Joshua Marvel

A day of agony. I have not been able to leave my room. Minnie was with me all the morning: but before she came to me, I had received another communication, in the same handwriting as the last. It contained but a few words,--

"The friend who warned Mr. Basil Kindred before, warns him again. Joshua Marvel is a smooth-tongued villain. In his character of a hero he is playing false with two simple girls at on time."

Who can this friend be? I have no friends out of these two houses. But whoever he is, he is right, I fear, as to Minnie, and may be right as to Joshua--the mere writing of the name gives me pain. The receipt of the few words I have just copied opened my wounds, and they bled afresh. I detained Minnie with me all the morning; and when she wanted to quit the room, I invented pretexts to induce her to remain. She was not at her ease; I saw that plainly. Once or twice I am afraid that I spoke harshly to her; but she was painfully submissive--almost humble. At length she rose, with the intention of leaving the room. I asked her where she was going. She answered, to see Mrs. Marvel. I grasped her hand, and bade her resume her seat. She asked me why I did not wish her to go to Mrs. Marvel's house; and when I said it was because I thought she troubled the Marvels too much, all the hardness and obstinacy in her nature came into play, and she answered in a voice that might have come from lips of stone, that that was not my reason, and that I was hiding something from her. For the first time I betrayed myself. I asked her if she was not hiding a secret from me; and she returned me an evasive reply. She left the room, and I was about to follow her, when I was seized with a terrible dizziness. My strength deserted me, and I was afraid I was about to die. The attack passed away, and left me as weak as a child.

I pause in my recital of the day's events to make two declarations. The first is, that I am certain, from my sensations this day, that a sudden shock would be fatal to me; I am afraid that my heart is diseased. The second is, that if I die suddenly, and Joshua has betrayed my child, he is my murderer in the sight of God and man--as much my murderer as if he were to come into the room this moment and plunge a dagger in my heart!

How awful are these words! As I look at them, they seem to rise in judgment against me. "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor." Am I bearing false witness against Joshua? Am I to be the cause of bringing unhappiness to friends but for whom Minnie and I might have perished from hunger? Still do I cling to the hope that lives in uncertainty. Still do I strive to believe that my fears have grown without reason, and that they are like the monstrous shadows that mock us on the walls and ceiling of a room whose only light is a flickering fire. Above every other consideration, I must be just. If no eye but mine reads these lines, I shall have done no harm in writing them. If it should happily result that Minnie's love is not deeply rooted--if it should happily result that Joshua has not been tampering with her affections, and that he goes away spotless, as I would fain believe him to be--let me determine to destroy this record. It must be done. Determining to do this--willing it with the whole strength of my mind--I shall be able to do it even before I am stricken down, if it be fated that I am to die suddenly. Should it be otherwise--should he prove to be false--this record shall remain as an evidence of his treacherous heart.

When Minnie left me, and I discovered that I was too feeble to follow her, I thought, Oh, if I had some one I could trust--some one to help me! And as I thought, Susan entered the room. In her I confided; to her I told my fears; and after pledging her sacredly to secrecy, I showed her the letter I have received. She has promised to watch Joshua, and she will be faithful. Now I shall know whether I have cause for fear; now I shall know whether Joshua Marvel is false or true.

I do not think I shall ever be able to leave my room. It is more than a week since I wrote in this book: True, I have had nothing to say until now. Minnie has been tender and affectionate to me; she has been absent at various times during the day; but when she is with me she is all that a child should be. I have left her free to come and go, knowing that Susan was watching that she should come to no harm. I sometimes think that she is fighting with her soul; for a new-born sadness has settled upon her face. Yesterday I saw her sitting by the window, with her hands clasped in her lap, and a deep-seated sorrow in her eyes. I have seen her mother sit so in the old days long, long ago--in the old days that seem to belong to another life. I had been asleep; and when I awoke, I saw Minnie wrestling with her sorrow. I called to her twice before she heard me; and when she came to my side, she had the air of one who has been suddenly aroused from a dream. Darling child, I pray to God to give you strength to bear affliction, if it comes to you! If any sacrifice that I could make would lessen your pain, how gladly would I make it!

Last night Susan slept with her, and in her sleep heard her murmur Joshua's name. It proves that he is in her thoughts; but it proves nothing more. I hear a step upon the stairs. Goodnight, dumb witness of my grief!

How shall I commence? All my pulses are throbbing with rage and apprehension. Proof has come. Joshua Marvel is a damned false-hearted villain!

I write with pain and difficulty. My heart is beating so violently, that I am obliged to stop to calm myself, for fear of consequences. Calm myself! Can I do it? I must. I will lay down my pen, and wait until I have subdued the tumult of passion which rages within me.

So! I am calmer. It is well that I stopped, or what the doctor warned me of might have occurred. And I want to live--Oh, how I want to live!

Susan is sitting in the room with me; for I am afraid a being alone, to-night of all nights. I am glad that I have kept this record; I am glad that, if I die suddenly, the guilt of an infamous recreant will be brought to light by means of this evidence.

