
 
 "I have been in the city," said Billy, " until about an hour 
 ago. Do you want to see me now ?" 
 
 " Yes," said James. " Come a little this way." 
 
 Billy followed him a few steps from Hartner, and made a 
 movement to go further ; but James stopped him. 
 
 " This is far enough," said he. " And now I want to linow 
 whether you are willing to serve me for a good reward." 
 
 " Did I ever betray you ?" asked Billy. 
 
 " Not so far as I know," said James; "and if you are disposed 
 to be equally faithful now, I will make your fortune." 
 
 " I will stand by you to the death," said the boy significantly. 
 James thought he detected a tone of ■ irony in his voice, and 
 remembered some passages of yore ; but, though the moon was 
 shining brightly in the east, the shade where they stood was too 
 deep to allow of very close scrutiny. 
 
 " Well," said he, after a pause, "I will trust you as I have 
 always done." He paused again, as if doubtful of the step he 
 was about to take. " Did you come to San Antonio with 
 Henry V he then asked. 
 
 " Yes," said Billy; " but I shall follow him no further." 
 
 " You brought his horses down for him," said James. 
 
 " His horses I" said Billy. " 1 thought one of them belonged 
 to Barton." 
 
 " So it does," said James, with a smile. " I suppose you can 
 testify to it, can't you'!". 
 
 •' If necessary," said Billy. " But I would rather serve you 
 in some other way." 
 
 Again James thought he recognized the irony of former 
 times ; but without remarking upon it, he replied : 
 
 " Well, go now up that staircase to the roof, and seek out 
 Henry, if he is there, and then return to me." 
 
 " What shall I say to him ?" asked Billy. 
 
 " Anything at all," said James. " My object is to ascertain 
 that he is there. Go, and be back as soon as possible." 
 
 Billy obeyed without speaking, and passed up the stairway, 
 while James returned to Hartner, and addressed him : 
 
 " That boy," said he, "is an acquaintance of mine, and will 
 be of service to us in some of our operations." 
 
 Tom shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eyebrows. 
 
 " That boy," he said, " has the devil in him, I'll be sworn ; 
 and if you will take my advice, you'll not trust him." , 
 
 " Your are a quick judge of character, I know, Tom," said 
 
260 THE GLENNS. 
 
 James ; " and you are not far wrong about Billy's. But I have 
 had some experience of his usefulness, ancl can empto him to a 
 good advantage." 
 
 " Very well," replied Hartner. "I suppj^ yo;ji know him 
 best; but I still advise you to be careful." ^ 
 
 " I never was anything else," James answered ; and a moment 
 afterwards, Billy reappeared at the bottom of the stair and 
 beckoned James to him. 
 
 " He is up there, safe enough," he whispered. 
 
 " You saw him, then 1" 
 
 " Yes : he is at the south end of the roof." 
 
 " Why, you had not time to go there !" exclaimed James. 
 
 " I did not want to go there," said Billy. " Miss Margaret 
 told me it was he, and that he could not get down ; I thought 
 that was all you wanted to know." 
 
 " So it was," replied James. " And Margaret is up there, is 
 she ?" 
 
 " She is in the belfry," said the boy, " and told me to tell you 
 that it is nine o'clock, and to send you up." 
 
 James passed in without speaking, and walked slowly up the 
 stair, leaving Billy at the door below. As he reached the belfry 
 he found Margaret standing on the eastern side of it, and sprang 
 towards her to take her in his arms. 
 
 " Stand back, villain !" she commanded, in a low, stern voice ; 
 " unless you want to feel the point of this steel !" and as she 
 spoke, the dagger she wore gleamed coldly in the moonlight. 
 
 " Margaret " 
 
 " Silence, wretch I" she again commanded, and stood looking 
 calmly into his blanched face, without speaking a word further. 
 
 " Margaret " he again commenced, but she interrupted 
 
 him. 
 
 '' Silence, I say, and listen to me ! I sent for you here to 
 kill you ; does your conscience tell you for what ?" 
 
 James put his hsnd to a pistol at his belt. 
 
 " Never fear," she continued, observing the motion, and 
 growing more calm. " You need not handle your arms.— I 
 would not stain my hand with the blood of such a miscreant!" 
 
 " You have changed your mind then 1" said he> with a scoff. 
 
 " Changed my mind '! Yes — I will not show you even so 
 much mercy as to take your life I" 
 
 " One might suppose so," ■sai4 James, with a sneer, which 
 developed all the devilishness of his face. She looked at him 
 with an expression ^of mingled hate and scorn, but made no 
 other reply 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 261 
 
 " Is this all you wanted of me here 1" he asked, after endur- 
 ing her loaji until it made him uneasy and ashamed. 
 
 " This is all," she said, calmly. " I wished to see how con- 
 temptible B^^tecfSd villain looks ; and I have it to my perfect 
 satisfactioiPYefore me. I am glad now that I did not kill you 
 at the moment of meeting, for then I would have lost this most 
 comical sight ! How elegantly at ease you are ! What a con- 
 solation it must be to one so abased to have ' a conscience void 
 of all offence I' Don't you wish the earth would open atid 
 swallow you up, or the mountains fall down upon you, and bury 
 you from the sight of man T" 
 
 " ^e laughed aloud, and pointed her finger at him in the 
 moonlight ; but in the laugh there was more scorn than merri- 
 ment, and her hand trembled with emotion. 
 
 " Do you wish to drive me to violence !" he cried, furiously. 
 
 " Violence ?" she said. " Violence 1 You use violence ! 
 Paltry,, pitiful coward ! You ? I would as soon expect vio- 
 lence from a whipped hound I Violence!" And she laughed 
 again in very scorn of the threat. He made a step towards her, 
 and placed his hand upon his weapon. 
 
 "Back, sir I" she cried, fiercely ; " I will drive it to the very 
 core of your heart !" And as she spoke the steel again glim- 
 mered in the moonlight ; she advanced her foot and raised her 
 hand as if to strike. James was by no means a coward ; but the 
 high, stern spirit, conspired with his guilt to subdue him ; and 
 he shrank back with a half-shudder, as if the steel were already 
 entering his flesh. 
 
 " Violence !" she exclaimed again. " Where is your violence 
 now ? Boaster ! You threatened me with it to Hartner to- 
 night ; why does your heart fail you now 1 Is it because you 
 have no pack of kindred robbers to help you against one wo- 
 man ? Go and get a company of Rangers to back you ! Go 
 and tell them that you wished to use violence upon a woman, 
 and that she drove you like a cur from her presence I Begone, 
 dog !" and she stamped her foot, as if it were in fact an intru- 
 sive cur to whom she was speaking. 
 
 " Margaret," said he, recovering himself by a great effort, 
 " we will meet once more, and perhaps then your tone will be 
 changed." 
 
 ■' She gave him no answer but a scornful look, and he turned 
 to descend the stairway, endeavoring to appear unconcerned, ' 
 but betraying in every movement conscious guilt and the humi- 
 liation of detection. As he was about to step down the trap 
 
2€2 THE GLENNS. 
 
 Billy Bates suddenly appeared above the opening; and taking 
 him hastily by the arm, whispered ; , ' 
 
 " Come a little this way," and led him to the other side of 
 the belfry, overhanging the court-yard. j* 
 
 " Put your ear down lower," he said, and James stooped till 
 his head was on a level with the boy's face. J3illy still held 
 him by the arm with his right hand ; and he now placed the 
 left upon James's head, as if to draw his ear closer. He then 
 braced his feet far apart, and putting his lips close to James's 
 ear, hissed rather than said : 
 
 " She will not take her revenge — now see iniMe .'" 
 
