Woman As She Should Be; Or, Agnes Wiltshire

"The only son of his mother, and she was a widow,—" Arthur Bernard, as he attained to manhood, seemed to realize, in person and character, all a fond mother's fondest anticipations. His stately form, as he mingled among his compeers, did not tower more above them, than did his lofty mind, stored with sound principles, and embellished with varied learning, seem to soar above their grovelling ideas, and to breathe a higher and purer atmosphere. A glance at his countenance would have sufficed for the most casual observer to have read, in every lineament, the impress of a noble and chivalrous nature. Yes, gentle reader, start not at the word chivalrous. It may be, from his previous conversation on woman's foibles, that you have been, ready to form a very different opinion,—but you are mistaken; and so will you often find yourself in the journey of life, should you thus estimate character in general. Deceit frequently lurks beneath the smile and honeyed words of the flatterers, and he who believes that the avenues to woman's heart are only accessible by such means, proves, beyond a doubt, that he has associated with none but the frivolous, the vain and weak-minded of the sex. Poor, indeed, is that compliment which man pays to woman, when he expatiates on her sparkling eyes, her flowing tresses, and ruby lips, as though she were only a beautifully fashioned creature of clay, while he virtually ignores the existence of those higher and holier powers which she shares in common with man, and which make her, in proportion to their wise and careful development, akin to the angels.

Arthur Bernard was no flatterer, it is true, but chivalrous in every sense of the word. A keen appreciator of all that is honorable and high-minded, he could not stoop to those petty meanesses, which too often characterize the conduct of those who flatter themselves with the name of gentleman,—a title which Tennyson forcibly describes as

Courage to meet any emergency, firmness to resist temptation when presented in its most alluring form, was blended with that genuine kindness of manner, that deference towards the weak and defenceless, which renders its fortunate possessor not only esteemed, but beloved. Yet with so much that was admirable in mind and heart, of him it might be said, as it was of one of old, "One thing thou lackest." Strange, that the subject of the greatest importance should be, too often, the one most seldom dwelt on, too frequently thrust aside, until, in the season of affliction and the hour of death, its terrible magnitude is first realized—realized, perhaps, forever too late. Regular in his attendance on all the ordinances of worship, his heart had remained unaffected; but this indifference was owing, it may be, in a measure, to the discourses to which he was in the habit of listening from Sabbath to Sabbath,—discourses which, while they portrayed in fairest colors the beauty of a moral life, seemed to forget the natural depravity of the human heart, and the necessity of the mind being fully renewed, in order that it might carry those principles into effect.

Mrs. Bernard, though a devoted mother, and, in many respects, an excellent woman, had never realized, for herself, "the blessedness of things unseen." She had been contented to sail smoothly along the stream of life, which for the most part had been ruffled by few storms, and she almost forgot, as day after day and week after week glided past, they were bearing her frail bark swiftly on to the ocean of eternity. There was a time,—it seemed to her now like a dream as she looked back,—that she had thought more of these things, for they were presented to her in a living form, embracing, as it were, in the daily walk and conversation of a relative, who had been for some time an inmate of her dwelling. The lovely traits developed in the character of this lady, had won the matron's heart, and especially had she appreciated the unbounded care and tenderness which her friend exercised towards her children, Ella and Arthur. But this messenger of peace passed away to a brighter clime, and the impression made by her brief sojourn seemed to have become erased from the memory; like the morning cloud and the early dew, it soon passed away. Yet was she not altogether forgotten, nor had her labors of love been entirely in vain. To her it was that Arthur had alluded in his conversation with Miss Wiltshire, for childhood's heart is tender and impressible, and from her instructions he had imbided many of those lofty and noble sentiments which now characterized him; and often, when the tide of worldliness rushed in to bear him away on its fierce current, that gentle form would seem to stand before him, and he would hear again, in fancy, the soft tones of that voice, beseeching him to pause, and consider his doings.

Oh, woman, woman, how potent is thy influence, which thou exercisest, in thy apparently limited sphere, over the human race. Thy tender hand moulds the plastic mind of childhood; thy gentle rebuke checks the wayward impulses of impetuous youth; thy loving sympathy and voice counsel, cheer, and stimulate manhood; and to thee age and infirmity look up with confidence and delight, assured that thy unwearied care will not be wanting to smooth their passage to the tomb. Blessed office! High and holy ministration! Well, indeed, for mankind, if woman were but truly alive to the onerous duties and responsibilities that devolve upon her; well for her, and those by whom she is surrounded, if instead of being as, alas, she too often is, the encourager of man in evil, she would ever prove the supporter and upholder of that which is good, and by her example and persuasion,

Arthur Bernard on leaving college had spent some years in travelling through Europe, and had but just returned when our story commences. Left in affluent circumstances at the death of his father, which had taken place while he was yet a child, there was little necessity for exertion; but of an active and energetic disposition, he could not remain comparatively unemployed; and obtaining a situation in one of the principal banks in the city, he devoted the income, acquired by it, to aid in the diffusion of useful knowledge among his fellow-townsmen, and for the alleviation of the wants of the helpless and distressed, for never did the needy apply to him in vain. He looked not with a captious eye upon their faults and follies,—did not harshly repel them because sin had, in many instances, led to their distress, but first relieving their bodily necessities, strove, by wise counsel, kindly administered, to raise the fallen, cheer the hopeless, and assist the outcast and degraded in retrieving their position, and again becoming useful members of society.