About noon to-day--I am writing this at night--Minnie brought a doctor to my bedside. I had steadily refused to see one before; for I knew what I was suffering from, and I knew that the doctor's art was powerless to cure me. But I was not displeased that Minnie brought him; it was her anxiety and love--for she does love me--that caused her to disobey my wishes. I sent Minnie out of the room, so that I might speak to the doctor in private. He told me nothing new; as well as suffering from rheumatism and low fever, I have heart-disease. He told me what I already knew--that I might die suddenly, without any other forewarnings than those I have already received. He went away after uttering the usual platitudes. Late in the afternoon I fell asleep; and when it was dark, I heard a step in the room; asking who was there, Joshua's voice answered me. I spoke to him bitterly out of the bitterness of my heart, and he answered me quietly and feelingly. He said he had noticed with sorrow that I was changed; that he was not conscious of having done any wrong. He begged that I would be to him as I was before he first went to sea, and when I had blessed him. I could not see his face; but his voice was tremulous with emotion; and when he appealed to my sense of justice, I softened to him, for I had no evidence against him but the suspicion which had been created by the warning letters I had received. I had it first in my mind to tell him all; but my pride and my consideration for Minnie's feelings restrained me. Instead of doing that, I resolved to probe him; and, that my agitation might not betray me, I refused to have a light. We spoke in the dark. I elicited from him that he was engaged to Ellen, whom he declared he loved before all the world. Upon that, his hand in mine, I wished him the happiness that faithful love deserves. When, after that, Minnie became the subject of conversation, there was a hesitancy in his manner that aroused my slumbering suspicions. Then I spoke so plainly to him--though telling him nothing about the letters--that he could not have misunderstood me. I told him that my heart was diseased, and that I could not live much longer. I told him that I was tortured by anxiety for Minnie's future; that she needed guidance and control; that she knew only one duty--the duty of love; and that she could scarcely understand that, under certain circumstances, love may be sinful. I told him that she was changed, that she was hiding something from me, and that I was afraid some such love as I had spoken of had come to her. And when I asked him if he knew or suspected to whom that love was given, he was silent, and did not answer me. Was not that silence sufficiently damning? I asked him if he were concealing any thing from me, and he equivocated. What should he conceal from me? he asked. At that answer I almost gave up hope; but my child's happiness was at stake, and I persevered. I resolved to tell him the story of my life, that he might learn how Minnie's mother sacrificed herself for love; that he might learn what Minnie's nature, being like her mother's, really was; and to what extent she would go where her heart was engaged. It was an appeal to him for mercy. How has he treated that appeal?

I told him the story of my life; I laid bare my heart to him. I lived over again the agony of my wife's death. I told him that Minnie was like her mother, without her mother's teaching; that the impulse of her mind was under the control of the impulse of her heart; that those who knew it must guide her gently, tenderly; and that if any man betrayed her, he would have to answer for it at the Judgment-seat. Could tongue speak more plainly than mine did? Could any man who was not totally devoid of honor and humanity have listened to my trembling words unheedingly? I appreciate at its proper worth the code of morality by which many heartless men are guided; but I never believed it possible that man could be so base as Joshua has proved himself to be. Here is a proof of his villainy. Within a few minutes after my story was ended--within a few minutes after he left my room, crying in sympathy with me--he was fondling Minnie in the passage below. Susan can prove it. They were in the dark, and Susan came up from the kitchen with a lighted candle, and discovered them. Their hands were in each other's clasp; and when Joshua Marvel saw the light and Susan, he turned away his head, so that she should not see his face. They parted on the moment; and Susan, not appearing to notice them, passed them by, and, faithful woman as she is, came straight to me, and told me what she had seen.

"Fair to a man's face, and false behind his back"--ay, that he is! But not for him, for whom my indignation can find no fitting name, do I care. For Minnie are all my thoughts. How can I act towards her? How can I warn her? Tell her that he is false! that he is lying to her! that to listen to him is shame! She would smile at my words; and if she dared not scorn, would pity the tongue that uttered the calumny. I must think; must think. In the mean time, she must not be allowed to go about without being closely watched. Susan will do that for me. It will not be for long. He will be away soon, thank God; and when he is gone, I can resolve what to do. Perhaps he may never come back. With all my heart I pray--No, I dare not pen the words. The thought of Ellen and Dan, and his gentle mother, stops me. I give them here my heartfelt thanks, for all their noble kindness to me and Minnie. But for him--the treacherous son, the false friend, the perjured lover--I vow never willingly to look upon his face again.

My passion has exhausted me. I turn to the first page of this record, and I see there the pledge that I would throw down my pen when the suspicion came upon me that because of my fear and my agony I am writing what is not strictly the fact. I read over what I have written this night; and I solemnly declare that every word is true, as I hope to meet my wife in heaven!

But a few words more. When I return this book to my desk, I shall tell Susan to place it in Dan's hands, if I die before Minnie is safe. A step upon the stairs! It is my darling child's!--

Another day of misery has passed, and I have received farther damning proof that Joshua Marvel is tampering with Minnie's affections. In my present state of mind, it will be best for me to write down Susan's statement, word for word. I cannot trust myself. I call her to me, and bid her relate, without passion, and without prejudice, what she saw to-day. What follows is from her own lips.

Susan's Statement.