 At the same moment he exerted all his strength in one effort ; 
 James lost his balance, shot forward, vainly endeavoring to 
 seize Billy's arm, and with a loud cry of agony and terror, 
 plunged headlong to the ground I 
 
 " See what it is to have spirit !" said the boy, turning to 
 Margaret, with a smile as devilish as ever marked the features 
 of his victim. Margaret sank almost fainting upon the parapet 
 and covered her fac^with her hands. Billy dashed hastily, 
 down the stairs to the court below, where a prodigious clamor 
 had arisen from the crowd around the crushed and quivering 
 body. IJe passed them unobserved, and entered the room, now 
 deserted," where a short time before the guests had been 
 assembled. 
 
 The only men there who could lay any claim to calmness 
 were Shelton and Hartner. All the rest stood clamoring to no 
 purpose round James, and crying out without sense or concert 
 for the blood of his murderer. 
 
 " How do you know he has been murdered at all ?" demand- 
 ed Shelton, in a loud, stern voice. •' It is more probable that 
 he has fallen by accident. Let us carry him in and examine 
 his injuries." 
 
 " Stand at that door, some of you," ordered Hartner, " and 
 let no one pass without my order I" 
 
 Two or three sprang to the foot of the stairway, and draw- 
 ing their arms, assumed the duty. James* was lifted carefully 
 from the groiind, where hitherto no one had touched him, and 
 borne -within the house. Here it was immediately ascertained 
 that he was not dead ; but a very, slight examination was suffi- 
 cient to satisfy all that he could live but a few minutes. He 
 was terribly crushed by the fall ; and t|ie only wonder in the 
 matter was, that he had breathed long enough even to reach 
 the ground. The crowd gathered close around hirn, silent and* 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 263 
 
 anxious, while one who had some pretension to surgical skill 
 examined his injuries. 
 
 " He cannot live an hour," said the impromptu surgeon, 
 stepping back and closing his eyes after a short examination. 
 
 '^ Is he conscious 1" asked some one. 
 
 " No ; and never will be," said the surgeon. But even as he 
 spoke, James opened his eyes and looked at the faces about him ; 
 at first with a bewildered stare, and then gradually recovering 
 his consciousness and recognizing each in his turn. As he did 
 so, the crowd suddenly opened, and Margaret, pale as marble 
 but calm and collected,- stepped within the circle. The dying 
 man closed his eyes as he saw her, and a shudder ran through 
 bis broken frame. 
 
 " She has murdered him," said one of the men to his neighbor 
 in a whisper. 
 
 The words reached her cars, and she turned upon the speaker 
 a look so scornful, so coldly contemptuous, and so fierce withal, 
 that he shrank back in the crowd and walked away. She came 
 still nearer to the dying man, and with folded arms stood gazing 
 upon his ashy countenance. The crowd looked on in silence sp 
 deep,, that James's difficult breathing could be plainly heard by 
 those who were farthest away. 
 
 " We lose time," said Hartner at last, when this had continjied 
 for several minutes. " We must know, if possible, how this 
 happened." 
 
 " Yes, yes, let us know," said several of the crowd. 
 
 Billy Bates now approached and looked cautiously through 
 the crowd upon James. He wore a sort of scared, bewildered 
 look, but even that could not repress the triumph of his face. 
 
 "' Make way, here," said Hartner, attempting to push past 
 Margaret. "Let me see if I cannot probe the matter." 
 
 " Stand back, sir I" she commanded, raising her arm before 
 him, " and let him die in peace I When you have answered me 
 a few questions, I will answer yours, — for I witnessed the 
 whole afiair. Back, I say." • 
 
 Even Hartner, col(\ and determined as he was, shrank back 
 before her imperious gesture. James opened his eyes again, 
 and atternpted to speak ; but his voice died away in a whisper, 
 and no one but Billy Bates observed the effort. He smiled 
 devilishly as he saw it, and his keen, sparkling eyes met those of 
 his victim. James's face;^rew purple with rage, and he clench- 
 ed his bloody hand as if ho strike ; but the pain overcame all 
 other feeling, the blood retreated from his face, his eyes lost 
 their brilliancy and became fixed, — his mouth grew rigid, — his 
 
264 THE GLENNS. 
 
 jaw fell, — the lips drew bauk, disclosing the teeth, — the nostrils 
 dilated, — the breathing stopped : he was dead. 
 
 "I want to ask you, sirj" said Margaret to Hartner, " what 
 was the purport of a conversation you had with the man calling 
 himself JohtuJVan Eaton, on the river bank, about an hour 
 ago?" # 
 
 '' That is nothing to the purpose," said Hartner, blushing, 
 however, and glancing at her suspiciously and in alarm. 
 
 " Then 1 will detail it to this compatiy, sir,'' she said. And 
 omitting only the more atrocious references to herself, she gave 
 to the astonished listeners a full report of all she had heard 
 between James and Hartner. 
 
 "'There were some designs upon myself confessed," she con- 
 tinued in an even, firm voice, " which I have not detailed hei'ej 
 but which determined me to seek for revenge. I sent for the 
 man who lies here before you, with the purpose of killing him 
 with my own hand ; but when I remembered that he was my 
 foster-brother, though a villian, and I saw before me the man I 
 Jiad loved, though niy love had been outraged, my resolution 
 was changed. I did not kill him ; but God let's no such men 
 escape; •4eath overtook him in another, far more fearful form, 
 before my very eyes." 
 ', -r She turned towards the body and saw that the spirit had 
 ' departed. She covered her face with her hands and wept'. 
 The crowd opened for her in silence, and she. passed out, seek- 
 ing her own chamber, to mourn in silence over the blight of 
 hopes too blindly cherished. 
 
 " He fell over the parapet by accident, then V said some 
 one. 
 
 " Whether he did or not," said Shelton, coming forward, " he 
 certainly deserved his death." 
 
 " He deserved it before he ever came to San Antonio,'' said 
 Billy Bates ; " and he got it by the hand that was under most 
 obligation to give it to him." 
 
 Shelton took "him by the arm and led him away to one corner 
 of the room. He was not long in getting a full account of the 
 manner of James's death. He then returned thoughtfully to 
 the grotip (now thinned by the departure of all the Regulators) 
 around the corpse. 
 
 " I suppose, gentlemen," said he " that most of you will 
 return to-night to the city. Hartilfc and Barton, with their 
 honest friends, are already gone ; antrU' shall therefore probably 
 see you no more : I set out to-morrow or on the day afteK fiS^ 
 the States. I will at all events bid you farewell to-night. Let 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 265 
 
 «s take together a parting glass ; and as we have all been wit- 
 nesses to-night of a catastrophe to which our course of life 
 most forcibly tends, let us, like mea who are not yet utterly 
 lost,' profit by the lessoa." 
 
 Each man filled his glass aad drank in silence. Each ad- 
 vanced and shook the Major's hand, cordially w^ing him all 
 good fortune; and each, as he did so, glanced atflie motionless 
 body aad passed out. In tea miflutes the souad of their horses' 
 footsteps had died away in the distance, as they rode in silence 
 along the river bank ; and Shelton and the boy were left alone 
 with the corpse. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 *' And Lara sleeps not wbere his fathers sleep, 
 ©ut when he died, his grave was dug as deep."— Lakx; 
 " Alisence, wiith ftll £43 pains, 
 Is by thie charming moment wiped away." — Thomaqn, 
 
 The lesson is almost finished; our history draws rapidly 
 towards its close. 
 