Ella, his sister, a light-hearted girl of eighteen, over whose fair head prosperity had hitherto scattered its richest blossoms, resembled her brother in kindness of disposition; but her gay and volatile temper formed a charming contrast to his grave and subdued manner. Five years her elder, Arthur's brotherly affection was mingled with an air of almost fatherly protection; and to him, next to her mother, she had been in the habit of appealing, and never in vain, for advice and assistance in any emergency; and while his gravity checked, in some measure, the mirth which might have degenerated into frivolity, her light-heartedness, in its turn, exercised a wholesome influence over him, and, like the gentle breeze, scattered the clouds which sometimes brooded darkly over his spirit.

But the declaration of Sacred Writ is, "One event happeneth to all." None, as they beheld that united and happy family, the centre of a numerous circle of friends, admired and beloved in the community, imagined the change which was so soon to "come o'er the spirit of their dream."

A few weeks only had elapsed, after the festive scene we have portrayed in a former chapter, when one morning Ella, on entering her mother's chamber, which adjoined her own, was surprised to find, for the hour was unusually late, that she had not yet risen. With noiseless step she approached the couch, and with gentle hand drew back the curtain, thinking to wake her by a kiss, when, terrible spectacle to her affectionate heart, she beheld her idolized mother, not sleeping as she had expected, but every lineament transfixed and motionless in death! An apoplectic fit,—so the physician affirmed,—must have seized her during the watches of the night, and thus, suddenly and fearfully, had she been called to her final account. We draw a veil over that mournful scene, for "too sacred is it for a stranger's eye."

On her children its effect was deep and lasting. Ella especially seemed sinking beneath the blow, and her brother, fearing for her reason, if not her life, with gentle violence almost compelled her to bid adieu to her native city, and, accompanied by him, seek, in change of scene, some alleviation for the grief that preyed so deeply on her spirit.

The steamboat wharf of the town of Elton was truly a scene of busy life. The steamer was making full preparations for the embarkation of passengers to a distant city; and the wharf was crowded with bales of goods, casks of water, cabs, trucks, &c. Business men were hurrying to and fro, sailors were shouting to each other, and friends were hastily clambering up the plank and springing on deck to remain a few minutes longer, if possible, with those from, whom they were so soon to be severed, "it might be for years, and it might be forever."

But the bell has rung once, twice, its warning note, and now, for the third time, it peals out on the clear air. The last clasp of the hand, the hurried embrace, the fervent "God bless you," is given, and those who are to remain have trodden the plank, regained the wharf, and now turn, before departing to their respective homes, to take a farewell glance at the steamer, as she moves slowly and gracefully away, bearing, it may be, from many their heart's most cherished idols. The passengers are assembled on deck, watching the receding shores, and many handkerchiefs are waving a last response to those eager glances, an adieu which, alas, few there dream shall prove final to so many.

At the farther end of the deck, close by the railing, is seated a lady in travelling costume. She is alone, for her companion, an elderly gentleman, has left her to salute a friend whose face he had just recognized among the crowd of passengers.

"A lady accompanies you, I see," was the remark made to Mr. Cameron by his friend, the Rev. Mr. Dunseer, after the first salutations were over.

"Yes, Miss Wiltshire, from B——.

"Miss Wiltshire? I thought I recognized the countenance as one I had seen before."

"Ah, so you have had a previous acquaintance with her."

"Yes; for I am sure it is the same person. She is the niece, is she not, of Mr. Denham, of B——; but I first met her when she was visiting the part of the country in which I was stationed for a year or two."

"I remember perfectly the time," was the reply. "Her relatives had become alarmed at her failing health, and change of air had been ordered by the physician."

"And so she is going to H——."

"Yes, on a visit to her mother's brother, Mr. Edwards. His only daughter is about to be married, and they have sent for her to be bride's maid. Miss Wiltshire has never seen any of the family as yet, with the exception of Mr. Edwards, who came to B——, on business, and then, for the first time, had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with his niece."

"It is rather singular," was the reply, while a smile lighted up the fine countenance of the speaker, "that I am on a somewhat similar errand. The groom, who for many years has been an intimate friend of mine, insisted on my performing the marriage ceremony. I maintained that it was the lady's privilege to select a clergyman, but, as he said that their wishes were one in that respect, I was compelled to concede, and am on my way thither for that purpose."

"I am heartily glad of it," said Mr. Cameron. "Miss Wiltshire will, I am sure, be pleased to see you again, and she will now have more agreeable company than an old man like me can possibly be; so if you have no objection we will join her, for she appears to be engaged in a converse with solitude."

"I was about proposing to do so, for to renew my acquaintance with one whom I had learned, during her brief sojourn, so highly to esteem, will indeed be an agreeable episode in my journey."

While this conversation was carried on between the two friends, Agnes had risen from her seat, and with one hand on the railing was leaning slightly over the side of the steamer, watching the ebb and flow of the transparent waves, or gazing fondly on the shores fast fading in the distance. She was not apt to be melancholy; indeed, she seldom allowed herself to indulge in a mood so opposed to that cheerfulness which should characterize a Christian; but as she stood there gazing on the mingled beauties of sea and land, more beautiful than ever at this hour, when the golden hues of sunset were reflected in the placid waters, and touched with fresh glory the distant hills, dark and gloomy shadows stole over her spirit.