"I noticed this morning that Minnie was more restless than usual. Whenever I looked at her, she looked at me back again; as much as to say, what do you mean by staring at me in that way? I couldn't help thinking that she knew I was watching her and I felt uncomfortable. But I watched her for all that, as I promised you I would. When she went out of the room, I made believe that I wanted to go out too. Now I think of it, she must have gone out of the room on purpose to try me; because the second time I followed her, she turned upon me in the passage, and looked at me in such a manner that I was frightened. Between eleven and twelve o'clock I was in the kitchen, helping to cook the dinner; and when I came up stairs, Minnie was gone from the house. I ran round to Mrs. Marvel's, and she wasn't there. Scarcely knowing what to do, I slipped on my bonnet and shawl, and went into the streets to look for her. All at once it came into my mind, that if I should find her anywhere it would be at the docks, where Joshua's ship was, and where Joshua was working. I ran there as hard as ever I could, and just at the entrance of the docks I caught sight of Minnie. I was regularly out of breath, and my only fear now was that she might see me. So I kept out of the way as much as I could, and followed her quietly. When she got near the ships she stopped short; and presently Joshua, who was looking over the side of his ship, as if he was expecting some one, came down to where she was standing, and began talking to her. He seemed a little bit uneasy--perhaps, because there were so many people about, and because, I thought, he didn't want Minnie to be noticed, for all the workmen and sailors were staring at her. They went up a plank on to Joshua's ship; and Joshua had his arm round her waist. They stood by the side of the ship, looking towards the river, talking together. I never took my eyes off them, and I am certain--though, of course, I couldn't hear them--that they were talking of something very particular. All at once I lost sight of them; they had gone to a part of the ship where I couldn't see them. I think they must have been out of my sight for nearly a quarter of an hour; and when they returned, Joshua looked to the place where I was standing by the side of some large cases, and came off the ship towards me. I was frightened that he would catch me, and I ran away. When I was safe, I turned, and saw Joshua and Minnie together coming from the ship. Minnie walked out of the docks by herself; and I followed her home, and waited in the street a little before I went into the house after her. But I no sooner got inside the door, than Minnie met me in the passage; she hadn't taken her bonnet off. I didn't seem to notice her; but she came into the kitchen after me. 'Where have you been, Susan?' she asked me, so sudden-like that I was almost taken off my guard. 'Out for a walk,' I said. 'Have you been to the docks?' she asked me. 'No,' I said; but I felt my face turning red as I told the story. I thought she was done with her questions; but she soon commenced again. 'Are you going out again?' she asked. I said, No, I wasn't. 'I am,' she said; 'I am going out for a walk.' And she ran up stairs and out of the house. I didn't know what to do; and I came to you, and you told me not to watch her any more to-day."

It is evident that Minnie is suspicious of Susan, and I know that Susan is no match for her. Ill as I am, I can see but one thing to do--I must wait and hope. That the innate goodness and purity of Minnie's heart will keep her from harm, is my earnest prayer. I will be, if possible, more tender and loving to her than I have hitherto been. I dare not speak plainly to her; I believe, if I did, that she would go away from us, and we should never see her again. If I were well, it would be different. I should take her from here until Joshua Marvel had sailed.

What can I say of him? It is clear that Minnie went to the docks by appointment, and that he expected her. I have appealed to him vainly. After what passed between us--after the knowledge he has gained that I am aware of his treachery--he has shown himself, in this clandestine meeting with Minnie, to be totally devoid of honor. I leave him to his conscience and to the judgment of his friends. May occasion never come for them to learn how they are deceived in him!

Two days more have passed. In a week Joshua Marvel's ship sails. I believe from that moment I shall begin to grow better. Then I shall make new plans for the future. The future! Alas, my future on earth will soon come to an end! See how I contradict myself. One moment saying that I shall begin to get better when Joshua is gone; the next, that my end must soon come. But 'tis in the nature of such a state of feeling as mine to be hopeful one minute, and despondent the next. The best thing for Minnie would be, that she should be impressed and touched by Dan's love for her--of the existence of which I am sure, having thought much of Dan's manner towards her--and that she should consent to marry him. It is not certain that she loves Joshua; after all, nearly the whole--nay, the whole--of the evidence is circumstantial. It is but natural that she should have an affection for him; the nature of the intimacy, his kindness to her and me, the very circumstances attendant upon his return home, make that a necessity. Indeed, indeed, it would be most unnatural if an affection did not exist between them. The mere writing of these words is comforting to me. I know that they are at variance with much that I have previously written; but at one time I am writing out of my despair, at another time out of my hope. I write now out of my hope. Joshua Marvel will soon be gone, and I am assured that no farther meeting has taken place between him and Minnie. Minnie's behavior to me has been most kind. She is growing more and more like her mother every day. There appears to have arisen in her some consciousness that my claims to her love are more binding upon her than those of any other person. I have passed some very happy hours with her.

