In the last chapter but one, we left Willis on his way once more to the coast of Africa. We will now join him, as he is about starting back for Cuba, with a cargo of negroes, purchased with the money Don Manuel had sent him.

His crew being too small to do any thing more than navigate the schooner; and having been unable, on the coast, to increase their number, he had, prior to taking in his cargo, dismounted his guns, and stowed them, with their carriages, in the hold, under the ballast.

This change of weight he now found altered much and greatly retarded the schooner’s speed; but it was now too late to make any alterations; and it was with greater anxiety than he had ever felt on any former voyage that he looked out for men-of-war. He could neither fight, nor confidently trust to his vessel’s speed; and he was particularly anxious to get in safely with this, if he could land them, his last cargo of Africans.

The schooner was within ten days of making land, and had not seen a vessel. All hands were congratulating themselves on their good fortune, when, far astern, and to windward, a sail was discovered just on the verge of the horizon. It did not appear larger than a speck, and to any but most practiced eyes, would have been invisible. Had the Maraposa been in her usual trim, they never would have had a clearer view of the stranger; but now, to Willis’s mortification, the distant vessel gradually became visible; first the royals were seen, then her topgallant-sails, and in three hours they could even make out the head of her courses; enough to confirm the feet of her being a man-of-war, and she gaining rapidly on the schooner.

Though in consequence of the Maraposa’s being so much smaller, it was not probable that the stranger had yet observed her, but was only steering in the same direction. But Willis knew that if he had not yet been seen, if the distance was still lessened, he could not escape, and it behooved him to increase his speed by all means, and avoid being chased. Captured he had sworn never again to be, let the consequences be what they might.

How to accelerate the Maraposa’s way was a question of some difficulty. Already was every stitch of canvas that would draw, and some that did not, set; and there was nothing on deck he could throw over to lighten his vessel, except his anchor and cable; as the other had been left in the harbor at Havana, she had but one; the guns he could not get at, covered as they were by the ballast and provisions in the hold; and feeling uncertain how to act, he called his mate to him to get his opinion.

“Well, Mateo, this is the squalliest prospect we have ever had, and the first time we could neither fight or run. What do you think we had better do? That fellow astern will be down on us before night, unless we can get along faster.”

“Why, sir, the only way we can make the Butterfly fly faster, is by taking some of the load off of her; and there is only two ways we can do that—and it will have to be done quickly to be of any avail—for that chap astern is coming along as if he carried a tornado with him.”

“What can we start over to lighten her?” asked Willis.

“Why nothing but the niggers, or the water—either of them would do it. Those ten pipes of water, if they were overboard, would let the schooner along as she used to go; but without the water the niggers would die. So that I think, sir, we had better heave over half the niggers, and half of the water.”

This the mate said with as much nonchalance as if he had been recommending the drowning of a score of hogs; for he had been engaged in the slave-trade for many years, and had learned to regard negroes, not as human beings, but as he would any other species of merchandize with which the vessel might be loaded. And as to his thinking it murder, or a sin to kill a “woolly-head,” as he called them, it never entered his mind, and he would have jerked the whole lot overboard, had it been necessary for his own safety, with as little compunction as he would so much old junk.

But Willis’s mind had been too much under the influence of better feelings, for the last few weeks, to think of drowning in cold blood, one hundred and fifty mortals, if they were black, to save his own life; he therefore resumed the conversation with Mateo by saying,—

“I know it will be a chance if we don’t lose all the negroes if we start over the water, but I cannot think of drowning the poor devils; so they will have to take their chance of dying with thirst, and you must start over all the water but one pipe.”

The water was in large pipes, some lashed amid-ships, abaft the fore-mast, some on the quarter-deck, and a couple on the forecastle. The casks being unlashed, and the bungs turned down, soon emptied themselves of their contents, and the schooner sprung forward as if she felt the relief, and was soon speeding along at her old rate of sailing, which by the next morning had left the strange sail so far astern that she was out of sight.

Though he had succeeded in eluding pursuit, Willis’s troubles still came thick upon him. The cask of water that had been left was the one from which they had already used, and it was found to have not more than sixty gallons of water in it to last over three hundred men ten days, in the heat of the tropics.

Willis called up his crew and proposed dividing it out equally amongst all hands, negroes and all, and then there would have been hardly a gill a day for each man, but enough to sustain life. The men would not hearken to him, swore they were not going to be put on such short allowance for the sake of the d—d niggers; and said if there was not enough to go round, to throw the blackbirds into the sea.

Willis, by persuasion, at last succeeded in getting his men to agree to be allowanced to half a pint of water per diem, and let him portion the rest out to the negroes as he chose. This he did impartially, as far as it went; but the quantity was so small that the slaves, confined as they were constantly in the hold, on account of the smallness of the crew, could not exist upon it—and the hold of the slaver became a perfect pandemonium. Daily the poor Africans were attacked with brain fever, and, perfectly crazy, would shout, yell, cry, sing, and shuffle about as well as their fetters would permit, until they were relieved by death; and so many died each day, that the whole crew were kept busy getting them out of the hold, and heaving them into the ocean. Ere land was made, the last of the three hundred were dead; and Willis, putting into the first bay he came to on the coast to re-water, was worse off than when he started for Africa, having made nothing, and spent all the money given him by Don Manuel, and which he wished to repay.

His hopes of being able to quit the traffic, which was now becoming odious to him, were thus deferred; for the money he had used, and which he was most anxious to refund, was an additional argument in his mind for taking another voyage to the coast; and hoping it would prove more profitable, and enable him to quit the trade then forever, he made sail again, and running into the same river in which we first found the Maraposa, he left her there, in the charge of Mateo, and disguising himself, for fear of being recognized by De Vere, Don Manuel, or Francisca, he proceeded by land to Havana, for the purpose of increasing his crew, and obtaining funds from some of his friends to enable him to get another cargo.