And, indeed, distressing to youth, so dependent on the kindness and sympathy of others, were the circumstances under which she was now placed. She had bade adieu to the friends who had watched over her from childhood, not as hitherto, during her brief visits, with the loving farewell and the earnest injunction to speedily return; but cold looks and colder words had marked that parting, with the very distant intimation, on the part of her uncle, that if, on the expiration of her sojourn among strangers, her fanatical views; as he termed them, remained unchanged, she must expect to find herself banished from the home of her childhood. Poor Agnes! a painful decision awaited her. With all the affection of her warm and unsophisticated spirit, had she repaid the tenderness that had been lavished upon her, and now to find herself charged with having acted a foolish and ungrateful part,—to be thrust forth from a home of luxury,—from the attention and sympathy of friends,—to battle with a world that has but little kindness, in general, to spare for those who need it most; these were painful and harassing thoughts, and what wonder they weighed down that gentle and timid spirit, and suffused those lustrous eyes which, until lately, had seldom shed the tear of sorrow, except for other's woes.

But as, lost in these troubled reflections, she glanced at the giant waves beneath her, suddenly a sweet promise of Holy Writ was applied to her agitated mind, "When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee, and through the floods, they shall not overflow thee,"—and immediately her spirit grew calmer, while a sense of peace, comfort and security, quelled each rising doubt.

"I have nothing to fear," she murmured.

Agnes was aroused from her reverie by Mr. Cameron's cheerful voice.

"My dear Miss Wiltshire, allow me to present to you an old friend."

She turned to salute the stranger, but what was her surprise and delight to find in him the clergyman under whose ministrations she had so largely profited. The pleasure, indeed, seemed mutual, for though Mr. Dunseer, having shortly after Agnes's departure for the city left that part of the country, had consequently heard nothing more of her, he still remembered his young and attentive hearer, and had often since then desired to see her again, and ascertain if indeed the impressions made were lasting, or had been obliterated amid the whirl and gayety of fashionable life.

Still more delighted was Agnes when she learned of his destination; it seemed a link binding her to those with whom, with the exception of Mr. Edwards, she was totally unacquainted; and from the depth of her heart she silently thanked the kind Providence who had thus directed her steps, and permitted a meeting so fraught with comfort and encouragement at the very time most needed.

Long and pleasant was the converse of friends that evening, and it was not until some time after the sun had set, and dark and heavy clouds, sweeping across the sky like armies gathering to battle, had obscured the light of the rising moon, that Agnes, with a heart peaceful and trusting, retired to her state-room, and in spite of the dash of waves, and the wail of the rising wind, resigned herself to slumbers calm and blest.

But from pleasant dreams of home and friends, she was suddenly aroused by the confusion and hurried tramping of feet above her head, mingled with the shrieks of women and children, and the fearful ejaculations of terrified men. Agnes started up, scarcely realizing that she was indeed "on the wide billows of the raging sea." Drawing aside the curtains from her berth, she glanced out into the cabin. It was not day, for the lights were burning brightly, but the place was a scene of wild dismay; women wringing their hands; children clinging to their mothers; all bespoke such terror and despair, that for a moment Agnes felt bewildered; but quickly recovering herself, and hastily rising, she was soon in the midst of the terrified group, where she was immediately joined by Mr. Cameron and his friend.

"What is the matter?" was her first ejaculation.

"The steamer is on fire," was the fearful reply. "Quick, my dear girl, secure whatever you find to be most necessary, while they are getting the boats ready."

With that self-possession so invaluable in the time of danger, Agnes hastily, but calmly, equipped herself comfortably, secured about her person a small purse of money, and then aided the other lady passengers in their frantic efforts to prepare for this trying emergency. Very soon the Captain's stentorian voice was heard,—"The boats are ready, ladies, there is no time to be lost."

With a face pallid as death, yet serene in its very paleness, Agnes, accompanied by her two friends, and followed by a number of the other passengers, ascended the staircase, and, having gained the deck, glanced for an instant at the fearful scene.

There was, indeed, as the Captain had affirmed, no time to be lost. The fire, which had originated in the engine-room, from the carelessness of one of the hands, was now making fearful headway, in spite of the continued efforts of the sailors by deluging it with buckets of water, to mitigate in a measure, its ravages. All the fore-part of the vessel was burning, and awfully sublime was the spectacle as the flames mounted higher and higher, casting their lurid glare over the intensely dark waste of waters, whose turbid and sullen waves, lashed into fury by a fierce north-eastern blast, seemed warning the unhappy sufferers of the fearful fate that awaited them, should they commit themselves more immediately to its mercy.

But the danger of embarkation in those frail boats, on an ocean that every moment grew more tempestuous, was almost lost sight of in contemplation of the nearer and more fearful fate that awaited them should they linger; and quickly, and with scarce a murmur of apprehension, the boat was filled.

While Mr. Cameron was assisting Agnes into the frail boat, Mr. Dunseer, who had secured a life-preserver, as soon as she was safely seated handed it to her, observing that if the boat should be upset, by clinging to it she might be preserved from a watery grave.

Thanking him for his kind consideration at such a time, Agnes inquired anxiously of the two gentlemen whether they were not to accompany her.

"No;" was the reply of Mr. Cameron. "I fear we must be separated, but only I trust for a time. This boat is not sufficiently large to hold more than the lady passengers and the sailors who are to manage it. We are to embark, as soon as you are safely off, in another, but as both will steer for the same shore, and keep near each other as much as possible, I trust, by the mercy of Providence, we shall meet again on terra firma.