 "Time at last sets all things even;" retribution is ascer- 
 tain as his progress ; for the first -coffldition of out being is, that 
 pui^sment shall follow crime. 
 
 The law may be evaded for a time, and human enactments 
 may remain a dead letter for ever ; but Gfod has the vindica- 
 tion of right in His own hand, and . though the penalty be 
 delayed, ia His good time it will come. Whether in the 
 silence of the night, when fear and remorse eat into the soul 
 like a canker, or in the blaze of day, before a judicial tribunal, 
 it is equally certain; for, though justice " bides her time," she 
 never sleeps. Her logic allows no false reasoning ; if man • 
 assumes the premises, the conclusion is hers, and the sequence 
 is never broken. Suchg(then, is the moral of our story : trans- 
 gression is not suffered tbigo unpunished ; " the evil that men 
 4q lives after them," and the faults and follies of the parent 
 emtail a penalty upon the children. 
 12 
 
26d 
 
 THE GLENNS. 
 
 On the following morning, while ihe dew yet rested on the 
 grass, and fading wreaths of mist were flbating round the ruins, 
 or lingering about the tree tops, a little procession issued from 
 the Mission, and took its way along the wall towards the 
 west. Besides the men who bore the rude coffin, there were 
 but four persons present — Henry, Shelton, and Margaret, fol- 
 lowed at a brief interval by Billy Bates, and preceded by the 
 corpse. They were all silent and thoughtful, even more so 
 than the living actually are while following the dead. Marga- 
 ret w^alked a little apart, abstracted and pale, bat qtiite com- 
 posed. Her father gazed anxiously at her from time to time, 
 turning his eyes, after each look; mournfully to the ground. 
 He was busy with thoughts in which self-condemnation had 
 no small share, Henry observed nothing but the path before 
 him, and the rough coffin which he followed. Behind him 
 came Billy, more steady than his wont, his eyes less cold and 
 furtive ; but no one could have detected in their look aught 
 like remorse for the violent and lawless deed he bad comrait- 
 tedt 
 
 , Following the dilapidated wall towards the west, they slowly 
 approached a sheltered corner, where a pile of fresh earth 
 pointed out a new-made grave ; and passing under the thick 
 foliage of a large elm, the men deposited their burthen on the 
 ground. A slight bustle followed, and the coffin was lowered 
 into the grave ; a single plank was laid upon it, and then the 
 hollow sound of falling clods broke solemnly upon the stillness. 
 The earth was levelled slowly with the surface ; a few heavy 
 stones were taken from the ruin and piled upon the place : a 
 rude cross was driven in the earth, and the bnrial was done. 
 Margaret gazed for a few moments upon the spot with a heav- 
 ing breast, and then folding her arms walked quietly away 
 into the forest. 
 
 " And such is life I" said Shelton, leaning pensively against 
 the tree, and looking upon the little pile of stones. " And 
 such is death ! Yesterday morning, he who now lies beneath 
 these stones had as little thought of this, as we now have that 
 to-morrow's sun may shine upon an earth which we will see 
 no more ; and the hopes, and fears, and schemes which filled 
 his brain but a single day ago, were as teeming as those which 
 now lead us to calculate upon a life of many years I The web 
 of our existence is woven with many threads ; each is in sonte 
 way connected with all others ; and not a line or shade of 
 coloring marks the life of on«, but gives a form or hue to every 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 367 
 
 Other. Independence is not known — responsibility compasses 
 all about — we are answerable for each other as for ourselves. 
 The sins of each are punished in his fellow-men, and the 
 crimes and. follies of the father " are visited upon the children." 
 He, whom we have just buried, was cut off in the very prime 
 of life, and in the midst of his wickedness ; but the faults which 
 marred his character, descended to him from his parents. His 
 father's pride and his mother's selfishness, were in him com- 
 bined, and the impatient, fiery temper, which distinguished 
 both, became iri him a headloag recklessness. If he had had 
 less intellect, his career would have been shorter ; having a 
 strong, bright mind, his want of conscience led him to forget 
 
 that HONOR CAN NEVER WITH SAFETY BE FORGOTTEN ; pOSSeSed 
 
 of no ordinary courage, and a graceful, dextrous hand, he exe- 
 cuted what his intellect had planned, with skill and power. 
 The very best and highest qualities of his character were per- 
 verted by. selfishness ; and the wilfulness of his mother made • 
 him blind to the rights of others, and regardless oT the claims 
 of conscience. But we can forgive him now : 
 
 ' The reconciling grave ".. . _ 
 
 Swallows distinction, first that made us foes. ' § 
 
 That all alike lie down in peace together.' 
 
 We have other things to think of too ; death makes us thought- 
 ful, but life calls us again to consciousness. Let us go back." 
 He turned as he spoke, and followed by Henry and the boy, 
 walked slowly to the house. Leaving them upon the corridor, 
 he passed in and busied himself with his preparations for de- 
 parture. Henry walked in silent thought up and down the 
 floor, for nearly an hour, and Billy wandered away to the bank 
 of the river, more pensive tiian he had hitherto been known. 
 The mists of the morning gradually cleared away, and the sun 
 shone out in the splendor of that pure clime. The blue haze of 
 autumn, the Sabbath stillness, the peacefulness of solitude, the 
 spirit of the ruin, all combined to produce that feeling, mingled 
 of melancholy and of joy, which falls like a veil over all turbu- 
 lent thought, in the time of the falling leaf. The soul is 
 chastened and the heart runs over ; for the fountains of love 
 and the depths of memory are opened ; and the waters come 
 welling forth pure as a crystal spring. Henry felt the influ- 
 ence of the season and the place ; regret was softened, sorrow 
 was subdued ; and as he cast a glance upon the quiet scene of 
 loveliness around, all trouble was forgotten, and his spirit 
 tasted peace. 
 
26 § THE GLEHMS. 
 
 Nearly an hour passed thus, wheB Shelton retuniecJ. 
 
 " Has Margaret come in ?" he asked. 
 
 "I have not seen h&r," Henry answered. 
 
 " I think we had better go up to the city this morning," cob- 
 tinued the. Major, " and set out from thence to-moriow.'' 
 
 Margaret stepped upon the corridor as he spoke. 
 
 " Mr, Glenn/' said she, calmly, ''I have just ordered your 
 horses to be saddled, and if you will ride with me, we will set 
 out for the city immediately. I will wait for you, father, at 
 Mrs. Burnham's." 
 
 " You are in great haste, Margaret," said her father, as 
 Henry entered the house to make his preparations. 
 
 " Having been somewhat instrumental in James Glenn's 
 punishment,'' she replied, '' I hold myself in some measure 
 bound to repair whatever injuries I ki>ow he has done. There 
 is one in San Antonio whom he has deeply injured, in connec- 
 tion with his Cousin' Henry, as I know from both parties; 
 and having the power, 1 am under obligations to repair the 
 wrong." 
 
 "If yon undertake to right all the wrongs that may come 
 tinder your observation," said her father, " your life will give 
 you no leisure to prepare for Heaven. You are right now 
 though, I believe ; and here come your horses." 
 