In a few days he had been able, by constant exertion, to enlist from amongst the numerous desperadoes that are ever to be found in Havana, forty new men, nearly all good sailors. The bravery and skill of Willis being well known amongst the merchants who were engaged in the slave-trade, he found no difficulty in borrowing from them the amount of money he wanted, on the security of the cargo he was going to bring.

The day he was to leave Havana, Willis was strolling along the streets, and accidentally came in sight of the Cathedral. Before the entrance were numerous carriages drawn up, the splendor of the equipages, and the bridal favors with which the servants and horses were decked, were evidence that the nuptial knot was being tied in the church between some of the magnates of the city; and having nothing else to engage his attention, Willis walked in to witness the ceremony.

Entering the spacious temple, he saw in front of the high altar, a large and brilliant group of elegantly attired gentlemen, and magnificently dressed ladies, in attendance on the couple whom the priest was just in the act of joining together.

From the door, the air and figures of the principal persons seemed familiar to him. Keeping in the shade of the pillars that ran along the side aisle, he approached nearer, and discovered in the bride and bridegroom, Clara and De Vere. He gave them but a glance, for just behind them, and leaning on the arm of her father, he saw Francisca.

Lovely she looked—more lovely than he had ever seen her; but the brilliancy of her glorious black eye contrasted strangely with the deathly pallor of her cheek, and her thoughts seemed far away from the scene before her; and Willis, during the ceremony, intently watching her, hoped the next time they met before the altar, it might be to claim her as his bride, and wondered if that distracted air with which Francisca regarded the passing event was at all occasioned by thoughts of him.

Clara was beautiful—proudly, haughtily beautiful; and a smile of gratified pride lighted her face as she surveyed the surrounding throng, and felt herself the most brilliant and beautiful of the group. De Vere seemed proud of his haughty beauty, and Don Manuel appeared perfectly contented, and felt assured that he was consulting his daughter’s happiness by consenting to her marriage with the Englishman.

Willis had not, however, wasted a glance on them; concealed by the column near which he was standing, he had feasted his eyes on Francisca; and when, after the benediction, the party moved away, he still continued to gaze on the spot where she had been. The noise made by their carriages, as they rolled away, aroused him, and he left the church.

Gathering up his new men at nightfall, he returned to his vessel, to which he had already sent provisions. Hard all that night did they work, getting up and remounting the guns; and the next morning, as the Maraposa went to sea, she was again the same looking craft that she was when we first saw her leaving the cove, both beautiful and dangerous, with her guns all ready for use, and a large crew to handle them; and leaving her to make her last voyage to the coast, in the capacity of a slaver, let us rejoin De Vere and his new bride.

[Conclusion in our next.

———

BY JOHN WILFORD OVERALL.

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OR LOVE’S OBSTACLES.

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BY ENNA DUVAL.

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“Bravo! bravo!” exclaimed the delighted Mons. Lunoyer.

“Beautiful! exquisitely graceful!” repeated the young ladies that filled the dancing room, as Therese Wilson, a fine looking girl of fourteen or fifteen, went through a fashionable dance with Harry Belton, a handsome youth near the same age. It was the “practicing afternoon” of the young ladies belonging to Madame Chalon’s fashionable boarding-school—and a pretty sight was Mons. Lunoyer’s rooms on those afternoons. Stylish-looking girls of all ages, from the dainty little miss, just lisping her French phrases, up to the dashing school-belle, just on the eve of making her entrÉe into “society,” panting for the heart-conquests her imagination pictured forth in her future. And right lucky were those youths, who, having sisters, or sweet pets of cousins at the school, were permitted by Madame Chalon to take part in these practicings—a privilege which caused many an envious thought to their less favored school-fellows.

At the close of the dance the beautiful Therese approached her young companions, with cheeks glowing, and young heart beating high with gratified pride. What more could her girlish ambition desire? Harry Belton, the favorite beau of the school, stood by her, fanning her, and saying a thousand pretty things, while the young ladies, her class-mates, looked on. The dance had been performed with grace and beauty; and every one in the room expressed aloud their admiration.

“See, Therese,” said a little girl, anxious to attract the attention of the envied school-belle, “see what wonders your lovely dancing has performed; the little cry-baby creole, Cora Neill, has quite forgotten her tears; and her nurse, Rita, will tell you she has done nothing but weep since she left her father’s plantation up to this moment.”

Therese shook back her curls carelessly, without deigning to notice the compliment intended to be conveyed; but Harry Belton instantly turned his eyes toward the poor little Cora. The child was, indeed, lost in admiration. She leaned her tiny form against her black nurse, while her large, dark eyes, swollen with incessant weeping, flashed brightly, as they met the boy’s inquiring gaze. She seized his hand with childish earnestness, and exclaimed in Spanish, “Ah venga danza vmd. conmigo?” “Ah, come, dance with me,” and raising herself, her little feet went quickly over the first movements of the dance. The young girls surrounding Therese, seeing her smile contemptuously, laughed aloud at what they called the child’s presumption. Poor Cora stopped suddenly as she heard their laughter, then, with a burst of passionate tears, she hid her little head on her nurse’s shoulder. The indignant nurse poured out in a breath, soothings to her darling, and invectives upon the young ladies.

“Poor child!” said Harry. “You must not be so angry. Pray, stop weeping—do you not know you are to be my little dancing partner? Come, Cora, show these doubting young ladies how well you can dance.”

Although the child could hardly understand his imperfect Spanish, still she gathered sufficient from his tone of voice to know that he intended kindness. Gradually he succeeded in persuading her to leave nurse Rita’s shoulder, and obtaining permission from the dancing-master, he gave orders to the musicians to repeat the dance. At the introduction of the air, little Cora’s eyes flashed, and she seemed to forget all cause of discontent and sorrow. The dance proceeded, and those who had looked on at first from mere curiosity, found themselves applauding quite as much as they had a little while before the graceful execution of Therese. The floating, airy figure of the child, gave her a sylph-like appearance; and as she entered into the spirit of the dance, her dark cheeks glowed, and full lips seemed still redder; and then her bright eyes beamed forth such a childish lovingness in the concluding waltz movement, that quite bewitched them all. Mons. Lunoyer complimented her, and the young ladies pronounced her a “little love.”