"Yes," responded the minister, who had been for a moment silent, and his clear voice sounded like the spirit of peace above the roaring flames and raging billows, "we are steering, I trust, for the same shore, and should we never meet again on earth, may it be our happy lot to greet each other in the haven of eternal rest, haven to take the shipwrecked in."

Agnes's heart was for a moment too full to speak, but controlling herself, she said to Mr. Cameron in a hurried whisper, "If anything should happen to me, and you again behold my friends, tell them, oh, tell them, that my last thoughts were for them; tell them not to lament for me, for I shall be at rest, but, oh, I charge, I implore them to meet me in heaven!"

A burst of tears closed the sentence; she could no longer restrain her feelings.

"We must leave you now, my dear child," said Mr. Cameron, after promising compliance with her request. "May heaven bless and help you."

"And may He who holds the winds and the waves in the hollow of his hand, preserve you, and all, through the hours of this terrible night," was the solemn ejaculation of Mr. Dunseer, as pressing for the last time her hand, the final order was given, the boat pushed out from the side of the burning vessel, and she was left in the midst of strangers; strangers personally, yet linked together by the sympathy arising from mutual danger.

"Letters from home at last," said Arthur Bernard, as he entered the private salon of an hotel, located in a pretty town in the south of France.

"I had begun to think our friends had quite forgotten us," he continued, addressing his sister, who, seated in a recess formed by a large bow-window, had been anxiously watching for his return.

"You have not opened any of them yet," she said, as she came eagerly forward to receive her share.

"No;" was the reply. "I knew how anxiously you were waiting, and hastened that we might read them together."

"Always thoughtful, dear brother, of my comfort, you quite spoil me," said Ella, with an affectionate smile, but in a tone, whose subdued sound, proved a striking contrast to her former vivacity.

For the next few moments silence reigned in the apartment, for each were busily engaged in perusing their respective epistles.

It was broken at length by an exclamation from Ella, which arrested her brother's attention, and looking up from the opened sheet he held in his hand, he ejaculated with alarm,—

"For pity's sake, Ella, what is the matter?" for his sister's cheek had become colorless as marble, and sinking into a seat, she burst into a passion of tears.

Still more alarmed, he laid down the letter, and advancing to her, implored her to tell him the cause of her agitation.

"Read for yourself," she said, "for I cannot bear to speak of it. Oh, Agnes, Agnes!"

A fresh mist of tears followed these words.

"Agnes, what of her?" and Arthur's cheek became almost as blanched as his sister's, and his hand trembled as he grasped the fatal manuscript. He seemed to forget that the name might belong to some other than Miss Wiltshire, for among the circle of their acquaintance there were two or three with a similar designation, but in his inmost thoughts, though he had never thus addressed her, he had been so accustomed to associate it with the remembrance of herself, that it had become dear and sacred as a household word, and when his sister's ejaculation of "Agnes, Agnes," met his ear, he never dreamed of other, for

The letter was from a lady acquaintance of Ella's, written in a fine Italian hand, not very intelligible, and crossed and re-crossed in a most elaborate manner.

"Commend me to a lady's epistle," he said, in a tone more nearly approaching to bitterness than his sister had ever heard from him before. And, indeed, trying to the patience at any time, its perusal, just now, seemed a hopeless task; but at length, at the foot of the closing page, the writer having largely expatiated on the loss she had sustained in the departure of her dear friend Ella, and how eagerly she had looked forward to her return, and having exhausted all other items of information which "she hoped," she added, "might not prove uninteresting to her friend and Mr. Bernard," very coolly wound up by remarking, "By the bye, I suppose you have not heard of Miss Wiltshire's unhappy fate. I think it was a week or two after you left B——, that she embarked in one of the steamers, ostensibly on a visit to a relative who resided in H——, to act as bridesmaid for his daughter, but with an intimation from her uncle, so I understand, that unless she relinquished her fanatic notions, she must no longer expect a home beneath his roof. The vessel in which she embarked sailed at the appointed time, but never reached its destination. It took fire the night after leaving the harbor, and all efforts to quench the flames were unavailing. The passengers, of whom there were a large number on board, attempted to escape in boats; some were fortunate enough to succeed, but the ladies, among whom was Miss Wiltshire, without exception, found a watery grave. It appears that the females had been first placed in one of the boats manned by two or three sailors, and then another boat received the male passengers and crew. They had hoped to keep near each other, but were separated by the dark and tempestuous night. The gentlemen were fortunate enough to gain land, after a good deal of sailing, and from thence, having endured much fatigue, at length arrived here in safety; but of the missing ones no intelligence was gained, until yesterday, when a boat, identified by the passengers, from the name printed on its stern, was picked up by some vessel, and brought into our harbor. It had drifted nearly as far as the coast of Newfoundland, and, strange to say, a woman's bonnet was found floating near it, which being also conveyed here, was immediately recognized by Mrs. Denham, as the very one Miss Wiltshire wore on leaving home, thus proving, beyond the slightest doubt, the terrible fate which befell her and her unfortunate companions. Mr. and Mrs. Denham seem almost bereft of their senses,—they refuse to be comforted,—and blame themselves as the sole cause of their niece's death; but, for my part, and I am sure you will agree with me, I think Miss Wiltshire's singular conduct was quite sufficient to warrant the anger of her relatives, who had always treated her with such indulgence; for it seems to me a great presumption, for a young person to set up her own ideas, in opposition to those who certainly are far more capable of judging of what is right and wrong.