 Henry reappeared at,the same moment, and mounting toge- 
 ther, they rode out of the court-yard, and took their way along 
 the river bank. Having reached the other shore by the ford so 
 often mentioned, passed the Mission of Conception, and crossed 
 the little streams which come in here from the prairie, they 
 were soon in sight of the dome of the church of San Fernando, 
 and the taller houses of the city. Hitherto scarcely anything 
 had been said by either — both seemed absorbed by thoughts 
 which would not bear expression. But as they reached the 
 skirt of the timber, and came in view of the upper part of the 
 town, Margaret suddenly drew her rein, and motioned Henry 
 to do the same. 
 
 " I have undertaken," she said, " to repair a wrong done to 
 you and a Miss Vingent, whom I do not know. You have 
 allowed me to do so without asking a question." 
 
 "You told me," said*fienry, as she paused, " that you had 
 heard a confession from the lips of my cousin, which possessed 
 you of the whole history ; and I was willing to trust the matter 
 in your hands without inquiry. 
 
 " Very well," sha,rejoined. " But I am unwilling to proceed 
 in it without knowing something further. I may be interfering^ 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 269 
 
 in an affair which neither party will thank me for meddling 
 with. 
 
 " I can speak only for myself," said Henry. " You could lay 
 me under no higher obligation." 
 
 " Did you come to San Antonio to meet her ?" 
 
 " I did not know she was here," he replied. " But the mo- 
 ment I discovered it, I resolved to seek her and have an expla- 
 nation." 
 
 "But as yet, you know nothing of her feelings 1" 
 
 " Nothing whatever," he answered. " That she loved me 
 once, I have no doubt ; but that I acted hastily, is almost 
 equally certain ; but more than a year has passed since I have 
 spoken with her, or heard from her ; so that I have not the 
 remotest idea of what reception I shall meet." 
 
 " And by ascertaining this I shall do you a service V 
 
 " The greatest that I could receive," he replied. 
 
 "The let us ride on." She struck her horse as she spoke, 
 and led the way at a gallop through the suburb to the bridge. 
 Crossing this she turned up the river, taking the same path fol- 
 lowed by her father on the day before, and approached the 
 lower end of the garden. 
 
 " We will leave our horses here," said she, springing to the 
 ground before Henry could reach her. " Follow me into the 
 garden, and stay there till I call you." 
 
 Henry w^as much excited, but commanding himself as well 
 as he could, he obeyed Margaret's gesture to remain where he 
 was, while she walked rapidly towards the house. Approach- 
 ing the door, she tapped lightly with her riding-whip. The door 
 was opened, a few words passed between her and Maria who 
 admitted her, and she passed in. 
 
 There is nothing so agitating as suspense. Henry was 
 already excited ; and as minute after minute passed away, his 
 emotion became more and more overmastering. Fears, fanoiep, 
 apprehensions — some of them the most absurd — troubled, agi- 
 tated, almost overpowered him. Feelings, long sternly re- 
 pressed, now rebelled, mutinied, and seemed about to conquer. 
 He walked hastily to the lower end of the garden, and endea- 
 vored to calm his heart by gazing jnta thefdepths of the water ; 
 but imagining that he heard! a noise, n^urned back and walked 
 as rapidly tg the place where Margaret had left him. He 
 paused to listen, but could hear no sound, save the beating of 
 Jiis own heart. He turned impatiently and nervously aside, 
 and threw himself upon a stone bench to recover his compo- 
 sure. He was not equal to the effort ; he sprang up again and 
 
270 THE GLENNS. 
 
 * 
 
 , Strode back to the open alley. Margaret had been absent 
 perhaps fifteen minutes — to him it seemed quite an hour. 
 Anything, he tliought, would be better than such suspense ; he 
 resolved to know the issue at once, and turning sharply about, 
 he started at a swift walk towards the door. 
 
 It was opened as he approached, and Margaret appeared, 
 beckoning him to enter. A little behind her stood Fanny, look- 
 ing eagerly as if wishing to advance, yet timidbr as if fearing 
 a repvilse. Henry crossed the threshold — she extended her 
 hand — he took it in one of his, and gently plafced the other 
 about her waist — she fell upon his bosom and wept. 
 
 " I have wronged you too deeply I" she sobbed. 
 
 " No," said Henry, " it is I who have wronged you I" 
 
 Their lips met, for the first time in their lives, and all was 
 forgiven ! ,, 
 
 Margaret stood near them gazing quietly upon the reconcilia- 
 tion. Her eyes fell to the floor, aiad turning away, she left the 
 room, and walked pensively down the garden. She left them 
 to renew their vows, to re-unite their hearts, to be separated no 
 more. 
 
 Let us imitate her example. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 May aU to Athens hack af^niiiTepair, 
 
 And think no more of thia ni^t't) accidents. 
 
 But as the fierce yexation ef a dream. 
 
 ' -^ Midsummer Night's Dreah. 
 
 I wi^h you -ffell, andsso I take my leave. — Merchant or Venice. 
 
 The circle is conipete— we have arrived at the point from 
 whence we set out. & 
 
 The winter was past .and 'the spring ; the long, sunny days 
 of surainer had come, apd'the trees were crowned with the^ 
 richest ioliage, and (he fields were loaded with ripening grain.' 
 
 It was a pleaaijit evening towards the close of " tire leafy 
 month of June."-'The sun waSteetting at the end of a sften 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 271 
 
 * 
 
 valley; his broad, red face was visible between the trees 
 which closed the view, and his light came softend'd through the 
 haze, and mingled with' the deepening shadows. 
 
 At the front gate of the old Eversham place — where they 
 now resided — were standing Shelton and his daughter. The 
 father — reclaimed, or rather rescued by the power of parental 
 affection— w^as gazing towards the east over the town where 
 his youth had been spent,. busy with the recpllections which the 
 scene inspired. His daughter — she whose noiseless influence 
 had recalled him from the path of peril — was leaning over the 
 low fence, tracing the lines of trembling tight and closing 
 .shadow down the valley towards the west. In front of the gate 
 the road turned^ southward, and wound along the slope, at the 
 foot of which the view was terminated by the heavy timber ; 
 and within the edge of this were visible the enclosures of 
 " The Glen." Men -were seen crossing the fields in variaus 
 directions with the implements of husbandry upon their arms ; 
 and now and then a couriR-yman came driving homeward from 
 the town with the look and jiace belonging to the close of day. 
 The dust raised by the passing teams hung like a golden vapor 
 on the air, and slo'wly settled back upon the road ; and the 
 fences and trees beyond looked dim and distant as if seen 
 through a veil. The birds, with voices mute and noiseless 
 ■wings, flew towards their nests — the cattle gathered round the 
 b^rs and gates, and the perfume of their breath came floating 
 sweet upon the evening air. 
 
 " This is a peaceful scene," said Shelton, turning towards 
 the valley. " I remember it as it was in my boyhood ; I can 
 recall it twenty years later, when I used to come here almost 
 every evening to see your,, mother ; and as it is now, so was 
 it when I saw it, as I then' thought, for the last time, twenty 
 years ago — 
 
 ' Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, 
 Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound.' 
 
 ..^ There is in the life of every one a pointy up to which he is 
 
 always looking forward ; but having once passed it, his glance 
 
 reverts, and memory becomes his dtify active faculty. ^That point 
 
 I have long ago passed ; I have notl|ing more to anticipate, and 
 
 it had been better for me had I 'spent my youth more profitably : 
 
 ii that memory might not now be a pain ratlier than a pleasure." 
 
 "You are melancholy, this evening, father," saad Margaret, 
 
 ^ going to his side and taking his arm. " Voii shohid go more 
 
 into society, and occupy ypurself less wfth gloomy reflections. 
 