“And who taught you to dance so prettily, Cora?” asked Harry.

The large eyes of the child again filled with tears, for the question carried her childish memory back to her island home, and the happy days when her mother, now no longer living, had taken delight in teaching her graceful child the dances she herself excelled in. Her sobbings commenced anew, and with agonizing exclamations she begged her dear Rita to take her to her own guerida madre. Harry assisted the nurse in soothing the unhappy little creature, while the rest of the school joined in the concluding dance. After it was finished, the attendant governess gave the signal for departure. The little weeping Cora clung to her nurse as her only friend.

“Adios mi queridita Cora,” said Harry, as he stooped down his tall, graceful, though boyish form, and looked affectionately into her dark eyes. She brightened as she saw his kind, brotherly look, and with bewitching naÏvetÉ held up her pretty, cherry lips to kiss him. The boy blushingly caressed her, and drove away his confusion by teaching her to call him in English her “dear brother Harry,” telling her she should be his own querida hermana. His kind words comforted her, and with the happy forgetfulness of childhood, she laughed aloud merrily, as she repeated after him, “dear brother Harry;” then, after caressing adieus to her adopted brother, she accompanied Rita and the governess to her new home, happier than she had been since her mother’s death.

Cora Neill was the daughter of an Irish gentleman who had resided at Havana for many years. There he had married a young and lovely girl belonging to one of the resident Spanish families. Many beautiful children had his gentle wife borne him, but one after another had bowed their little heads like drooping blossoms, and had been laid in the grave. At last the little Cora alone remained to them—the idol of both mother and father. Scarcely had she passed the age of infancy, when her beautiful mother’s cheeks glowed with a hectic flush, and her eyes burned with unnatural lustre. Poor Cora was but eight years of age when her mother was laid down to rest beside her other children. A year or two passed, and the bereaved father endeavored to soothe his grief in the caresses of his daughter. At last, when he reflected how unable he was to give her those advantages of education she needed, he resolved, though with a severe struggle, to part with her for a few years, and accordingly sent her to Madame Chalon’s establishment in one of the large Atlantic cities of the United States. She had only arrived a few days previous to the dancing lesson, and her poor little aching heart had throbbed with intense agony when she found herself surrounded by strangers. True, she had her black nurse, Rita, with her, and in the old woman’s nursery soothings she sometimes forgot her troubles; but there were moments when even the good old nurse failed to quiet her, and the poor little Cora refused to be comforted. But from the day when Harry plighted to her his brotherly faith, the school-home seemed more bearable. All in the establishment became interested in the little West Indian, and she seemed in a fair way to be spoiled; even the vain Therese was seen to caress her. The dancing reunions, as they came around weekly, were bright suns in her existence; for then she met again with Harry, and again renewed their brother and sister troth. Two or three years floated sunnily by, when her first unhappiness was caused by Harry’s receiving a summons from his Southern home. They parted at Mons. Dunoyer’s rooms on one of the practicing reunions, where they had first met. All the girls, and even the assistant governesses sympathized with little Cora; and she was permitted to converse apart with him at this sad time.

“Do not forget me, Cora,” said the boy, as he affectionately wound his arm around the tearful girl. “When I grow to be a man, I will visit your beautiful island, and you shall introduce your brother Harry to his sister Cora’s father.”

With renewed protestations of constancy the children parted.

Madame Chalon’s fine house was brilliantly lighted; carriages were rolling to and from the door; the sound of gay music could be heard by the passers-by; and from the large balconied windows of the drawing-rooms might be seen, group after group of gayly dressed women, and distinguÉ looking men in the promenade. The elegant and courteous lady of the mansion was receiving her dear five hundred friends at one of her annual balls, given to introduce the young ladies who had finished the course of studies at her school into general society. Delighted and satisfied, she moved quietly and smilingly through her rooms, receiving her friends, and superintending her young ÉlÈves. Every thing was as it should be—the most fastidious could not fail to be satisfied, either as they looked at the tasteful decorations of the rooms, the entertainment, the music, or the guests; therefore, knowing all this, Madame Chalon’s heart was at rest. Of her young ladies who were at this season making their entrÉe into the fashionable world under her auspices, Cora Neill created the greatest sensation; and even in such an assemblage of beauty as was here on this night, she was universally admitted to be the belle of the room. Years had rolled by since she had first entered the school—years, which had changed her into a beautiful, accomplished woman. Her docility of disposition, her winning manners, and quickness of intellect, had endeared her to the governesses and pupils; and her approaching departure from the school, which was to take place in a few months, at the close of the season, was looked forward to by them with great regret.

Cora had just finished a dance, when Madame Chalon came up to her, leaning on the arm of a gentleman.

“Allow me, my dear,” she said, “to recall to your memory a friend of your little girlhood. He was too timid to trust to your recollection. I need not call him Mr. Belton—you already remember him, I am sure, although the years that have passed since you met, have changed you both.”

The rich color mounted to Cora’s cheeks, and her dark eyes flashed with pleasure as, with a frank expression of joyful greeting, she extended her hand to her old playmate. They had not met since Harry had been summoned home, years before, to attend the death-bed of his mother. Shortly after that sad event he had entered the navy, and had passed from boyhood to manhood. He often thought of the little West Indian, Cora Neill. Her sweet winning ways would come before him in his lonely night-watches, and her graceful, floating form would be recalled to his memory, when in southern climes he would bear through the voluptuous waltz some brilliant maiden. But only as little Cora had he thought of her; and when he saw her at Madame Chalon’s ball, so dazzlingly beautiful, instead of renewing instantly, as was his intention, their old friendship, he hesitated, and at last called on the Madame to present him; but Cora’s frank manner threw aside all reserve, and they were in a little while waltzing and talking, as they had years before at Mons. Dunoyer’s reunions. The following day found him a visiter at the Madame’s; and as his sisters had been favorite pupils of hers, he was greeted with a pleasant welcome.