"Poor thing, she has gone now, so it would not be right to speak too harshly; but I cannot help telling you, that she was never a favorite of mine, for I do dislike that pretending to be so much better than others, and she had such a soft, winning way with her, that I believe some almost thought her an angel, but she couldn't thus have imposed on me."

Arthur read no further. He forgot his sister's presence; forgot that the epistle belonged to her, and with an impulse of indignation he could not control, he tore it in pieces, scattering its contents to the winds; while with open, wondering eyes, the tears suddenly checked, Ella looked on without speaking, almost ready to conclude that her brother had taken leave of his senses. He turned from the open casement, and as he met her inquiring and troubled gaze, instantly became himself again.

"Forgive me, dear sister," he said, in a tone of mingled anger and grief, "that I have destroyed that precious manuscript," laying an emphasis on the word precious; "but oh, Ella, Ella, is it possible that such fearful intelligence can be true? It almost seems," he added, in a tone of anguish and despair, "that heaven could not permit one so young, so lovely, to perish in such a heart-rending manner,"—he stopped abruptly,—and Ella was spared replying by a gentle tap at the door.

"Come in," she said in a low, faint voice, and, in compliance with the invitation, an elderly American lady, who was on a visit to some friends that resided opposite, and with whom Ella had become quite intimate during her sojourn in the place, entered the apartment.

"I have been wanting so much to see you, my dear child," she said, affectionately, "and have been looking for you all the morning, and finding you did not make your appearance, concluded to come in search of you. But what is the matter," said she, pausing, and glancing first at Ella, and then at her brother, "I trust you have not heard any bad news?"

"We have, indeed, dear Madam," replied Arthur, with an effort to control his voice, "the loss of a very dear friend,"—here the tones visibly faltered,—"by the burning of a vessel at sea, and the subsequent upsetting of a boat, in which some of the passengers were endeavoring to make their escape."

"That is indeed very, very sad news," said the old lady, affectionately clasping Ella's hand, "and I, my friends, can sympathize with you, for five years ago to-day, my son, my darling son, the pride of my heart, the charm and ornament of our dwelling, set sail from his native shores, for a distant land, and from that moment unto this, no tidings ever reached me of his fate, for the vessel was heard of never after."

"Do you know," she said to Ella, a few moments after, as Arthur, with some murmured apology left the room, for he felt that human sympathy, however precious at other times, seemed but to madden him now, and he longed to be alone—"Do you know," she repeated, as the young girl's eyes, swollen with weeping, were upraised to her benevolent countenance, "that I was standing at the window right opposite, when you drove up to the door, and as your brother quickly alighted from the carriage, and tenderly assisted you out, my heart beat quick; the blood forsook my cheeks, and my whole frame was convulsed with emotion, for so strikingly did he resemble my lost one in look and manner, that, for the moment, I wildly dreamed that he had come back to bless me."

The old lady's tears flowed freely.

"I miss him so much, so very much," she said, "and especially on the anniversary of that fatal day which tore him from my fond embrace, and I can well appreciate the emotion which lent intensity to David's pathetic exclamation, "Oh my son, my son, would to heaven I had died for thee, oh, my son, my son."

While Mrs. Cartwright was thus, by a relation of her own trials, endeavoring to divert, in some measure, Ella's mind, and prevent her from dwelling too exclusively on this painful event, Arthur, having gained his chamber, was now pacing the floor with restless steps, his whole soul a prey to the most intense emotions of grief, such as he had never before experienced. At one moment he felt stupefied, at the suddenness of the blow; the next, aroused again to the consciousness of its terrible reality. At length a hope, that seemed to up-spring from the depth of his despair, shed a faint light over the chaotic darkness that reigned within. "The information may be exaggerated," was his mental solving, "for it is plain that the writer, in penning it, was actuated by no feelings of good-will, and there may yet exist a hope of Anges's escape." With this idea, he opened another epistle, which he had received, but not yet read. It was from an elderly gentleman, who had always held Agnes in the deepest esteem, and with a trembling hand he broke the seal. Alas for his futile hopes! Not at the close of the page, as in the one received by Ella, but at the very commencement of the letter, was the mournful intelligence communicated, and while the narrator deeply deplored the event, he intimated, at the same time, that not a doubt existed in his own mind, or in the minds of her friends, as to the certainty of her untimely fate.

Arthur laid the letter aside, and again commenced his restless pacing. Alas, he had once almost imagined himself a Christian, for had he not been sedulous in the discharge of every duty, and, like the young man referred to in Scripture, could have said, with reference to the moral law as far as outward observances are concerned, "All these have I kept from my youth up." But now, mitigating, soothing, extracting from grief, however mighty, some portion of its bitterness, where was the resignation of the Christian? Not, certainly, in that heart so full of bitterness, that was ready to contend with heaven for having reclaimed its own; its power, its goodness, its wisdom, were almost, unconsciously, arraigned, and finite man presumed to pass judgment on the acts of infinite benevolence, until, at length, shocked at his own rebellious feelings,—and startled, nay, terrified, at this the deepest insight he had ever obtained of the natural depravity of his heart, he sank into a chair, and in utter recklessness abandoned himself to the tide of grief which seemed waiting to overwhelm him.