THE GLENNS. 
 
 Let us walk to ' The Glen' now : I saw Uncle Abram and Mr. 
 Vincent go down abou^ an hour ago." 
 
 " Did you not see Leigh with them 1" asked her father. 
 
 " Yes," she replied ; " but that need' not prevent our going." 
 - " Certainly not,"^aid her father, opening the gate. " I would 
 willingly go more into society," he continued as they walked 
 acrbss the road, " if I could pf^ail upon you to do the same. 
 But so long as you seclude^yourself, what little social inclination 
 I have is* more than counterbalanced by thf reijectipn that I 
 should leave you in a sojitude^ gloomy enough ■miea I stay at 
 home." s 5.- 
 
 " I am better fitted for solitude than you are, father," said 
 Margaret ; " I can enjoy my, life as well, per^ps better, alone, 
 than in society. But I %ave been thinking for several weeks 
 that our life has not been what it should be. We qwe some- 
 thing to those who suMound us, and something to ^oi^gelves ; 
 and the least we can do, is to keep pp social relations wit'K lieigh- 
 bors and friends." . -0; '' 
 
 " I suspect you have been lectured by Leigh and Abram 
 Glenn," said her father with a smile ; " they have both said 
 nearly the same things to jne, and I have been led to reflect in 
 a similai^ way.", ' '<^ 
 
 " You'are.so far right," said she, " that I have heard both of 
 them say nearly identical things. But I have been birought to 
 this contusion as much by remembering a passage from' your 
 favorite, which you used to quote so often in, San Antonio : 
 
 ' Man in society is like a flow'r 
 
 Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone 
 
 His faculties, expanded in full bloom, 
 
 Shine out, there only reach their proper sphere.' 
 
 " True," said he, laughing. " But you have forgotten what 
 you used to reply from your favorite^yjjen I urged you to go 
 into company, ^ J 
 
 ^ ' society is no comfort 
 
 To one not sociable." 
 
 " But," said his daughte|j,^gerly, " you are 'sociable.' You 
 are so by nature; no one sblomied to shine in society could be 
 otherwise!" ■ »^^" 
 
 ■■ Well, well," said.he, laughing, "I will not controyfe you, 
 when you enforce yefur opinions with flattery." 4. 
 
 "Flattei-y is one thiig," said she, "and truth is another," 
 
A FAMILY HISTOET. , 273 
 
 % 
 
 " A lesson," 'added he, " which it would be well for all of 
 your sex to understand-. " 
 
 "It is not women alone who are ^wayed by flattery, ",said 
 his daughter. " I suspect that well-turned compliments, or 
 demonstrations of respect, have quite as ifiuch weight witifr» 
 men. ^ ,, f 'v. 
 
 " You are prompted as much by resentment for an attack 
 upon your sex,^ said her father, " as by any conviction of the 
 truth yoti state. It is a truth, however, as the observation of 
 every one detiionstrates " *~ ' ' 
 
 "And the experience of every*one," ipterposed his daughterj,* 
 
 " True,^^,he rejoined, ''even in raatteirs of SBeling,which one 
 would think should be influeocedby deeper causes ;'l have no 
 ■^ doubt that many a man has., been flattered into love byobserv- , 
 ing thg iglferest taften in him'by th^e fair object of his attentions. ' 
 It woijld be well.jf th%t interest were lesS ofteh merely 
 simulated'." ** "' **, 
 
 The words?«eemed to recall some painful thought to Marga- 
 ret. Making ho reply, she bent her eyes tilibn the grouijd,- and 
 Walked pensively along at the sid6*gf her father.' After a brief 
 interval of silencer, fiowever, she raised her head, and with the 
 motion seemed, to dismiss all unpleasant reflection. They were 
 approaching the.gate of ' The Glen,'"jtst within which they . 
 could perceive a party of four or five persons, standing under the 
 trees or walking about among the'lhrubbery. One of them — ■ 
 the only female among thefti — detachetf'horself from^^her com- 
 panions as she perceived Margaret and her father, and approach- 
 ed the gate to wel^^ome them. It was Fanny Vincent— jpow 
 Fanny Glenn, — having been married Jo Henry almost a year. 
 The pale, worn look which rnarked her face in San Antonjo, 
 was gone, and in its place^'liad come back' the serene, clear 
 beauty of her girlhood ; subdued, but deepened, by contentment, 
 and chastened, like het 'Character, by experience and lapse of 
 time. Her step was slower, perhaps, bij^'it was also firmer ; 
 and though her laugh mig'ht not b^ quite so light, it was far 
 more placid and contented. Her spirit" was no longer turbulent 
 or hasty ; and the eonseiousness of happiness beamed calmly 
 from her eyes. Her,- dSstiny was at last* fulfilled, — her life, 
 though troubled for a 'leason, likajjthe river that runs painfully 
 among the rocks for'many leagu^^, had now emerged into the 
 plain, and was flowing peacefully towards^the ocean. The 
 gentlemen whom she left were her husband, her father, Uncle 
 Abram ahd Mr. Leigh — the fsftnily and the family-friend. It 
 was indeed a family'party, only needingthose who were coming 
 
 Mi. 
 
274 - THE GLENNS. 
 
 down the sla^ "to be complete; and one who *had seen the 
 pleased look w^anny as she opened ^Jj&gate and sto§d Jeanii% 
 against it, would have known that tjiei^fcpproach was anything 
 :bjji| mi welcome. * *' .,v,' 
 
 ^" You aip just ih time to complete the pa^y," she said, as 
 they came' within reach of he|<|^ce. " I was wishing fbPyou 
 j3jUt% few.moments ago, Mjd MfiljeiglTand I wouffi soon have 
 #alked up after you." , = . 
 
 4^ _'^' XoUj' can walk IbaclCvwith us when we go," said j3\|.argaret, 
 fiifiiijcig away at thesaine time ujo shake off a sap^psed twig, 
 f^hich, might ha^'e eaught upon her dress — but dicrilbt. 
 
 ''I shall not aU6\tVyOuto leave us early enough for that. 
 Con^ in — we wiilbe just in time' for tea." '" ■ l|^ 
 
 She led the wSty, as she^.sfoke,' along the walk Ijpwasds the 
 little -grove, where the gentlemen kf.e^e standing. Tihe cordial 
 greeting of each to^c|FshowejLtJ^.e terms on which they stood : 
 that .unaffected tone' of social i^ereourse wh^ch touches the 
 familaaflF without abandoning the respectful —a^^jone which 
 makes the circle wilfere it prevails, delightful to all its members. 
 After a iew minutes spent in thia sort of conversie, they were 
 called tp the house t»tea,j^pid after a short absence withia, |hey 
 returne|^|igain to ttj^e^ggen air. Uncle Abram and Mr. Vin^nt, 
 ^ both appareffltly younger »inen than they had,, been, two ^ars 
 befora sea. te4> themselves at the foot %i a large oak, ancli,;at&om- 
 panie(f by Heaty, resumed the disaussiop of some projectejd i^- 
 pioveme^ to thejlacfe. FanHy aad the Major stood near the 
 doojr, enj^ing the '^uiet scene bgfor#,l;henj, and 'Margaret and 
 Leigh, who had been much tpgether of ^^ate, ^^alked^^ away 
 towards th^ gate and* disappeared among the trees. It will be 
 reooltected that Leigh, In the absence of relatives and other 
 creditors, had * adrpiiiistered upon'*' Evershaiji's estate^a trust 
 which he had. discharged with his'ftccustomld ability and dili- 
 gence. Attempts had been ma^ by sejieral persons to establish 
 a,<righl>of .inlieritaij^e to the property, on'the "ground of distant 
 relationship; and that all^these»effbrts had failed was mainly 
 owing to the acutefiess and fidelityof the administrator. Various 
 advertisenients had been inserted in t^ papers and other inqui- 
 ries instituted for Stoelton and his daughter, of whose existence 
 Leigh had nblRce ; and though the inforr^tion had at last reached 
 them; as we have seen, thrdugh a diffe'rent channel, their ulti- 
 mate appearanoei^nd proof of identity established thai justice of 
 Leigh's, ad ministrl^ou. ' The suits which had been iiaitituted 
 4jy the claiasiants were •immediately disn^ssed, and within six 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY) 
 
 weeks after Margaret's appeEijance, Leigh set'tle,(j his acoounta 
 ^nd delivie^'ed np Mfe' trust; "^ '% 
 