It was Cora’s first winter in society, and under Madame Chalon’s chaperonage she frequented all the gay resorts of the fashionable world. Beautiful, and a reputed heiress, of course, she was a belle; but prominent amongst her admirers was the young lieutenant. It was not long before they made the mutual discovery of their love for each other—and they both yielded themselves without reflection to this first love. They dreamed only of happiness, and fondly imagined no clouds could hang over their future. Madame Chalon was finally consulted by both, and she enclosed in a letter of her own, Harry Belton’s application for Cora’s hand to Mr. Neill. The hours floated joyously by, and Cora thought life increased in beauty daily, when all her rosy dreams were dispelled, and she rendered miserable by the receipt of three letters from her father. One contained a brief, polite dismissal to Mr. Belton. The second was a civil acknowledgment to Madame Chalon for her kind care of his daughter for so many years, and a request that she should prepare Cora to accompany some West India friends, then traveling in the United States, who, in the following month, were to return to Cuba, and would take charge of her. The third was a letter to Cora—not a severe, upbraiding one, but one filled with sorrowful lovingness and fatherly entreaties. He pictured his solitary life since her mother’s death; how earnestly he had devoted himself to business, that he might accumulate enough to lavish freely on her, his only one, every luxury, when she should be old enough to take her mother’s place. He described the day-dreams he had indulged of an old age that was to be cheered by his only child.

“I know, my own idolized girl,” he wrote, at the conclusion of his letter, “that I am submitting myself to the imputation of selfishness; but when you reflect upon my past desolate life, and my future, you will pardon, I am sure, this selfishness. I am an old man, Cora; I need kindness, nursing, and love—I pine for a daughter’s care. Many years, have elapsed since your blessed mother’s death; and I might have, with propriety, married again, in order to guard against a lonely old age. Regard for her memory, and for your future prospects, Cora, have deterred me from taking this step. I have submitted willingly to the penance of a solitary life, when I reflected it was for the mental benefit of my daughter, comforting my weary hours by looking forward to the period when we should be again united. Your letters, heretofore, have been filled with affection for me, and a similar desire for this reunion. Come to me, my Cora—come to your old solitary father, who needs your society. Let not a stranger usurp my place in the heart of my only, my idolized child.”

Cora shed bitter tears on reading this letter, but her heart was filled with sad reproaches. Her memory reverted to the days of her childhood, when her mother and father watched over her with fondness. She recalled the agonizing moments that followed her mother’s death, when no one was permitted to approach her father but herself. She remembered the intense look of devotion with which he used always to regard her; and then she thought of the solitary, unhappy years that he must have passed while she, with the unthinking spirit of youth, had been seeking happiness for herself, independent of the kind, old, forsaken father, who had no one on earth to love but her. In vain were Harry’s entreaties, or Madame Chalon’s proffers of assistance and interference. She resolved, though with a sad, aching heart, to renounce all expectation of ever marrying Harry, and made preparations for her departure.

“Give me some period to look forward to, Cora,” was her lover’s last entreaty.

“I cannot, Harry,” she replied, “henceforth I belong only to my father; I never shall marry so long as he lives.”

“And will you forget me?” exclaimed her lover, passionately.

Tears of reproach started to Cora’s eyes as he asked this angry question, but she refrained from assurances to the contrary. “Forget me, dear Harry,” she said, so soon as she had mastered her emotion. “It will be better for us both; my duty lies in a different path from yours; my heart should go hand in hand with duty.”

Prudent and cold were her words, and the lover would have felt wounded, had he not seen her swollen eyes, cheeks flushed with weeping, and whole frame agitated with emotion. They parted, and in a few weeks she had bidden adieu to her kind teacher and friends, and was on the broad ocean, each day lessening the distance between her and her island home. As the hour of meeting with her father approached, her heart sunk within her, and she could scarcely restrain her emotion; but the sight of his sad face beaming with fatherly gratification, and the broken words of welcome with which he greeted her, completely over-powered her, and she threw herself upon his bosom with a burst of self-reproaching tears. He soothed her, and with loving words expressed his gratitude to her for having thought of his happiness in preference to her own.

“If you value my peace of mind, dearest father,” she exclaimed, “you must never allude to the past—in the future you will find me, I trust, all you can wish. I have no other desire than that of making you happy.”

Cora’s home was a luxurious though a solitary one. Her father had purchased a fine plantation, where, surrounded by slaves, she scarcely ever met with any society. With the families of some neighboring planters she occasionally mingled, but from preference both her father and herself preferred seclusion. The most rare and costly specimens of art surrounded her. Her father had spared no expense in preparing the house for her reception. He had employed a trusty friend in Europe to purchase every luxury, and she found her drawing-rooms, music-room, conservatory, boudoir, and bed-room fitted up in the most exquisite and elegant style.

“You are a person of perfect taste, dear papa,” she said. “Every thing I see around me gives evidence of the most refined and cultivated mind.”

Her father looked his pleasure as she expressed her admiration of the house and its appointments, and said,

“You must not, Cora, give me the credit entirely. I was assisted in every thing by my friend Martinez. He helped me plan my house. Insisted that it should be placed on this delightful slope, that the windows of your suite of rooms might command the fine view you so much admire, and then, as he was about leaving for Europe, I commissioned him to procure there every thing that could possibly add a charm to the residence of my only, long expected daughter. Five years, dear Cora, have we been planning and perfecting this home for you. Martinez spent three years abroad in collecting all these paintings, statuary, and other elegancies. According to his directions are these beautiful books constantly forwarded; those instruments were chosen by him while in Paris; a fine musician himself, he selected your musical library, and has given orders to have the best of the new compositions constantly sent to you.”

