Woman's Trials

Two weeks more went by, and the pressure upon Mrs. Darlington was heavier and heavier.  Her income was below her table expenses and servant-hire, and all her reserve fund being exhausted, she felt the extremity of her circumstances more than at any time before.  To bear longer the extra weight of poor, deserted Mrs. Marion and her two children was felt to be impossible.  With painful reluctance did Mrs. Darlington slowly make up her mind to say to Mrs. Marion that she must seek another home; and for this purpose she one day waited upon her in her room.  As tenderly and as delicately as possible did she approach the subject.  A word or two only had she said, when Mrs. Marion, with tears upon her face, replied,—­

“Pardon me that I have so long remained a burden upon you.  Had I known where to go, or what to do, I would not have added my weight to the heavy ones you have had to bear.  Daily have I lived in hope that my husband would return.  But my heart is sick with hope deferred.  It is time now that I began the work of self-dependence.”

“Where can you go?” asked Mrs. Darlington.

“I know not,” sadly returned Mrs. Marion.  “My only relative is a poor aunt, with scarcely the ability to support herself.  But I will see her to-day.  Perhaps she can advise me what to do.”

When Mrs. Marion returned from this visit to her aunt, she looked very sad.  Mrs. Darlington was in the passage as she came in; but she passed her without speaking, and hurried up to her chamber.  Neither at tea time on that evening nor at breakfast time on the next morning did she appear, though food for herself and children was sent to her room.  Deeply did Mrs. Darlington and her daughters suffer on account of the step they were compelled to take, but stern necessity left them no alternative.  During the day, Mrs. Marion went out again for an hour or two, and when she came back she announced that she would leave on the next day.  She looked even sadder than before.  Some inquiries as to where she was going were made, but she evaded them.  On the day following, a carriage came for her, and she parted with her kind friends, uttering the warmest expressions of gratitude.

“I have turned her from the house!” said Mrs. Darlington, in a tone of deep regret, as she closed the door upon the poor creature.  “How would I like my own child treated thus?”

For the rest of the day she was so unhappy, owing to this circumstance, that she could scarcely attend to any thing.

“Do you know where Mrs. Marion went when she left our house?” said Edith to her mother, about two weeks afterwards.  There was a troubled look in Edith’s face as she asked this question.

“No.  Where is she?”

“At Blockley.”

“What!”

“In the Alms-house!”

“Edith!”

“It is too true.  I have just learned that when she left here, it was to take up her abode among paupers.  She had no other home.”

Mrs. Darlington clasped her hands together, and was about giving expression to her feelings, when a domestic came in and said that Mr. Ellis was in the parlour, and wished to see her immediately.

“Where is Miriam?” asked the brother, in a quick voice, the moment Mrs. Darlington entered the parlour, where he awaited her.

“She’s in her room, I believe.  Why do you ask?”

“Are you certain?  Go up, Edith, quickly, and see.”

The manner of Mr. Ellis was so excited that Edith did not pause to hear more, but flew up stairs.  In a few moments she returned, saying that her sister was not there, and that, moreover, on looking into her drawers, she found them nearly empty.

“Then it was her!” exclaimed Mr. Ellis.

“Where is she?  Where did you see her?” eagerly asked both mother and sister, their faces becoming as pale as ashes.

“I saw her in a carriage with a notorious gambler and scoundrel named Burton.  There was a trunk on behind, and they were driving towards the wharf.  It is ten minutes before the boat starts for New York, and I may save her yet!”

And, with these words, Mr. Ellis turned abruptly away, and hurried from the house.  So paralyzed were both Mrs. Darlington and Edith by this dreadful announcement, that neither of them had for a time the power of utterance.  Then both, as by a common impulse, arose and went up to the chamber where Miriam slept.  Almost the first thing that met the eyes of Mrs. Darlington was a letter, partly concealed by a book on the mantel-piece.  It was addressed to her.  On breaking the seal, she read—­

“My dear, dear mother:  I shall be away from you only a little while; and, when I return, I will come with relief for all your present troubles.  Do not blame me, dear mother!  What I have done is for your sake.  It almost broke my heart to see you so pressed down and miserable.  And, then, there was no light ahead.  Mr. Burton, who has great wealth, offered me his hand.  Only on condition of a handsome settlement upon you would I accept of it.  Forgive me that I have acted without consultation.  I deemed it best.  In a little while, I will be back to throw myself into your arms, and then to lift you out of your many troubles.  How purely and tenderly I love you, mother, dear mother!  I need not say.  It is from this love that I am now acting.  Take courage, mother.  Be comforted.  We shall yet be happy.  Farewell, for a little while.  In a few days I will be with you again.

“Miriam.”

As Mrs. Darlington read the last sentence of this letter, Henry, her son, who had not been home since he went out at breakfast-time, came hurriedly into the room, and, in an excited manner, said—­

“Mother, I want ten dollars!”

The face of the young man was flushed, and his eyes unsteady.  It was plain, at a glance, that he had been drinking.

Mrs. Darlington looked at him for a moment, and then, before Edith had seen the contents of Miriam’s letter, placed it in his hands.

“What does this mean?” he exclaimed, after running his eyes over it hurriedly.  “Miriam gone off with that Burton!”

The letter dropped upon the floor, and Henry clasped his hands together with a gesture of pain.

“Who is Mr. Burton?  What do you know of him?” asked Edith.

“I know him to be a man of the vilest character, and a gambler into the bargain!  Rich!  Gracious heaven!”

And the young man struck his hands against his forehead, and glanced wildly from his pale-faced mother to his paler sister.

“And you knew the character of this man, Henry!” said Mrs. Darlington.  There was a smiting rebuke in her tone.  “You knew him, and did not make the first effort to protect your young, confiding, devoted sister!  Henry Darlington, the blood of her murdered happiness will never be washed from the skirts of your garments!”

“Mother! mother!” exclaimed the young man, putting up his hands to enforce the deprecation in his voice, “do not speak so, or I will go beside myself!  But where is she?  When did she go?  I will fly in pursuit.  It may not yet be too late.”

“Your Uncle Hiram saw her in a carriage with Mr. Burton, on their way, as he supposed, to the steamboat landing.  He has gone to intercept them, if possible.”

Henry drew his watch from his pocket, and, as he glanced at the time, sank into a chair, murmuring, in a low voice of anguish—­

“It is too late!”