 During this period^ and^eed ever since, he had been brqpght 
 mifch in contact with ^ Sheltons, and had favorably impressed 
 them with, his ^lents, amiability and probity. His conversati^ 
 of course partook of the natusie of his profeStion ; but exteij^e 
 knowledge^of the wcJrld and a h^hly disciplimeiL intef|?|| 
 enabled In^n, fliotwitfislanding this ten&icy, to int^re^, instruct 
 and elevate all"%ith whom he came in contact. '^tJpon Margaret 
 this influe^ejiwas especially pereeptible, ajid the state of mind 
 in which she had returned to the'place of* her birth> was partis 
 cularly fayorable to tKe designs which Leig^ soon' conceived. 
 It was oW of "«|ames Glenn's •maxims that "women are lifce 
 balls, 'mQst,ieasily caught on ®e rebopid ;" and though a part of 
 the wisdom of a'bad man, it was none the less'^^isdom. Mar- 
 garet was'^inently " o» the ri^ound;" she haidi almost instan- 
 taneously cease^,tO love ifeiftes Glenn ; but the expjalsion of his 
 image had left a void, to b^ §lled by the first who"'gave<her the 
 attention and kindness which' was now a crq*ing Wa'nt. It was 
 fortunate for her ^at in this crisis she did not meet another 
 equ^l^ selfish ano'cfeprav.edtjj and that he who now began to 
 irf'nuate himself ijjto the vacant shrine, was honorably manly 
 aMQjpure. She^iad endeavored not perely to remember James 
 witHBtfdifFerence, but literally to ^rgethim ; and if she did no^ 
 wholly succeed, it waa owipg more to the strength than'to ^e 
 weakness of her nEfture. Her strong desire to succeed assisted 
 the iriterest which Leigh's dli|^actej;^and conversation produced 
 in hirak ' E^eem fojlbwed respect, admiration came in the train 
 of intimate acquainfance ; and now it needed but a little light 
 to show her that admiratio||;h'ad been.succeede4 by attachfeept. 
 
 It may seem unnatural that such a change should take place 
 so soon, and that this VevofBtion should be produced by a man 
 of Leigh's age. But.^f the raadei;,*v6fill take the trouble to re- 
 member the years thaifnvnfet haive elapsed ^ince Shelton's first 
 marriage, he will see that Margaret^erseff 'though young, had 
 past the first blooni, ef youth ; ancfif'ihe will consider, that 
 while she was twepty-five, he was not yet fofty, the incon- 
 gruity will, disappear. The* attachment that had grown , up 
 between them in the p&st year, was jaot,'' indeed, of the burn- 
 ing kind which disffiiguishes the "loves of eaply youth-; bmt 
 even this fact was attributable less to their'age than to other 
 circumstances. And though it might not be of the, impatient, 
 fiery sort, it was still less of the frail or evanescent. There 
 had been no open demonstrations, eitfie'r ; and she was as fjefe 
 
276 THE (JLENNS, 
 
 ignorant of the full fores of her attachment. ]3ut,wlgen he 
 drew her quietly aside, as now &-|9i^ja 'dl^a thoug^h no oth'et 
 word or action indicated his feelihgsir&fie JinewM by tfie-stiUjJ|ips 
 of her spirit that he held a k-ey of tio ordis|nry poxs||f . _§|^ 
 encouraged the feeling too,; at first as a refug^ ftoin more' un- 
 pleasant thoughts, but finally for|he pleasure it gave her, asjde 
 from all reflection. But Leigh.'Sis y^li, h^d made no declara- 
 tion, and sh^ never troubled herself wffes-sSlf-exarpination. She 
 was plgased when he was beside her, she was ^©specially 
 contented when they were altine together ; but fdj^er than 
 ^his she never inquired. When, therefore, on th% evening in 
 question he gently led her away, she felt no .anwillingness to 
 go, i^lid expected only their usual quiet, f£;iei3#ly iat'ercourse. 4 
 
 " I like to be in the wsod on such an evening ^s this," said 
 Leigh, as they walked slowly up the avenue; " but I should 
 not have' enjoyed it half so much, if you. had not come down." 
 
 " Tlien the pleasure lies in companionsTiip," said she, " and 
 not in the stillness or beauty of the evening." j, 
 - " Yes ; in the companioaship whose enjoyment is enhanced 
 by the incidents of' time and sceng. Persons attached to each 
 other as thoroughly as are you and I, can feel, even if we do 
 not estimate, the influeiice of peacefulness and beauty." 
 
 She turned and looked inquirftigly into his face ; his lan- 
 guage was new to her ; she did nof understand it ; and yet the 
 suddetf'flush which reddened her cheeks and forehead betrayed 
 to Leigh's quick eye her consciousness. Her- eyes fell to the 
 ground, and without making any reply slje walked slowly on 
 by his side. Leigh said no more for some minutes^ They 
 had reached the end of nEhe avenue, and'" turned dawn to the 
 right of the gate. They entered a grove of acacias, among 
 which were growing laburnums and roses. Here he turned 
 and looked back. They were entirely alon^. 
 P' ";Have we not gone far enough," sAid he. 
 
 " We will go back, if you wish,"said^he, turning to do so." 
 
 " No ; I have something to say to you first," replied he, tak- 
 ing her hand and detaining her. _ per face was again suffused ; 
 but she' allowed him to retain fhe' San|, q^d looked quietly into 
 lys face, waiting fair him to speal?. 3^ 
 
 " You perceive,',' he commeneed, after a pause, " that I have 
 
 taken our attachmftnt for ^fented, sfnd I think I have not done 
 
 80 without good*eason. But if I had no other reason, J think 
 
 • I, can see my justification in your eyes now. Am IrnisMSen 1" 
 
 " I do"not know precisely what; you mean," said shfci 
 ^**1 mean this," said he; "our association has taughtoie p 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 277 
 
 j» * " 
 
 love you, an,iJ*o desire to makes,you mine ; it may be my vanity 
 whjch wh^ers that I am ^t incHfTerent to you^ but Stliink I 
 have better^ieason for beliesving so. At all events, my happi- 
 ness depends gppi your answer; for you must not conclude 
 froni my al37'npt,fun"excited manner, that it is a mere business. 
 matter. I have been for som©»time meditating this step: I 
 have familiarized my^elf^ with the idea, and have .persuaded 
 myself that.my advances "would be meB favorably. I have been»< 
 made to believe so by your bearing towards me ; I do not thinU; 
 I have been mistaken ; and it is to be made certain that I nov^ 
 address you. Before you answer, I want to "warn you again 
 not to think I am.cold because I speak calmly. It is not so — 
 and if you will be mine, I will prove to you that my love is as 
 warm and as firm as love can be. Have I been mistaken?" 
 