“What! M. Martinez your partner?” inquired Cora. “Dear old man, how well I remember him—but I thought I heard of his death many years ago?”

“This M. Martinez is his nephew,” replied her father; “he succeeded his uncle in business, and has been my partner for some ten or fifteen years. He is a very superior man—”

“Where is he now?” asked Cora.

“He is in Italy,” replied her father. “He has never been a very active business man. Inheriting his uncle’s fortune, he concluded to leave the capital in our concern, and his name in the firm, though not by any means performing his uncle’s duties. His pursuits are wholly different—he is a fine scholar, and resides almost entirely in Europe. He returned last summer to see the completion of my house, and the arrangement of the furniture, but I could not persuade him to remain longer than a few months with me.”

“And his family, where are they?” inquired Cora.

“He lost his wife,” replied Mr. Neill, “many years since. A few months after their marriage she died. He was devotedly attached to her, and I think he never has recovered entirely from the shock; and on that account a residence in Cuba is disagreeable to him—it recalls his suddenly wrecked hopes.”

Cora had not been many months with her father when she discovered that the close attention he had paid to his business, since the elder Martinez’ death, had impaired his health. She had, on her first arrival at home, contented herself with performing what few duties fell to her, and the hours her father spent with her, she exerted herself, though sometimes with labor, to amuse him; but those hours of the day that were left unoccupied, she was too prone to give herself up to the luxury of sad reminiscences, and as she looked around her luxurious home she would weepingly sigh for that one being, who, next to her father, held the first place in her heart. Her health would have been undoubtedly affected by this romantic indulgence, had she not had her fears aroused for her father’s safety, and terrified at the shadow of real sorrow she reproached herself for her weakness.

She entreated him to yield up some of his duties; part of the business might be given up. “You are not well,” she urged, “leave business entirely; what you have already made will suffice for us—though, owing to your kindness, I have indulged myself in imaginary wants, I will most willingly content myself with fewer luxuries.”

Her father opposed her entreaties. Martinez, the only partner, was abroad—no agent could attend to his affairs—business had never been so prosperous as now—he was well enough. In a few years he would wind up, and then they would go to Europe for a year or two to restore his strength. A few months afterward however found him stretched on a bed of sickness, and so alarming was it, that M. Martinez had to be summoned to what the weeping Cora feared would be her father’s death-bed. But careful, devoted attention on her part, and skillful physicians, warded off the immediate danger, and when M. Martinez arrived, Mr. Neill was convalescent, though his health remained in a very delicate state.

He then consented to yield to Cora’s entreaties, and in a little while all his affairs were arranged by M. Martinez, and he had retired from business. There was no need for any sacrifice, even of a single luxury. Mr. Neill found himself possessed of ample means—placed in good investments it yielded more than sufficient for their expenditures.

Cora was surprised at M. Martinez’ appearance. She had pictured to herself a middle-aged Spaniard, recalling the recollections she had of his uncle, which were any thing but complimentary to the nephew; for though the elder Martinez was a good old man, he was a very homely one; being short, thick-set, and his complexion was cloudy and dark. The younger Martinez, on the contrary, was a tall, handsome man, and although forty or forty-five years of age, looked full ten years younger, and was exceedingly polished and agreeable in his manners. He was their constant guest, and she found the hours passing much more agreeably since his arrival than before. His conversation was interesting—he had seen much of the world, and had improved by intercourse with society. He possessed many accomplishments and soon interested himself in Cora’s pursuits.

She was charmed with his superior attainments, and found herself at last relying on him, and looking up to him as to a much-loved elder brother. She never for an instant thought of loving him. Though hopelessly separated from Harry Belton, she cherished the memory of their attachment with almost sacred earnestness. She frequently heard from Madame Chalon, but the good Madame never mentioned his name, and she was quite ignorant of any thing relating to him. She had ceased repining for their separation since her father’s dangerous illness, but her thoughts dwelt upon him as a loved one buried.

Three or four years passed quietly but happily away. M. Martinez almost resided with them. He talked with Mr. Neill, and read, sketched, rode or practiced music with Cora. Her intercourse with M. Martinez gave a new impulse to her mind, and instead of giving herself up to the “luxury of grief,” and indulging in idle reveries of the past, as she had formerly, she studied and strengthened her intellectual nature. Her father’s health still remained delicate, which was the only drawback on her placid happiness. It was necessary to observe great precaution with him, for the slightest exposure or excitement brought on symptoms of his first attack. The constant watchful care which M. Martinez and Cora observed over him, might have prolonged his life many years, had not pecuniary misfortunes overtaken him. The principal part of his fortune had been invested in stocks that proved to be worthless, and left him penniless. The news of their insolvency reached Mr. Neill by letters, before M. Martinez had heard of it, and the anguish he felt at finding himself in his old age deprived of the fruits of long laborious years, produced a fresh hemorrhage from the lungs, more alarming than the first, and nearly caused his immediate death. He rallied, however, and appeared better; still the physicians could give no hope for his recovery; he might linger, they said, but only for a little while. After the immediate danger was over, M. Martinez departed for Havana, to make inquiries into Mr. Neill’s affairs. A few days after his departure, Cora received from him a letter, which filled her with amazement. It contained an offer of marriage from M. Martinez.

“Of your first attachment, Cora, I am aware,” he wrote. “I knew of it at the time, and felt for you deeply and honored you for your heroic self-sacrifice. I have always considered myself as wedded to the memory of my wife, but I have felt for you since I have known you, a regard that approaches very near to the love I felt for my lost Inez. I am alone in life. I have no one to care for but you and your father. Be my wife—one half, yes, I may say all your father’s sorrow will be alleviated by this step on your part. He knows not of this application, nor shall he if you reply in the negative. If I am repulsive to you, or if you look forward to a marriage with Lieut. Belton, I will not urge you—but if, as I hope, you are disengaged, and have long since given up all expectation of marriage with your first choice, and I am not personally disagreeable to you, I entreat of you to give me a favorable hearing. Be my wife, Cora—beloved Cora—I may say, for however you decide, you are very dear to me; and if constant, devoted attention on my part can secure your happiness, or can even make life placidly agreeable to you, I shall feel content. I do not hesitate to say, Cora, though cherishing the memory of my Inez with tenderness, if you reject my suit my life will become as wearisome and devoid of sunshine as it was before I knew you—lonely and dreary will be my future.