She said a strange thing to me this morning. "Father, do you think I should make a good actress?" The question startled me, for it brought back to me some memories of my past life. Minnie, when a little child, was often in her mother's arms in the theatre where I happened to be playing; her mother would be waiting for me perhaps, and would not leave our little darling alone in the room. Minnie has no definite remembrance of those times and circumstances, I think; but shadowy impressions of the scenes she then almost unconsciously witnessed are stamped upon her mind. Upon this theme I questioned her somewhat curiously this morning, and found that these experiences had had their effect upon her, and that she has vague remembrances of beautiful creatures beautifully dressed, walking in gardens in the midst of light. Ah, if she were aware of the reality! If she knew what poor struggling men and women these beautiful creatures were, and what a mockery were the beautiful dresses and the lovely gardens in which they lived their artificial lives! But I did not disenchant her. Life is bitter enough; if a gleam of brightness can be thrown upon it by the indulgence of a harmless fancy, it is good. In the midst of our conversation, Minnie suddenly left the room, and in about half an hour returned completely metamorphosed. She went out of the room a fair lovely girl, she returned a dark tawny woman, looking at least half a dozen years older; but still beautiful, very beautiful. I gazed at her in wonder. By what means had she effected such a marvellous change in herself? She explained, first asking me if I knew her again. Knew her again? Could she by any disguise hide herself from my knowledge? But suppose I had only seen her once in my life, she asked, then did I think I should have known her again? I did not exactly know how to answer that, and although she pressed me to give her an answer, I could not. I was delighted to see her in the new light in which she presented herself to me; it was almost an assurance that some portion of my fears was groundless. She explained to me that in the box containing her clothes were some remnants of the wherewithals I once used in my profession, such as colors and a few wigs. I had forgotten them, not having had occasion for them for so long a time. And she confessed that she had often amused herself with these things. Indeed, in the middle of her explanation she stooped and hid herself from my sight, and rose in the wig I used to wear when I played "Hamlet." She had tucked up her beautiful hair with the skill of an actress, so that it was completely hidden by the wig; and as she stood before me, I saw in her some shadowy resemblance of myself as I was in days gone by. I could not but be delighted with her light humor; it almost entirely dispelled my fears. Then she took off the wig, and washed the color out of her face, and sat by my bedside quietly. I am used to her variable moods, and therefore, although I was sorry to see that her sportiveness had fled, and that a more serious mood took its place, I was not surprised. Never in all her life has she shown me such tenderness as she exhibited towards me this day. "I shall always love you, father," she said to me, more than once. Dear child! Darling treasure of my heart! All good angels guard you.

The cup of happiness is dashed from my lips. Something so strange, so unexpected, has happened, that, simple as it is, I scarcely know how to set it down, or what to augur from it.

Minnie has gone!

Where--for how long for what purpose--I do not know. She has gone from her home, from me.

Early this morning, while I was waiting to see her dear face, I was thinking of something strange that occurred in the night, wondering whether it formed part of my dreaming fancies or had actually occurred. It was this:--

The house was very quiet. It was the most solemn part of the night, when troubled life is most like peaceful death. The healthfulness of dreamless sleep is denied me, as it is denied to all men whose minds are harassed. For many weeks I have not enjoyed an hour's repose, and so confused are the images that pass through my mind when I am alone, that I am often in doubt whether the scenes in which I am taking part are real or fanciful. I was in this condition last night at the time of which I am writing. While I was thinking or dreaming of Minnie and her mother, I heard a soft footfall in the room. The impression that some one was in the room was strong upon me, and when I felt a kiss upon my face, and my pillow being smoothed by a gentle hand, I was almost convinced that it was Minnie. The presence remained with me for I know not what length of time; I do not know when I lost it, or when it departed, but when I called "Minnie!" no voice answered me. When daylight came, I determined to ask Minnie if it was she who had entered my room in the night. I waited impatiently for her appearance, but she did not come. Susan came, and I asked her if Minnie was down yet; Susan had not seen her. I bade her go and tell Minnie to come to me; she returned and said that Minnie was not in bed, nor in any part of the house. As Susan told me this, she came to my bedside, and, stooping, picked up a paper which must have fallen from beneath my pillow. There was writing on it--Minnie's writing. It was addressed to me, and it told me that Minnie had left me, not from any want of love, but because she was miserable and unhappy. She said said she knew that she had been watched; that a feeling she could not control had compelled her to leave for a time; that she would write again or see me in a few days; and she begged me to believe that no one but herself was to blame for what she had done. She asked me, too, not to be anxious as to how she would live, for she had provided for that.

The first thing I did was to desire Susan to lock the door, and on no account to allow a person to enter the room. For the thought flashed upon me, that if it were known that Minnie had left her home clandestinely, her good name would suffer. She had done a foolish thing--ay, it was a cruel thing to leave me thus; but it was done in all innocence, I am sure, and in ignorance of the world's judgment upon such an act. I, her father, must protect her good name; no breath of slander must be allowed to touch her. Therefore I judged it imperative that the secret of her departure should be known only to Susan and me. I gave Susan the letter to read, and when her tears were dried, my plan was formed. It is well for me that I have such an attached and faithful friend as Susan. Without her, I should be helpless indeed. I explained my wishes to her, and she promised to obey them implicitly--and she will. The Marvels and Dan and Ellen are to be told that Minnie cannot leave me; that my illness has increased, and I require her constant attendance. And on no pretence whatever is any one of them to be allowed to come into the room. The door is to be always locked, and when Susan goes out of the room, she is to lock the door and take the key with her. I am afraid that Susan judges Joshua even more harshly than I do; for she suggested that she should watch his movements, in the expectation that some clew might be gained. Her evidence of to-day is all in his favor. She ascertained that he went this morning direct from home to his ship; that he worked there for six hours, and that he came home direct to Ellen. No, I cannot associate him with Minnie's disappearance. I have been thinking as coherently as I could as to what is most likely the cause of her leaving home, and the most hopeful conclusion I can arrive at is this: That Minnie has an attachment for Joshua, which, in the face of his engagement with Ellen, she feels it is her duty to subdue; that it is painful to her to be a witness of Ellen's happiness; and that, fearful lest she should betray her attachment, she has left the neighborhood until Joshua has gone upon his voyage.

I am re-assured. This conclusion is reasonable as well as hopeful. I must bear with the misery of her absence--ah, how I miss her beloved face!--in the hope that my darling will return to me when he is gone, and that she will regain her peace of mind, and be to me as she has hitherto been; chastened perhaps, but not entirely unhappy.