 She gazed at him for a few moments, as if still in doubt .as 
 to his meaning. "Wkhdrawing her eyeai ihen, she IcJoked ab- 
 stractedly upon Ijhe ground for several minutes. Finally, rais- 
 ing them again, she spoke ; 
 
 " I suppose I understand you ; you wish -to make me your 
 wife. But, before I can answer your question, I must ask you 
 another; are you acquainted with^amy history? Are you 
 aware that if I sjiould receive youtsait favorably, I^ean only 
 give a heaFt which has once before been given ?" 
 
 " I knfew it all," said Leigh eagerly, " and^I love you^pnly 
 the more. I would much rather, for your sake, and for my 
 own, if you are-to be mine, that you had been made to suffer, 
 than that you had inflicted suffering upon another. I was un- 
 willing«to risk as mnph as I have risk^l, until I knew that nly 
 hopes were not w^recked before they were formed ; and " 
 
 " And you inquired aocoM^glyv" she interrupted. " It is 
 well; yon know my history, and still wish me to be yours?" 
 
 "Even more than before I" he said warmly, endeavoring to 
 draw her closer to him.'. " "What is your answer ?" ,« ■'W 
 
 After a monieut's reiflfection, she replied— — 
 
 " You' were not mistaken when you sOipposed me not indif- 
 ferent as to what your feelings might be — ^slay I" she added, as 
 he was about to inclose h^r with his arms ; "hear me out.* I 
 have encouraged a partiaffi-ty to you, being conscious of it aU 
 the time; but was not ii^this moqjent — perhaps am not now 
 — aware of its full forjce. Jou must be content, therefore, if I 
 take time for self-examination. 1 will not do you the injustice 
 to thinl|,-«diat you have spoken''unadvis6dIy or_hastily ; and, it ife 
 beca,use I?do not doubt you, that I feel especiaHy bound to take 
 no step rashly.. You know my history, and will thus . un(J|r- 
 
278- THE GLENNS. 
 
 Stand n\e wh^ I say, that one sq circumstanced o^ht to know 
 her feeMngs thorffughly, before she* dares to commre herself or 
 another to a|iy course whatever. 1 will -be Irant: I believe 
 that the step you propose would secure my Sppipes^] in the 
 present it certainly would ; but experience has taught me that 
 I may be .mistaken even in myown feeJiijgs ; and I must there- 
 fore ask that you allow me time to refleet." 
 ■* Leigh gazed at her while she spoke, with a look in which 
 tjie warmth of an awakened attachmenf was far more conspicu- 
 ous than it had been even during his declaration.. His .eyes 
 continued thus bent upon her after she had ceased to speak ; 
 and it was not for some moments that'he recalled his thoughts 
 ^fipjently to reply. ." * 
 
 " I cannot question the prudence of this request," said he at 
 fast, in a tone of disappointment, " though it is very paiuful to 
 me. I think yoii are more cautious than ii^ere is any necessity 
 for being. But how long do wish me to wait ? Not long, cer- 
 teiinly." 
 
 " You may resume the subject when you feel disposed," said 
 she, smiling, and .withdrawing her hand — not, however, until 
 Leigh had carried it fervently to his lips — " provided," she 
 a^ded, <' it be not within»t.en days." 
 
 " Ten days, then, Jet it be," said he ; " and then you will fix 
 the day for our union." 
 
 " Perhaps — perhaps not," she replied, smiling again. 
 
 " I will not allow of a doubt," said he, gaily ; and they 
 returned to the group in front of the house. 
 
 Leigh was right. His knowledge of human nature had not 
 failed him. He knewjs^that Margaret loved him ; and though 
 that love might be sober and well-founded, he knew that it was 
 all the better for that — that it promised a purer, a less troubled, 
 Tiappiness, than the unchastened affection of early youth. 
 Leigh was a profound reasoner (though not a logician), and 
 knowing Margaret's history, he was more willing" to trust 
 his happiness to her than to the first, blind love of any woman 
 — just as men are safer at sea in a ship which has been trieS* 
 b|^the storm and iiot broken, than with. one to which the wind 
 and the waves are new and_uijtried. TSe would not have mar- 
 ried a widow either. Let those Who view life as it is, recon- 
 cile the apparent contradiction ; ^ok it is " apparent'' only.' 
 
 They were married early in the, Autumn of the satne jear, 
 and are now living at the Eversham place, realizing to the full- 
 est extent tlie happiness which Leigh prophesied. Margaret 
 
•* A FAMILY HISTORY, "f 27 
 
 ,thoiii^' devoted to her husband and children, has reTenter'^ 
 society, where her beauty, talents, wealth and positifen have 
 rasde hert)ne of- the- first, as she is jcertainly^one of the ^st, of 
 its mem||6rs. , ^^er hu^nd retired from the practice of his 
 professiorr about a year after his .marriage, and has been since 
 that time engaged in writing a treatise upon the La^ of Evi- 
 dence, particularly th||^yiranch— something of a 'hobby with 
 hrm, as the reader will recollect — which is entitled " Circum- 
 stantial." Whethei?'if"'will ever be finished is doubtful ; for 
 withjjB two or three years its author has been much drawn off 
 into politics. It is hoped,' however, that he may discover in 
 time the sterility of the country into which his mind has 
 migrated, and return, penitent and wiser, to the wavingjfielda 
 and sunny slopes of the law. 
 
 Henry and Fanny are living at " The Glen," which they 
 have decorated and improve^ into a garden. ''The former still 
 haunts the courts^ though the most of his time i^ spent at hoine 
 with his wife and children, of w^hich last they have two. 
 Fanny has lost none of her beauty by^the lapse of time or the^ 
 trials of married life ; and though her manner is 8i course more 
 matronly, her heart is as light, and her spirit as free as ever. 
 Her husband, as we said, still pursues his profession, or rather 
 his professioiijStill pursues him ; for though unwilling to relin- 
 quish it entirely, he gives it but little attention. Fannj. and 
 IJncle Abram have both repeatedly urged him to abandon it ; 
 but he says there are in this country but two resources for a 
 retired lawyer, if he would avoid stagnaSon, and these are 
 politics aiid literature. Having certainly no taste for the for- 
 mer, nor, as he thinks, any talents for the latter, he is obliged 
 to cheat himself into the belief that he,i^'S avoiding idleness' by 
 attending upon the seats of justice. Uncle Abram says vanity 
 has as much to do with this course as reason ; that the love of 
 triumph after gratified is' a stronger incentive than the fear of 
 indolence. T3ei-this as it may, he is still at^e bar, where he 
 will proBlLbly remain until " nominated" for some political office, 
 when he will of course cease to be a lawyer without becoming 
 %iything else. 
 