“I only waited, before your father’s troubles brought me to this crisis, for the least evidence of interest on your part toward me, to make the offer which I do now. In a few days I shall return—from your first glance, dearest Cora, I shall know your decision. I pray you, let it be favorable.”

She was aroused from the perplexing reverie this letter had plunged her into, by an evident change in her father. He was weaker, and apparently sinking rapidly—and when M. Martinez returned, he met Cora over her father’s death-bed. Mr. Neill expressed his anguish in heart rending lamentations at leaving his daughter, and besought M. Martinez to watch over her as a brother.

Martinez took the hand of the sobbing girl and murmured—

“Beloved Cora, cheer your father’s last moments by yielding to my wishes; let me tell him that as a husband I will guard you.”

She permitted him to raise her head and rest it on his shoulder, and the good father’s last moments were soothed by witnessing the marriage of his daughter with the man he most highly valued as a friend. It was a sad bridal, but Cora felt that two at least were happy; self-sacrifice she had brought her mind years before to endure; and she prayed that Heaven might make the present sacrifice work out her own content. Mr. Neill died, and Cora found herself a fatherless bride. Untiring was her husband’s devotion, and most soothing and consoling were his attentions. Soon after her father’s death he persuaded her to leave their beautiful home for a while, and they accordingly traveled for some time in Europe. The change of scene enlivened her, and she was becoming satisfied with the step she had taken, when, at Naples, one season she met with Harry, now Captain Belton. He was still unmarried, for, like her, he had retained a feeling of romance for his first love. They met with a few flutterings on both sides, which, however, soon disappeared. Each found the other different from the ideal image cherished in their memories. Harry was a noble-hearted, frank fellow, but sadly wanting in the intellectual elevation that characterized M. Martinez, and Cora, though still beautiful, he thought her not half so conversible or interesting as his little black-eyed cousin, Sophie Wilson, with whom he had flirted at Washington on her entrÉe into society, the previous winter, and with whom he corresponded most platonically and brother-like. Had Cora and Harry married early in life, she would have adapted herself partly to his tastes, and he to hers—they would have met half way. She would have elevated him intellectually, and they would probably have been happy; but their pursuits had been different. His had been a careless, indolent life, independent of the mere performance of the duties of his profession—hers an intellectual one. She had become entirely elevated above him; her mental powers had developed while his laid dormant, and she felt as she turned and looked upon the intellectual beauty of M. Martinez, and contrasted it with the tolerably good-looking, though broad and rather inexpressive face of her early love, that the prayer she had made so fervently over her father’s death-bed, had been granted. Her marriage had brought to her true happiness.

Harry Belton returned home with his romantic dreams dispelled, and the next season the American papers gave notice of the marriage of “Captain Belton, U. S. N., to Sophie, only daughter of Gen. Wilson.”

Cora pointed out the notice to her husband with a smile on her now full red lip, and with a deeper flush on her cheek than it usually wore, she said—

“How fortunate it was, dearest, that Harry and I met at Naples last summer—otherwise we might both have gone through life, fancying ourselves miserably unhappy about the romance of a first love.”

———

BY ALICE G. LEE.

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I dream the only happiness I know. Mrs. Butler.

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BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

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BY T. S. ARTHUR.

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Early in life Mr. Jenkins had been what is called unfortunate in business. Either from the want of right management, or from causes that he could not well control, he became involved, and was broken all to pieces. It was not enough that he gave up every dollar he possessed in the world. In the hope that friends would interfere to prevent his being sent to jail, some of his creditors pressed eagerly for the balance of their claims, and the unhappy debtor had no alternative but to avail himself of the statute made and provided for the benefit of individuals in his extremity. It was a sore trial for him; but any thing rather than to be thrown into prison.

After this tempest of trouble and excitement, there fell upon the spirits of Mr. Jenkins a great calm. He withdrew himself from public observation for a time, but his active mind would not let him remain long in obscurity. In a few months he was again in business, though in a small way. His efforts were more cautiously directed than before, and proved successful. He made something above his expenses during the first year, and after that accumulated money rapidly. In five or six years Mr. Jenkins was worth some nine or ten thousand dollars.

But with this prosperity came no disposition on the part of Mr. Jenkins to pay off his old obligations. “They used the law against me,” he would say, when the subject pressed itself upon his mind, as it would sometimes do, “and now let them get what the law will give them.”

There was a curious provision in the law by which Jenkins had been freed from all the claims of his creditors against him; and this provision is usually incorporated in all similar laws, though for what reason it is hard to tell. It is only necessary to promise to pay a claim thus annulled, to bring it in full force against the debtor. If a man owes another a hundred dollars, and by economy and self-denial succeeds in saving twenty dollars and paying it to him, he becomes at once liable for the remaining eighty dollars, unless the manner of doing it be very guarded, and is in danger of a prosecution, although unable to pay another cent. A prudent man, who has once been forced into the unhappy alternative of taking the benefit of the insolvent law, is always careful, lest, in an unguarded moment, he acknowledge his liability to some old creditor, before he is fully able to meet it. Anxious as he is to assure this one and that one of his desire and intention to pay them if ever in his power, and to say to them that he is struggling early and late for their sakes as well as his own, his lips must remain sealed. A word of his intentions and all his fond hopes of getting fairly on his feet again are in danger of shipwreck.