Are you thinking of me, Minnie? Can you realize the depth of my love for you, my dearest? If such a thing exists in the flesh as spiritual communion with those we love, you will know, darling treasure of my heart! that my thoughts, my blessings, my prayers are with you now.

In two days Joshua's ship will sail, and then my darling will come home. The secret of her departure has been well kept. No one knows or suspects. There is a rare faithfulness in Susan's nature. If she possessed all the graces of womanhood, she could not be nobler than she is.

I need all my strength to enable me to bear with Minnie's absence; so constantly do my thoughts dwell upon her, that at certain times I lose consciousness of what has taken place, and detect myself listening for her footstep. At other times I am engrossed by the idea that many years have passed since I last saw Minnie. When this impression is upon me, Minnie appears to me not as a woman, but as a child.

Joshua Marvel has gone. Thank God! Now I may expect Minnie to return. Any moment may bring her to my loving arms again. I am haunted by the ghosts of footsteps on the stairs. I know afterwards that my fancy has conjured them up; but if they were real, I could not hear them more plainly. They are Minnie's footsteps always. I hear them first in the passage leading from the street--I stop and listen. Softly yet swiftly they come nearer and nearer to me, till they are outside my door. Then I say to myself, "She is lingering for a while, thinking of the happiness I shall feel when she opens the door and runs to my side." But the long silence that follows tells me that the steps I heard were created by my fancy, and that I have still to wait for the accomplishment of my dearest hope.

Before Joshua left, he came to the door, and asked to see me and Minnie to bid us good-by. His desire to see Minnie was assuring, for it convinced me that the reasons I assigned for her leaving are correct, But I would not see him--I could not; for if he came into the room, he would discover Minnie's absence.

I am thankful to think that may forced seclusion will soon be at an end. How the minutes lag! Come, Minnie! Come, my darling child!

How shall I be able to endure this agony? It is night; yesterday morning Joshua Marvel left to go on his voyage, and there is no sign of Minnie. What can I think? Has any calamity befallen her? Is she lying sick, helpless anywhere, and must I remain here, gnawing my heart away with the knowledge that I am powerless to help her? O God, who only witnesseth my sufferings, send my darling home to me to-night! If in my life I have erred, and deserve punishment--if the injunction I laid upon the woman who loved me, and whom I loved with all my strength, was a crime, and if I am to suffer for the misery of her wedded life, being the cause of it--deal with me as thou wilt; but let me look once more upon the face of my darling!

The third day. My life is being tortured away. I believe that I shall die before seeing Minnie. The prescience of death is upon me. Every few minutes Susan runs into the street to see if Minnie is coming; but there is no sign of her. The slightest sound in the house causes my heart to beat so violently that I am afraid. I try to think, but I cannot; I can only fear. These few words have taken me long to write. I cannot read what I have previously written. I have tried to do so, but the words swim before my eyes. I can write no more to-day.

With a despairing mind I trace these words slowly and painfully. They are powerless to express my feelings.

Death is near. I know it. Not by physical pain am I warned, but I know it. I saw my wife last night. She stood by my side for full an hour. It is a sign that my hour is come.

Susan is below, looking for Minnie, perhaps--looking for Minnie, who will never, never come. . . .

I take up my pen again. What lies before me? A letter. Susan brought it up a while ago, and gave it to me. But when I saw the writing on the cover, I had not courage to open it, so I placed it in the desk. It is addressed to me in Minnie's writing. And on the cover are these words: "The 'Merry Andrew;' John Steele, pilot." The letter, then, comes from the "Merry Andrew," and is in Minnie's writing. What follows? That Minnie is on board the "Merry Andrew" with Joshua Marvel! I must read it--I must, if it strike me dead!

That was all that was written. Dan read every word of the manuscript aloud, but was compelled by emotion to pause many times. During the silence that followed, one thought rose uppermost in their minds. Ellen thought, "How will Dan bear this?" And Dan had the same thought with respect to Ellen. Is such noble unselfishness rare? Let us hope not. For the first and only time in the course of this narrative, the writer pauses to speak of a personal experience of devotion and unselfishness. It was before him during his boyhood in the person of his mother; and it is to her, and to the patient, unmurmuring gentleness with which she bore the trials of her life, that her children owe whatever little of good there may be in their nature. It is from his experience of his mother's life of goodness and self-sacrifice that he knows that the noble unselfishness of Dan and Ellen is not, thank God, a creation of his fancy. And as he writes these words in the midst of a great city, with all the whirl of its busy life around him, he is glad to think that in it--in great mansions and mean houses, in sight of gardens where Nature makes holiday, and of dirty streets and courts where bright leaf never grows--flowers of human life which the world shall never see are blossoming tenderly and holily, and living gentle lives for others' good.

For a long time no word was spoken by Ellen and Dan. Then Dan turned and looked in Ellen's face. She met his gaze pityingly, almost appealingly. He answered her with a sad smile, in which there was much sweetness.

"You were the first to guess my love for Minnie," he said; "and only to Jo did I ever confess it. But do not fret for me, my dear; she can never be to me what I was daring enough to hope she would be one day. My love for her is not less strong, but my hope is buried now."

She could say nothing but "Oh, my poor Dan! Oh, my poor Dan!"

"Nay, why?" he answered in his gentle voice; "what could I have offered her? What right had I, a cripple, to entertain the hope? I dared to hope that she, bright, strong, and full of healthful life, would tie herself to a weak, sickly thing like me. I dared to hope that she would love me. I fed my heart upon delusions; I can see it now, But I can love her still--can believe in her still--shall have faith in her purity as long as my heart shall beat, and after that--ay, who knows?" He paused for a little while before he resumed: "What you and I have in our thoughts, my dear, we must speak of; in that lies our only consolation. And we must not shrink from it; for our duty, no less than our love, demands it."