Oh there are terrible moments in human experience, moments when even the Christian is so haunted by the demon of unbelief, when the dire enemy of God and man takes advantage of some unpropitious circumstance, some painful affliction, to taunt the soul, already almost crushed, and to inquire, with fiendish malignity, "Where is now thy God?" that if not wholly overcome, he, at least, escapes alone with fearful wounds from the trying conflict; how then can that one sustain the assault who is totally unprepared, and who knows but little of the source from whence alone help can come? Well, indeed, for frail humanity, that there is a tender, pitying Father, who "knoweth our frame, and remembereth we are dust," and oftentimes, when our need is sorest, sends, in his own good way, unexpected relief.

With his face buried in his hands, heedless of the lapse of time, and of anything save his own absorbing emotion, Arthur still sat in the armchair, into which he had thrown himself, his thoughts dwelling, with strange pertinacity, upon the past,—the past that seemed to mock him now.

They expected very shortly to have returned home, and he had anticipated so much pleasure in that return. He had never analyzed the source of that pleasure, but now that it was removed, he saw it too clearly; it was the hope, the expectation, of meeting with her. He recalled to mind the hours he had passed with her,—happy hours, all too quickly flown; her winning smile, the sweetly persuasive tones of her voice, her earnest and thoughtful manner, all came back to haunt him with their memory. Oh, how distinctly he remembered one of the last conversations he had with her, when, in her own mellifluous tones, she had repeated Young's exquisite lines,—

Never had he felt their beauty as now, for the storm of passion had in a measure subsided, and the still small voice of conscience once more asserted its power.

"Oh, Agnes, Agnes," he murmured, "you tarried on our earth as an angel of light, and now you have but returned to your native sphere, and rejoined your sister spirits, but could you see my rebellious heart, how infinitely removed from the resignation and purity that can alone find admission into the haven of bliss, how should I sink in your esteem, if, indeed, surrounded by the spirits of the blessed, your thoughts ever turn to so miserable an inhabitant of earth."

A book lay on the table beside him. He took it up mechanically, scarcely knowing what he did. It was an elegant edition of Mrs. Hemans' poems, and had been the gift of Agnes to his sister a few weeks previous to her leaving home.

On the fly-leaf she had inscribed Ella's name, and the sight of her hand-writing sent a fresh thrill of agony to his heart. But last evening, on borrowing the book from his sister, he had contemplated it with such delight; now, it was but the fatal reminder of "what had been, but never more could be." With the restlessness of a weary heart, he turned over page after page, until his glance was arrested by some lines she had evidently marked. How bitterly appropriate they seemed now as he read,—

It is true these lines, evidently addressed to an unbeliever in our holy Christianity, were not, in that respect, applicable to him, yet he felt that the reproof came home to his own conscience; for earth had too much engrossed his vision, and while from childhood he had been taught that life and immortality are brought to light by the Gospel, in his despairing grief he had almost lost sight of the blessed possibility of being re-united to her, whom he now contemplated as a sinless spirit in the regions of eternal bliss.

Far reaching as Eternity were the results of these hours of affliction, and with higher and holier aims, and the determination to consecrate life's remaining days, weeks, or years, to that service which is alone worthy of being engaged in by immortal beings, Arthur Bernard returned once more to the battle of life, with a heart crushed and bleeding, it is true, but not destitute of Peace, that celestial visitant, or of heavenly hope, pointing to a brighter and more enduring inheritance.

The winter had set in unusually early. Along the bleak coast of Newfoundland, and through its dreary and sparsely inhabited islands, November blasts raged fiercely, lashing to fury the crested waves that beat against the giant rocks, which, standing sentinel-like on the shore, seemed to frown defiantly on them; or laving, far and wide, the long, flat sand beach, that afforded less obstruction to their impetuous progress. To a remote part of this dreary coast we would now direct the attention of our reader. Scarcely fair, even when Summer lavished upon it her fairest smiles, there, no traces of beauty invited the weary pilgrim to tarry and rest within their refreshing shade; no garden, gay with flowers, rang with childish laughter, as the little ones plucked their fragrant blossoms; but rugged hills, frowning rocks, and desolate sand beaches, assumed the place of waving woods, smiling corn-fields, and blooming orchards; while for the melodious notes of woodland songsters, was heard the wild cry of the stormy petrel, or the shrill scream of the large sea-gull.

But "Nature never fails the heart that loves her," and while destitute of the exuberant charms of more genial climes, the spot to which we allude was not without attraction to an admirer of the sublime and picturesque.

Nor was there wanting wild beauty in the scene which greeted the spectator, who might perchance on some lovely summer's morning ascend the steep hills, or pause for rest on one of the rocky eminences jutting out into the sea. Before him lay the wide expanse of ocean, reaching far beyond the keenest vision, calm at that moment as though it had never been lashed to fury by wailing tempests, and reflecting in its mirror-like surface the azure heavens that smiled brightly above. Beneath his feet the stunted herbage assumed its liveliest hue of emerald green, diversified here and there by some tiny, hardy wild flowers, while the distant sail, gleaming in the sunlight, and then passing beyond the eager vision,—the fishermen's huts, scattered here and there on the rugged and uneven land,—the fishing shallops, and boats of every variety, that dotted the waters, with their owners, some standing on the beach, and some in their vessels, but all engaged in the one occupation of securing and preserving the finny tribe, their only source of wealth, gave an air of animation to the scene, while the merry laugh of children, and the cheerful tones of women, as they hurried to the beach to assist the parent or husband, spoke of social ties, and seemed to say, that peace and contentment were not alone the associates of refinement, education, and luxury.