Understanding the binding force of a promise of this kind, made in writing, or in the presence of witnesses, certain of the more selfish or less manly and honorable class of creditors, are ever seeking to extort by fair or foul means, from an unfortunate debtor who has honestly given up every thing, an acknowledgment of his indebtedness to them, in order that they may reap the benefit of his first efforts to get upon his feet again. Many and many an honest but indiscreet debtor, has been thrown upon his back once more, from this cause, and all his hopes in life blasted forever. The means of approach to a debtor in this situation are many and various. “Do you think you will ever be able to do any thing on that old account?” blandly asked, in the presence of a third party, is answered by, “I hope so. But, at present, it takes every dollar I can earn for the support of my family.” This is sufficient—the whole claim is in full force. In the course of a month or two, perhaps in a less period, a sheriff’s writ is served, and the poor fellow’s furniture, or small stock in trade, is seized, and he broken all up again. To have replied—“You have no claim against me,” to the insidious question, seemed in the mind of the poor, but honest man, so much like a public confession that he was a rogue, that he could not do it. And yet this was his only right course, and he should have taken it firmly. Letters are often written, calling attention to the old matter, in which are well timed allusions to the debtor’s known integrity of character, and willingness to pay every dollar he owes in the world, if ever able. Such letters should never be answered, for the answer will be almost sure to contain something, that, in a court of justice, will be construed into an acknowledgment of the entire claim. In paying off old accounts that the law has canceled, which we think every man should do if in his power, the acknowledgment of indebtedness never need go further than the amount paid at any time. Beyond this, no creditor who does not wish to oppress, will ask a man to go. If any seek a further revival of the old claim, let the debtor beware of them; and also, let him be on his guard against him who, in any way, alludes either in writing or personally, to the previous indebtedness.

But we have digressed far enough. Mr. Jenkins, we are sorry to say, was not of that class of debtors who never consider an obligation morally canceled. The law once on his side, he fully made up his mind to keep it forever between him and all former transactions. Sundry were the attempts made to get old claims against him revived, after it was clearly understood that he was getting to be worth money, but Jenkins was a rogue at least, and rogues are always more wary than honest men.

Among the creditors of Jenkins was a man named Gooding, who had loaned him five hundred dollars, and lost three hundred of it—two-fifths being all that was realized from the debtor’s effects. Gooding pitied sincerely the misfortunes of Jenkins, and pocketed his loss without saying a hard word, or laying the weight of a finger upon his already too heavily burdened shoulders. But it so happened that as Jenkins commenced going up in the world, Gooding began to go down. At the time when the former was clearly worth ten thousand dollars, he was hardly able to get money enough to pay his quarterly rent bills. Several times he thought of calling the attention of his old debtor to the balance still against him, which, as it was for borrowed money, ought certainly to be paid. But it was an unpleasant thing to remind a friend of an old obligation, and Gooding, for a time, chose to bear his troubles, as the least disagreeable of the two alternatives. At last, however, difficulties pressed so hard upon him, that he forced himself to the task.

Both he and Jenkins lived about three quarters of a mile distant from their places of business, in a little village beyond the suburbs of the city. Gooding was lame, and used to ride to and from his store in a small wagon, which was used for sending home goods during the day. Jenkins usually walked into town in the morning, and home in the evening. It not unfrequently happened that Gooding overtook the latter, while riding home after business hours, when he always invited him to take a seat by his side, which invitation was never declined.

They were riding home in this way one evening, when Gooding, after clearing his throat two or three times, said, with a slight faltering in his voice,

“I am sorry, neighbor Jenkins, to make any allusion to old matters, but as you are getting along very comfortably, and I am rather hard pressed, don’t you think you could do something for me on account of the three hundred dollars due for borrowed money? If it had been a regular business debt, I would never have said a word about it, but—”

“Neighbor Gooding,” said Jenkins, interrupting him, “don’t give yourself a moment’s uneasiness about that matter. It shall be paid, every dollar of it; but I am not able, just yet, to make it up for you. But you shall have it.”

This was said in the blandest way imaginable, yet in a tone of earnestness.

“How soon do you think you can do something for me?” asked Gooding.

“I don’t know. If not disappointed, however, I think I can spare you a little in a couple of months.”

“My rent is due on the first of October. If you can let me have, say fifty dollars, then, it will be a great accommodation.”

“I will see. If in my power, you shall certainly have at least that amount.”

Two months rolled round, and Gooding’s quarter day came. Nothing more had been said by Jenkins on the subject of the fifty dollars, and Gooding felt very reluctant about reminding him of his promise; but he was short in making up his rent, just the promised sum. He waited until late in the day, but Jenkins neither sent nor called. As the matter was pressing, he determined to drop in upon his neighbor, and remind him of what he had said. He accordingly went round to the store of Jenkins, and found him alone with his clerk.

“How are you to-day?” said Jenkins, smiling.

“Very well. How are you?”

“So—so.”

Then came a pause.

“Business rather dull,” remarked Jenkins.

“Very,” replied Gooding, with a serious face, and more serious tone of voice. “Nothing at all doing. I never saw business so flat in my life.”

“Flat enough.”

Another pause.

“Ahem! Mr. Jenkins,” began Gooding, after a few moments, “do you think you can do any thing for me to-day?”

“If there is any thing I can do for you, it shall be done with pleasure,” said Jenkins, in a cheerful way. “In what can I oblige you?”

“You remember, you said that in all probability you would be able to spare me as much as fifty dollars to-day?”

“I said so?” Jenkins asked this question with an appearance of real surprise.

“Yes. Don’t you remember that we were riding home one evening, about two months ago, and I called your attention to the old account standing between us, and you promised to pay it soon, and said you thought you could spare me fifty dollars about the time my quarter’s rent became due?”

“Upon my word, friend Gooding, I have no recollection of the circumstance whatever,” replied Jenkins, with a smile. “It must have been some one else with whom you were riding. I never said I owed you any thing, or promised to pay you fifty dollars about this time.”

“Oh yes! but I am sure you did.”

“And I am just as sure that I did not,” returned Jenkins, still perfectly undisturbed, while Gooding, as might be supposed, felt his indignation just ready to boil over. But the latter controlled himself as best he could; and as soon as he could get away from the store of Jenkins, without doing so in a manner that would tend to close all intercourse between them, he left and returned to his own place of business, chagrined and angry.