And yet she did shrink, fearing what was coming.

"What wonder that she should love Joshua?" continued Dan, unflinchingly determined to look the truth in the face, and not to spare himself; although as he spoke his quivering lips and tremulous voice betrayed his agitation. "We who know how good and brave he is are able to understand that she could not help loving him. But he--no, he played no false part by her." He placed his hand upon the Bible, and the action gave a deeper solemnity to the declaration. "Some suspicion he may have entertained that her feelings towards him were warmer than they ought to have been; and I well know the grief such suspicion brought to him. But he could not mention it--he dared not speak of it for Minnie's sake--for mine. I can trace a meaning now in the last words he said to me. 'You do not doubt me, Dan?' he asked. I answered, 'No, nor never could.' And then he said he should not have asked, but that certain things had distressed him lately. Poor Jo! Yes, he must have guessed Minnie's secret, and, knowing my love for her, trembled lest I should turn against him. Turn against him! my best, my dearest friend! When I do, it will be time for me to die. Believe that I never wavered in my love or my truth, and that to the last I held you in my heart as I hold you now, gentlest, dearest, best of friends!"

Unconsciously he had uttered the very words which Joshua addressed to him, and he spoke them as if Joshua were standing before him.

"As for what we have read to-night, we, and we alone, can rightly understand it. He who wrote it in his agony knows now that Joshua's heart is as pure as Minnie's honor."

"Those strange letters poor Minnie's father received," whispered Ellen; "who wrote them?"

"Who stabbed Jo when he came home?" asked Dan in reply. "Whoever did that wrote the letters. Jo has an enemy." Then, with a sudden remembrance of Joshua's warning against Solomon Fewster, he cried in a louder tone than he had hitherto used, "Mr. Fewster!" With eager impatience he turned over the pages of Basil Kindred's diary, and lighted upon the original letters. They were pinned on blank pages at the end of the diary, and were written on soiled sheets of blue letter-paper. "No," said Dan, examining them; "the writing is strange to me. We must wait until Jo comes back; all will be explained then."

The candle had burnt low in the socket by this time, and Dan had just said, "I think we had better try to sleep for a little while, Ellen," when they heard sounds of some one walking softly about the house.

"There is no one here but Susan," said Ellen in a tone of quiet surprise.

"No one but"--said Dan, and then paused, awestruck by the thought of that only other one in the house, who lay stark and dead in the room above.

They listened to Susan's footsteps, and a new fear entered their hearts. There was a soft stealthiness in the footfall, as if Susan were hunting for some one who was hiding from her.

"Shall I go and see?" asked Ellen.

"Hush!" whispered Dan.

Susan's footsteps, soft and stealthy as those of a cat, were in the passage. Presently the door was opened cautiously, and Susan entered, and softly closed the door behind her. She did not notice either Dan or Ellen, but looked about the room inquiringly, then went to the window and pulled up the blind. The moon was high in the heavens, and the light streamed down upon her face, making it ghastly.

"Susan!" cried Dan.

But she did not heed him; she peered anxiously through the window into the street, shading her eyes with her hand.

"Is she asleep?" whispered Ellen.

"I don't know," said Dan in a troubled voice; "it is dreadful to see her with that expression on her face."

It was an expression of suppressed watchfulness; that her firmly-compressed lips and wandering eyes were at variance might have been due to the peculiar circumstances of her life; but in the cunning and revengeful determination in her face there was no sign of indecision. It was as though she had staked her life on the accomplishment of a task.

As she turned from the window and approached Dan, he seized her hand. "Susan," he said, gently, "speak to me, my dear. What is the meaning of this?"

She laid her hand upon his head, and said, "Poor Dan! And you loved her, and she is lost to you."

"Not lost, Susey," he said, detaining her hand and humoring her, for he was afraid that her reason was gone; "not lost. She will come back."

"She will never come back--never, never! When she hears that he is dead--he is lying dead up stairs, Dan--she will never come back; she will drown herself first; for she loved him, and me too; and would have loved you, Dan, but for that false-hearted friend.

"You must not say that, Susey," said Dan, pointing to Ellen, who had turned aside weeping. "Look at Ellen. He is her husband, and he is not false-hearted. For her sake you must have kinder, juster thoughts towards Jo."

But Susan did not catch the sense of his words. All that she understood was, that he was speaking in defence of Joshua.

"All in his favor," she muttered. "If any one is to blame, it is Minnie--that's what all of you will say. But I know better; I know better. Didn't I watch them? Didn't I see him making love to her on the ship? Didn't I see the poor dear that's lying dead up stairs tortured slowly to death? And don't I know who killed him?"

"Who, Susan, who?" asked Dan, holding his breath.

"Joshua Marvel," said Susan, between her set teeth, with no change upon her face. "And as God's my judge, I will bring him to justice! You are his friends--I know that: you'll try to hide him from me; but I'll do what I've made up my mind to, if I drop down dead the minute after."

She twisted her hand from Dan's grasp, and crept slowly into the passage, and thence into the street. And there she stood for many minutes, with the same expression of implacable animosity on her face, waiting for the return of Basil Kindred's murderer.

CHAPTER XXVII.

WHAT THE NEIGHBORS THINK OF IT.