But quite a different aspect did that barren coast present when chilly Autumn and relentless Winter resumed their dreaded reign. Then, indeed, to the inhabitant of the city, dreary beyond description would a residence within one of its small yet hospitable huts appear, and he must possess resources in himself of no common order, or be sustained by a lofty sense of duty, who could cheerfully and contentedly remain through those cheerless seasons.

Standing somewhat isolated, and at a distance from the shore, yet commanding a fine view of the sea, was a cottage of larger dimensions, and of neater appearance than the generality of the fishermen's dwellings. It was built on an irregular tract of land, that sloped down to the shore, and behind it rose a ragged hill, in summer partially covered with coarse grass, that concealed its jagged rocks, and lent it an air of cheerfulness; but now its rude outline, no longer softened by the verdure and sunshine, presented a weird and desolate appearance. In front of the cottage, which contained four or five rooms, with a small attic above, used for storing away provisions, &c., was a piece of ground, enclosed by a wooden railing, where a few vegetables were planted each spring; but these had long ago been gathered in, and the land was now enjoying its Sabbath, to be continued for six long months, before it would again yield of its productions, for the benefit of its hardy and thrifty owners.

The interior of the dwelling, though roughly fashioned, and furnished in the most simple manner, was not uninviting, for there was that atmosphere of cleanliness and neatness about it, which renders the rudest spot more attractive than luxurious habitations, where it is found wanting. Through the centre ran a narrow hall, out of which opened the different rooms. On the right hand, just as you entered, was a door leading into a good-sized apartment, fulfilling the united duties of kitchen, parlor, and sitting-room, while at the opposite side were several chambers, small, but clean and airy.

In the sitting-room,—for by that term we shall designate the principal apartment,—a bright coal fire was blazing cheerily in the large open fire-place, casting its pleasant light over the spotless and carefully sanded floor, gleaming on the plastered walls, and lingering to see itself gaily reflected on the shining pewter, and brightly colored delf, that, neatly arranged on the bowed shelves of the snowy dresser, were evidently the pride of the housekeeper.

A white cloth covered the rude wooden table that stood in the centre of the room, and the mistress of the dwelling was hurrying to and fro, evidently intent on preparing the evening repast, while from the bake-kettle, that had just been taken from the fire, the fragrance of newly-baked bread ascended, filling the place with its odor; an odor by no means ungrateful to appetites, sharpened by manly labor and healthy sea-breezes.

While the busy matron was thus happily employed in her labors of love,—for such they emphatically were to her,—the daughter, a girl of eighteen years of age, and two younger sons, were with their father on the beach, assisting him in sorting, and putting in barrels, a quantity of fish, designed for the family's use during the winter.

"It will be a fearful night, father," said the girl, pausing from her labors, and looking out on the black, swollen waves, while the wind, as it swept furiously by, more than once obliged her to cling to the rock for support.

"It will be a fearful night, father," she repeated,—and, hesitating for a moment, she added, "and brother William is at sea."

"Ay," responded the brawny, stalwart, and good-humored looking man, "it will be, as you say, lass, a stormy night, and a terrible one, I reckon, to poor seamen,—for there is more than William on the ocean."

A faint flush tinged with a deeper hue the girl's countenance, already bronzed by exposure to sun and wind, while her dark grey eye grew moist with unshed tears. It was evident that there was something deeper in the old man's speech, than the mere words would seem to imply,—some covert allusion which thus called forth her emotion.

"The vessel was to have left more than a week ago; it ought to be near the coast by this time," said the fisherman, in a tone of uneasiness.

He turned to address his daughter, but she was no longer at his side; and, looking in the distance, he perceived her climbing a high and jutting rock, from which the ocean, for miles around, was distinctly visible. Ellen, for that was her name, having at length ascended, stood with agile yet firm feet on the eminence, shading, with one hand, the sun, which now, peering from behind a mass of dark purple clouds, lit up for a moment the turbid waves, and gleamed on rock and beach and fishermen's huts,—and with the other holding on to the sharp edge of a projecting rock, that still towered above her. Nor as she thus stood, was she, by any means, an unpicturesque object; the sunshine glancing on her neatly arranged brown hair, her tall figure, slight for that of a hardy fisherman's child, clad in a black skirt and crimson jacket, and every feature of her speaking countenance wearing a commingled expression of anxiety, hope, and tenderness.

How her eager vision seemed to catch, in a moment, each feature of the scene; the sandy beach—the rugged hill—her father's shallop—and he, standing in the position she had left him, gazing out into the sea; and with what a lingering, straining glance, did her eyes wander over that pathless ocean, while her heart sank within her, as she contemplated its angry and menacing appearance.

"Not a sail in sight," she murmured, "and the night coming on so fearfully black. Oh, Edward, shall I ever see you again!" was her exclamation, uttered in a tone full of wild pathos, while the hand, that had been upraised to shade the sun's rays, fell listless at her side.

"Oh, if you only come back safe again, I shall quarrel with you and tease you no more,—and you so patient and so good,"—and her quivering lip, and the expression of anguish that passed over her features, told how deep and true her emotion.

"It is no use lingering here," she mentally ejaculated, as a fresh blast of wind nearly swept her from the summit. "I may as well go down at once." Turning to descend, she paused to take a parting glance at the distant ocean, whose mercy she would fain have invoked for the loved ones it bore on its bosom, when something at a distance caught her eager eye. As one transfixed, she stood there, fearing almost to breathe, lest a breath might dissolve the vision.