 • Uncle Abram, as we have intimated, is yet resident at " The 
 Glen ;" and though some years have elapsed since ■we noted 
 his appearance, he seems to be even a younger man than at the 
 beginning of our story. Cont^entment has had its usual in^u- 
 . encejippri. both him and Mr. Vincent, who is also an inmate -of 
 " Tiie Glen." Tfibugh they are both paSt the middle age, 
 neitjier seems . to realize the fact ; and if you could see therB 
 
28#^- .«. THE glennS' J,, ,^f- 
 
 ^eu 1 cKnedirbv.|Maior Sh^ltofi (who resides wit-h his daughtel) ^ 
 
 jftQn U pftfesantsummer evening, you would te at a loss to recon- 
 cile tl^ir y^&iful fhanners .^d Hfearty vofoes with t^pir stand- 
 ing invthe scale of years, A gamei^ whist^ of which they 
 are all r^marTably fond, &lj6d.up by jSigh or Henry, and occa- 
 sioj|jlly by i^argaret fflptFanny, is their chief .amusement in the 
 winter ; but'^he.n siimiper comes, and«%fty are re^jleased by the 
 returning sunshine, bards are exchanged for more robust amuse- 
 . riients and the open air. In short, tBSfe^ more perfeatly con- 
 tented men do not exist. A better . fete their' friends coa]|i not * 
 have wished them. 
 
 TTiere are but two other characters in our history for whom 
 we s^Etll be expected to account — Billy Bates and his sister. 
 Tike former, when tl^e Sheltons and Vincentfe -came away, 
 
 • lerpained in San Antonio, a place whose motley population^was 
 ■\£ell adapted to "his reckless charaeter. Here he remained until 
 the Qolumn of I General. Wool set out -from hence to Mexico, 
 and that he aecompaiugd to the seat of war. When the corps 
 
 ^to whitsh he. was attalhed received their discharge, he cftose to 
 remaiql anflTroJn some vague- accouStts lately received of him, 
 we conclude that ^ is now among the gold-hunters of Califor- 
 nia. WMaria returiTBu with Fanny to her ord homte, confessed 
 ■tier faults, and wds forgiven. Only a few months ago she was 
 married to a substantial farmer of the neighborhood ; and it is 
 hoped, not without reason, that, chastened and made wiser 
 and better b^ affliction, she will make him a good and dutiful 
 wife. * '. 
 
 And so ends the Family History of '' The Glen^." 
 
GRAHAME: or, YOUTH AND MANHOOD r 
 
 MiRomance. By J. L. M'Connel, Author of " Talbot ai 
 Vernon."., 1 vol. 12mo. C. Scr&ner.. •*' 
 
 ■^^ w 
 
 4 
 
 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " It is a tale of passion and de^p romance. No one who commences It can 1^ it 
 down without reading it through. The scene is laid in a greaySfmety of pla^es,^d 
 thus produces a strong local interest. Real personag^esj like Gi^neral Jackson and, 
 Boiivar,.are made to play an important part in the 4e^opment5^ the plot. Its au- 
 thor is a person of decided genii^ and well versed'In'Me human, iheart'? ^ ^ 
 
 "It is written in a fluent and vigorous ^tyle, the characters are well defined, and 
 the scenic descriptions singularly graphi{j ; while the ifSmitive flows on w^h ever- 
 increasing interest to the last.'' — Home JouriMl. " , 
 
 *' Those who know anything of the author's fascinating style of composition will|ie 
 anxious to possess themselvfes of this book." — Auburn Daily nddvertisei: 
 
 " This is one of those tales which abound in developments of ch'^cter, and- in ac- 
 tive incidents. It is written with much vigor and energ^ of style."— Hwi('s Mer- 
 chants ilf(%gzmc. ^ 
 
 ■ / -* 
 
 " It is an excellent work, teaching many and sublime moral leffdons, ano^terwove'n 
 
 ijvith a deep and thrilling interest from beginning to ^d." — Albany Spectator* 
 
 " Our author strongly resembles Mr. Jam«s in various descriptive parts of his novel. 
 He is evidently, a lover and a soldier." — Literary^^orld. 
 
 " This volume is written with a great deal of ability, uniting the rnmance of life 
 with scenes from history." — Albaiiy Register. ^ *j. 
 
 " He writes with earnestness and individuality.'-' — JVIeiaJj-A Daily Advertiser. 
 
 " The character of Bolivar is exhibited in stfong and dark outlines, an^ there is in 
 this episode much of ppirit and stirring incident.-' — Southern Literary Messenger. 
 
 '' The author has read the human heart in a great variety of phases, and describes 
 with the pen of a mastA." — Oneida Hei'ald 
 
[Third Editiodl] 
 
 V TALBOT 00 VERNON;. 
 
 A Novel. By J. L;;^M'ConneLj Author of " Grabame : or, 
 Youtli,and Manhood." 1 vol- 12mo. C^ Scribner. 
 
 --% t 
 
 " Altogether we like the book mightily. No reader we think, certainly no cntical 
 reader — can fail to be struck with the directne-ss and energy of the style, tlie eMb and 
 natu'fe of the dialogue, its skilful sketches of character, and the freshness and beauty 
 of its descriptions of scenery. It is too rich in the eUmentb of popularity— too full of 
 v^oraus genius not to have a triumphant salf*."' — The Republic. 
 ^ ■' If we are not greatly mi^aken it is destined to excite a sensation among the 
 I lovers of original fiction, and to make the advent of a new and most able American 
 adSlorin this popular depnrtment of literature. We have met with nothing more pro- 
 mising in recent literature.''— Home Jounm?. 
 
 " The work iaone of much originality and pow er. is written in a vigorous and ner- 
 vous stylcj and is evidently the production of one who has enjoyed rare opportuni- 
 Ifties for stirdying^fe and characfer." — The YunJtte Blade. 
 
 " We h*'e reaJ^his recent work of ficl^on with much satisfaction ; and welcome 
 the author with hearty .^erican fellowship.' I^is plot, his narrative, his seen a, his 
 characliers, his channels of thought, ai^ et^nently national. ■'~-Z,i7era7.t/ World- 
 
 ''It is written with grea't, ability. ' 'The scene is laid in the "VBtest, and Western 
 manners of course are sketched." — N, V. Courier and Enquirer. 
 
 ■■' The author's style is sprightly and engaging, his powers of descriptinn greatj and 
 his knowledge of legal subtleties, and perception of the nicer points of his professionj 
 comprehensive and acute."— iV. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 " The vLKJdness of the Mexican scenes alone will ensure for this volume a wide cir- 
 culation ^^^7&aK)/ State Register. 
 
 *' The author is an original thinker, and a close obsei'ver, with a well -cultivated 
 mind "—Buffalo Morning Express. 
 
 "The characters are admirably wrought, and there is an easy flow in tlie narra- 
 tive, which is not interrupted by thie artistic touches with which the volume abounds. 
 We predict for Talbot and Vernon a harvest of rich success — E(x,full is it of incident 
 and the developmenfso admirably conducted." — St. Louis Republican. 
 
 " A tale of Western life and adventure, constructed wiyi art. and written with 
 beauty and force. The author is a scholar— a man of reading and reflection, a close 
 observer of society, and a discriminai^g delineator both of its outer surface and 
 its under current. 
 
 '■ The story is one of uncommon interest, and in the elaboration of^his subject, the 
 author has shown himself to be a shrewd observer of men, and a prof&und reasoner, 
 as well as a most agreeable writer.*.^ — Savannah Morning- JVews. 
 
 •'The writer portrays Western manners and WCTtern civilization, and has, we 
 think, succeeded in giving a clear idea of what they are. We have read the volume 
 from its first to its last page, a circumstance, (rare for an editor,) tliat should entitle 
 our appreciation of its ment to some little respect " — Hunt^s Merchants* Miigazine. 
 
.'^ ....i...i \f?V --hm-