The events that have been described, proved to be something more than a nine-days' wonder. The neighborhood was remarkably bare of exciting incidents, and nothing so stirring as the sudden death of Basil Kindred and the flight of Minnie had happened within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. Besides that, there was one element in the occurrences which, above all others, added zest and flavor to them--this was the element of mystery. Here was a family, which might be looked upon as the most respected family in the neighborhood; for there was no question about the position held by the Marvels. Every one of the neighbors liked them, and every one of the neighbors had a good word for them. They had lived in the neighborhood--they and their fathers and grandfathers before them--for many scores of years, and no shadow of reproach had ever rested upon a single member of the family. They had always been steady, industrious, and sober, and had been held up as examples, time out of mind, by wives to their husbands, and parents to their children. They were homely, hospitable, and sociable, and, although they might very well have done it, had never held their heads above their fellows. If any male acquaintance wanted a word of advice, he went to Mr. Marvel for it; and the advice received was generally found to be sound, and was always admitted to be good. If any one was sick, Mrs. Marvel always came forward to help and assist, in her small way, and was always ready to sit up of a night if it were necessary, and to do some portion of the household work if it were needed. And what she did was done so unostentatiously and quietly that it never left a sting behind it, and never--strange as it may sound--elicited any thing but gratitude. Joshua was a model of a son, and the neighbors had been proud of him. Take them for all in all, the Marvels were a credit to the locality. And yet, as you shall presently see, notwithstanding their irreproachable character, notwithstanding the credit in which they were held, notwithstanding that they were famous for all the virtues under the sun, a very remarkable change was to take place in the estimation in which they were held.

Then as to the Taylors. There had been many transitions of feeling regarding them when the parents were alive. They had not been a credit to the neighborhood. The meek uncomplaining life which Mrs. Taylor had led had been entirely lost sight of in the drunken dissolute habits of the head of the family. Perhaps it was because of this bad conduct on the part of Mr. Taylor that the virtues of the good wife had not been taken into account; and the fact remained, that it was not until after Mr. Taylor's death--the manner of which was disgraceful, and left a blot upon the family name--that any strong affection was mingled with the pity with which Dan and Ellen were regarded. There were so many singular circumstances connected with the family history. First, there was Susan letting Dan fall out of the window when he was a baby and breaking his legs. Many of the neighbors, with young families of their own, remembered the time when they were boys and girls, and when Susan was twitted and jeered at for being Dan's murderer. Then Susan's strange manner and slovenly dress--not it must be admitted, that her slovenliness had very much to do with the feeling,--had not rendered her a favorite; and she was often spoken of as being soft and not quite right in her mind.

Then came that part of Mr. Taylor's career when (it having been whispered about that he had been the death of his wife) he fell into deeper and deeper dissipation, and when he was to be seen regularly every night tumbling out of the public-house, and reeling home in a state of intoxication. It is surprising how hard many wives, whose husbands were not quite free from the reproach of over-indulgence, were upon the failings of Mr. Taylor. He was a "drunken beast," a "disgrace to the street," and so forth. And yet, as you have seen, they were proud of the beautiful friendship that existed between Dan and Joshua, and appreciated the good conduct of Ellen from the time that she was big enough--she was young enough, Heaven knows, when her duties commenced--to assist in the cleaning and washing. But the father's drunken habits stained the family reputation, and not all the washing and wringing could wash it clean at that time. Then came the shameful death of the drunkard. From the date of that occurrence, the position of the family began to improve, and the engagement of Ellen and Joshua lifted them up still further in the estimation of their neighbors.

Lastly, there were Basil Kindred and Minnie. Neither of them had ever been favorites out of their own small circle. Basil Kindred had held his head above them, and Minnie was too much of a lady for "such poor folks as us." All the grown-up girls disliked her because she was superior to them, and because she did not associate with them. Therefore neither father nor daughter obtained sympathy, and there was very little pity expressed for Basil's death. As for Minnie, she was generally condemned. The neighbors in speaking of her and her flight said, "she was always a forward thing;" and some even went so far as to call her a "stuck-up slut." They never expected any thing better of her, not they.

The mystery was, how it all became known; for it was known, every detail of it, the day following that on which Basil Kindred had died. Every person, for about a dozen streets round about, knew all the particulars almost as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Marvel were made acquainted with them--knew that Minnie had run away, knew that she was in Joshua Marvel's ship, knew that the intelligence of the flight had caused her father's death. Then they began to be wise in their generation, after the usual manner of human herds, and before nightfall of the second day it was recognized as an established fact, that it had been a cunningly-planned plot from first to last, and that Joshua and Minnie had run away together.

There is no accounting for these revulsions of feeling, and it is perhaps best not to attempt to analyze them. So much small malice and miserable uncharitableness would be brought to light, that we should be ashamed of the exposure--being liable to such influences ourselves. Joshua's character had hitherto been irreproachable; he had been almost loved by many, and liked and admired by all. Suddenly he is tainted by suspicion, and by suspicion only. There is not a tittle of direct evidence against him. But the suspicion is enough; directly it is whispered, it swells and grows, like the cloud which is at first "no bigger than a man's hand," and Joshua's good name is wrecked in the storm that follows.

The additional grief that this general verdict inflicted upon Joshua's parents may easily be imagined. They had to learn that "slander's edge is sharper than the sword," and that though their dear son were "chaste as ice and pure as snow, he should not escape calumny." But they did not receive these lessons meekly. They fought and protested against them with all the strength of their loving souls. They might as well have tried to stop a fierce wind with the palms of their hands.