"Yes, a sail is in sight; but, ah, is it the one I look for? Oh, this cruel suspense, how much longer must I bear it! Father, father," she cried, and the breeze bore the clear tones of her voice distinctly to his ear; "father, do come here, for I see a sail yonder, and I think it is the 'Darling,'" for so, by the lover captain,—doubtless to remind him of another darling, tarrying at home,—the little trim schooner was designated.

The man quickly obeyed her summons, and soon stood by her side, scanning, too, with eager eyes, the appearance of the vessel, that was now, favored by a strong breeze, veering rapidly towards them.

"It looks like her cut, Ellen," said the fisherman; "but we shall see shortly."

"Yes," said the girl, clapping her hands with delight, while her whole face was lighted up with joy; "it is her, sure enough, for I see her blue flag bordered with red, and the white square in the centre."

"Well," said the man, with a good-humored smile, "thine eyes must be a good deal sharper than mine, lass, for I can barely see a flag at all, much less its color; but certainly thou ought to know best, when it happens to be the work of thine own hands."

A merry laugh was the response. "I shall hurry down to tell mother,"—and with an agile step she bounded down the steep eminence, and in a few moments reached the door of the dwelling, while the fisherman hastened to the beach, to be first ready to greet the crew of the schooner with a hearty welcome home.

"Ben," said the Captain of a smart-looking schooner, that under a heavy weight of canvas was manfully breasting the breeze, almost conscious, one might fancy, that it was steering for home.

"Ben," he inquired, addressing the mate, who had just come on deck, "what is that strange looking thing yonder?" indicating by his finger the direction of the object. The mate, a weather-beaten and experienced looking son of the ocean, glanced for a moment in the direction specified, without speaking.

"It looks to me," he said at length, "like a human being clinging to some box or chair, but it is floating fast this way, and we shall soon be able to tell."

Sure enough, in a moment or two, they were enabled to gain a full, clear view of it, and saw it to be a woman holding fast to a ring of some kind,—a life-preserver they judged it to be,—which kept her head above the waters.

"Let us bear down quick," said the Master, in an excited tone, for he was young and kind-hearted, and the sight of anything in distress, how much more a woman, was sufficient to arouse his warmest sympathies; and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the life-preserver, with its clinging burden, was safely landed on deck.

Agnes, for she it was, whom this worthy man had so promptly and providentially rescued, was partially insensible; but some restoratives, which fortunately they happened to have on hand, being applied, she soon recovered, at least sufficiently to explain from whence she came, and through what means she had been placed in such a perilous situation.

It appeared, from her statement, that after having embarked on board the boat during that tempestuous night, which witnessed the conflagration of their noble steamer, whose fate was recorded in a previous chapter, the sailors, who had, unknown to the captain, smuggled a large cask of spirits on board, began freely to imbibe them, to keep out, as they said, the cold. It was in vain that the ladies remonstrated with them, and pointed out the dangers which would ensue, should they become helpless through its means. Unfortunately they had lost sight, in consequence of the darkness and tempest, of the other boat, containing the remainder of the passengers, who had just time to push away from the burning wreck before its final submersion beneath the briny waves; and, having none to check them, the sailors, in spite of the entreaties of the women, continued to partake, from time to time, of the death-destroying liquid.

Morning dawned, but brought little alleviation. It is true, the storm had abated, and the sky was becoming clear, but the wind was still high, and the boat rocked fearfully, while the billows, that had not yet been hushed into quiet, threatened, every now and then, to submerge the frail and tempest-tossed bark. They had drifted,—so the sailors said,—a long way through the night, and must be somewhere near the coast of Newfoundland; but no indication of land was visible, nor was there to be seen the slightest trace of their companions in misfortune. All that day the sailors behaved pretty well; a bag of biscuits had been placed on board, and a jar of water, of which each partook, and all felt a little comforted and strengthened; but, as night came on, the men commenced afresh to drink. Most fortunately, the sea had become calm, so the boat drifted on, pretty much left to its own will. The next morning found the sailors in a state of almost helpless intoxication; but now land was in sight, though at a great distance, and the women, seizing the oars, strove to impel the boat in that direction; but soon, worn out with the struggle, and finding they made but little headway, most of them gave up to despair, and resigned themselves, as they said, to their fate. It was now high noon, at least so they judged from the look of the sun, and Agnes strove by every means to re-assure her fainting companions. She spoke of the power and goodness of their heavenly Father, and besought them to unite with her in earnest petitions to the throne of grace for timely succor, or for a preparation for a speedy exit from life. Some heard with attention, and united with agonizing earnestness in the petition, which, as it ascended from her lips, sounded like a seraph's pleading, and surely reached the ear of the Lord God of Sabaoth. Others listened with stolid indifference, or sullen despair. Throughout the precious years of prosperity, that had been vouchsafed to them, they had been neglecters of the "great salvation;" and now, in the article and hour of death, they knew not how to implore his mercy, of whom they had been hitherto utterly unmindful, much less adored and loved.

At length one of the women lifted her face, haggard with care and grief, and threw a glance, preternaturally sharpened, over the wild waste of waters:—

"I see a sail yonder," she cried wildly. "Look," she cried to Agnes, "can you not see it, too?"—but just at this moment one of the sailors, not quite so much stupefied as the others, hearing the exclamation, roused himself, and bent over the side of the boat, and instantly the frail bark was submerged beneath the waves.

Oh, what shrieks of agony filled the air.