On the same evening, as Gooding was riding home, he saw Jenkins ahead of him on the road. He soon overtook him. Jenkins turned his usual smiling face upon his old creditor, and said “Good evening,” in his usual friendly way. The invitation to get up and ride, that always was given on like occasions, was extended again, and in a few moments the two men were riding along side by side, as friendly, to all appearance, as if nothing had happened.

“Jenkins, how could you serve me such a scaly trick as you did?” Gooding said, soon after his neighbor had taken a seat by his side. “You know very well that you promised to pay my claim; and also promised to give me fifty dollars of it to-day, if possible.”

“I know I did. But it was out of my power to let you have any thing to-day,” replied Jenkins.

“But what was the use of your denying it, and making me out a liar or a fool in the presence of your clerk?”

“I had a very good reason for doing so. My clerk would have been a witness to my acknowledgment of your whole claim against me, and thus make me liable before I was ready to pay it. As my head is fairly clear of the halter, you cannot blame me for wishing to keep it so. A burnt child, you know, dreads the fire.”

“But you know me well enough to know that I never would have pressed the claim against you.”

“Friend Gooding, I have seen enough of the world to satisfy me that we don’t know any one. I am very ready to say to you, that your claim shall be satisfied to the full extent, whenever it is in my power to do so; but a legal acknowledgment of the claim I am not willing to make. You mustn’t think hard of me for what I did to-day. I could not, in justice to myself, have done any thing else.”

Gooding professed to be fully satisfied with this explanation, although he was not. He was very well assured that Jenkins was perfectly able to pay him the three hundred dollars if he chose to do so, and that his refusal to let him have the fifty dollars, conditionally promised, was a dishonest act.

More than a year passed, during which time Gooding made many fruitless attempts to get something out of Jenkins, who was always on the best terms with him, but put him off with fair promises, that were never kept. These promises were never made in the presence of a third person, and might, therefore, have just as well been made to the wind, so far as their binding force was concerned. Things grew worse and worse with Gooding, and he became poorer every day, while the condition of Jenkins as steadily improved.

One rainy afternoon, Gooding drove up to the store of his old friend, about half an hour earlier than he usually left for home. Jenkins was standing in the door.

“As it is raining, I thought I would call round for you,” he said, as he drew up his horse.

“Very much obliged to you, indeed,” returned Jenkins, quite well pleased. “Stop a moment until I lock up my desk, and then I will be with you.”

In a minute or two Jenkins came out, and stepped lightly into the wagon.

“It is kind in you, really, to call for me,” he said, as the wagon moved briskly away. “I was just thinking that I should have to get a carriage.”

“It is no trouble to me at all,” returned Gooding, “and if it were, the pleasure of doing a friend a kindness would fully repay it.”

“You smell strong of whisky here,” said Jenkins, after they had ridden a little way, turning his eyes toward the back part of the wagon as he spoke. “What have you here?”

“An empty whisky hogshead. This rain put me in mind of doing what my wife has been teasing me to do for the last six months—get her a rain barrel. I tried to get an old oil cask, but couldn’t find one. They make the best rain barrels. Just burn them out with a flash of good dry shavings, and they are clear from all oily impurities, and tight as a drum.”

“Indeed! I never thought that. I must look out for one, for our old rain hogshead is about tumbling to pieces.”

From rain barrels the conversation turned upon business, and at length Gooding brought up the old story, and urged the settlement of his claim as a matter of charity.

“You don’t know how much I need it,” he said. “Necessity alone compels me to press the claim upon your attention.”

“It is hard, I know, and I am very sorry for you,” Jenkins replied. “Next week I will certainly pay you fifty dollars.”

“I shall be very thankful. How soon after do you think you will be able to let me have the balance of the three hundred due me? Say as early as possible.”

“Within three months, at least, I hope,” replied Jenkins.

“Harry! Do you hear that?” said Gooding, turning his head toward the back part of the wagon, and speaking in a quick elated manner.

“Oh, aye!” came ringing from the bung-hole of the whisky hogshead.

“Who the dickens is that?” exclaimed Jenkins, turning quickly round.

“No one,” replied Gooding, with a quiet smile, “but my clerk, Harry Williams.”

“Where?”

“Here,” replied the individual named, pushing himself up through the loose head of the upright hogshead, and looking into the face of the discomfited Jenkins, with a broad smile of satisfaction upon his always humorous phiz.

“Whoa, Charley,” said Gooding, at this moment reigning up his horse before the house of Jenkins.

The latter stepped out, with his eyes upon the ground, and stood with his hand upon the wagon in thought for some moments; then looking up, he said, while the humor of the whole thing pressed itself so fully upon him, that he could not help smiling.

“See here, Gooding, if both you and Harry will promise me never to say a word about this confounded trick, I will give you a check for three hundred dollars on the spot.”

“No, I must have four hundred and twenty-six dollars, the principal and interest. Nothing less,” returned Gooding firmly. “You have acknowledged the debt in the presence of Mr. Williams, and if it is not paid by to-morrow twelve o’clock, I shall commence suit against you. If I receive the money before that time we will keep this little matter quiet; if suit is brought, all will come out on the trial.”

“As you please,” said Jenkins angrily, turning away and entering his house.

Before twelve o’clock on the next day, however, Jenkins’ clerk called in at the store of Gooding, and paid him four hundred and twenty-six dollars, for which he took his receipt in full for all demands to date. The two men were never afterward on terms of sufficient intimacy to ride in the same wagon together. Whether Gooding and his clerk kept the matter a secret, as they promised, we don’t know. It is very certain, that it was known all over town in less than a week, and soon after was told in the newspapers as a most capital joke.

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BY MISS H. E. GRANNIS.

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OR, ROSE BUDD.

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BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,” “MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.

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(Continued from page 48.)