One of their bitterest experiences was the knowledge that there was a difference of sentiment between them. They did not all believe alike. All of them, except Susan, believed alike in the innocence and purity of Joshua; but not so with respect to Minnie. The mercy that Dan and Ellen accorded to her was denied to her by Mr. and Mrs. Marvel. Neither of them thought well of her; and although Mrs. Marvel's verdict was less harsh than that of her husband, she too, gentle and forgiving as was her nature, could not forgive and hold dear the unhappy girl who had brought this great misery upon them. What Minnie had done was nothing less than a crime in the eyes of the good mother and good woman.

But Minnie had one champion--Susan. It was generally reported, a few days after the tragic occurrence, that Susan had gone mad because of Basil Kindred's death; and a whisper went about, that, mad as she was, she was fixed to the one idea of bringing Joshua to justice. Susan's madness, if madness it was, took a very mild form. She did not speak upon the subject, but she believed thoroughly in Minnie's innocence and Joshua's guilt; and she was ever on the watch to bring that false friend to justice. She was always peering about her and hunting for Joshua. She contracted a strange habit of suspecting that he was biding in the place she last left, and when she went out of the house, returned, after going a few paces, to see if the man she was waiting for was in the passage. If she opened a gate and shut it behind her, she walked back to it and looked about her, expectant. Never a night passed but she rose from her bed and went into the street, waiting for Joshua; in the dead of night, when all others were asleep, she would sit at her window and look into the street, waiting patiently. When they discovered this habit at home, they tried to break her of it; but their efforts were unavailing. By and by, this proceeding began to be exceedingly popular in the neighborhood, and popular opinion veered round to Susan's view; Minnie was not so thoroughly condemned, and the blame was entirely laid on Joshua's shoulders. And when the neighbors openly expressed their sympathy to Mr. Marvel because Joshua had "turned out bad," he resented it angrily in his dogmatic obstinate way, until he began to quarrel with them. He was so indignant, so hurt, so unhappy, that he refused to speak to his old acquaintances, and gradually they fell off from him, and a coldness sprang up which made his life a misery. Still, he and all that were bound to him cherished the hope that when Joshua came home all would be cleared up. But Mr. Marvel made up his mind that he would never forgive his neighbors for their suspicions. Months passed, and the estrangement between him and his acquaintances grew stronger; his home, too, was not a happy one. He grew morose and ill-tempered, and would not speak to his wife upon the subject of Joshua and Minnie; and when she found that he was determined upon this point, she wisely forbore to press him, knowing his nature.

Before the advent of another spring, Ellen became a mother. Her situation had been concealed from all but Dan and Mrs. Marvel; even Mr. Marvel did not know it until the child was born. It was a girl; and when the news was buzzed about the neighborhood, Joshua and Minnie started again into a notoriety which had been on the wane. Again the busybodies were at work, and again the busy tongues wagged more volubly than before. It was a matter for resentment with the neighbors that they had not been made acquainted with Ellen's situation; it was depriving them of a legitimate privilege. But Ellen and her two confidants had kept the secret well; and now the young mother nursed her child in privacy, and seemed only anxious to keep it from prying and unsympathizing eyes. No news had been received of Joshua or of his ship; and although Mr. Marvel went every other day to the London agents of the "Merry Andrew," they had nothing to tell him. Now that the child was born, their anxiety for news of Joshua increased. But still they received none. Weeks passed, months passed, until the suspense became almost maddening. Ellen nursed the baby, and rejoiced that the pretty little thing had Joshua's eyes, and yearned for Joshua to see them. Mr. Marvel looked more angrily upon his old acquaintances, who were ready to quarrel with him afresh for his sour looks. Mrs. Marvel suffered in patience, and strove by assumed cheerfulness to lighten the loads the others had to bear. Susan waited and watched. And Dan waited and hoped--When there came a time!--

Ellen was in Mrs. Marvel's kitchen; her baby was in her lap, and she was gazing at and worshipping, for the thousandth thousandth time, the baby's beautiful eyes, and beautiful fingers and nails, and the round cheeks, and the pretty mouth and chin, so like Joshua's. It was evening, and Mr. Marvel was expected home every minute, with news from the agents about Joshua's ship. Ellen began singing this to baby--singing in a low soft voice how father would soon come from over the seas to see his own little darling--his dear darling precious; and she was in the midst of this, enriching the theme with twenty different forms of endearing expression, when Mr. Marvel staggered into the kitchen. There was a wild look in his face, and his hands were trembling. He was drunk.

"O father!" cried Ellen.

"Where's mother?" he asked in a husky voice. "Where's mother?" he repeated in a louder tone.

His wife answered the question by coming into the kitchen. She had seen him reel into the house, and had followed him at once. She knew he had been drinking, but she did not reproach him. He saw in her face the knowledge and the forbearance, and he said,--

"Yes, I've been drinking; I was bound to. O mother, mother! how shall I tell you?"

Her lips framed some words, but she could not utter them. She sank into a chair and gazed at him with blanched cheek, with quivering lips, with blurred eyes.

Hush, baby, hush! you have never seen your father's face, and you do not understand now what one day will be told you--what George Marvel has had to drink brandy to give him courage to tell his faithful wife--

That the good ship, the "Merry Andrew," has foundered, and that every soul on board, Joshua and Minnie included, has gone down to the bottom of the sea. Not one saved--not one.