Witherlee had not left the house in Temple street but a little while, when a couple of ladies, intimate with the family, who had seen the news of the marriage in the morning paper, called, on a visit of congratulation. Presently more came, and up to one o’clock there was a dropping shower of callers. Last of all arrived Miss Bean, a fat and spectacled childish old maiden lady, with a prude’s face—the same who, when poor Susan Hollingsworth was being flayed alive at Mrs. Binghampton’s party, had brought ignominy on her defender, young Mr. Mill, by inquiring if he was going to come out in favor of Mormonism. Received graciously, and having found out all she could about Mr. Harrington, and that the newly married couple were not going on a bridal tour, and that there was to be no reception, but that everybody was expected to call without formality, Miss Bean waddled off, and, as Muriel expected she would do, never rested till she had gone the entire round of her acquaintance, and spread the information she had received to the remotest borders of society.

Left alone, Harrington and Muriel, accompanied by Wentworth and Emily, went to call on the tabooed Hollingsworths, and returned in about an hour in great satisfaction. None but Muriel, however, knew the sweetest part of that visit; for poor Susan not appearing in the parlor, Muriel had begged to see her, and at last had been admitted to the sad chamber of her humiliation and anguish. And there, with all fond endearment, and sweet, wise words of sympathy and counsel, Muriel had cheered and comforted her, and prevailed on her to make the visit. It was not a deed that the lofty rectitude of a Bean or a Binghampton could approve; but alas, the beautiful blonde was not a Friend of Virtue!

That Susan was to make the visit, and that she was to come some time next week, was all that anybody but Susan and Muriel knew, but that was enough to set the party in a state of great gratification, and in that state they arrived again at Temple street.

Wentworth had been prevailed upon to spend the day, and after dinner, Harrington having said to him, “Richard, you are interested in Hungarian fugitives, come with us and see some fugitives of another color,” they had all gone up-stairs, Mrs. Eastman included, to listen to the story of Antony.

It was a story till then untold to any of them, even to Harrington; for in Antony’s weak health, and amidst the thick-crowding excitements and interests of the four preceding days, time and opportunity had been wanting. Now, however, they had come, and the story was told.

A touching and an awful story. The story of a man who had fled for Liberty or Death through the malignant horrors of a Southern fen, with the hounds and hunters of a pirate civilization on his trail, and who had lain for weeks like years, in cold, and stench, and hunger, with rats and vermin swarming over him, in the black and filthy antre of a Northern vessel’s hold, with a Northern ruffian to maltreat him daily in his wasting torture; earning thus, with pangs and fears that freemen never know, his right to the freedom Nature gave him for his own.

A touching and an awful story, whose dread reality had a haggard, haunting shadow, more dreadful than itself. For the man’s childish imagination had been unnaturally wrought upon, and his tale involved a flickering and ghostly sense that he had been in Hell, and that his tormentors were not men but devils. He did not aver it, but it was strangely and indefinably implied in his grotesque narration, and reached the minds of his auditors. Was he wrong? He had suffered much; his reason had been a little shaken by his awful experiences; his superstitious, childish fancy had been insanely stirred. And yet—was he wrong?

As people emerging from some dark cavern into the glad light of day, so from the room of the fugitive, came the five again into the cheerful library. Muriel’s face was grave and dreamful; Harrington was sad and silent; Mrs. Eastman wore a disturbed look; Emily seemed a little frightened, and Wentworth was red with indignation.

They took their seats again without speaking, and for a minute or two nothing was said.

“Well, Richard,” said Harrington, at length, “what do you think now of Hungarian fugitives as objects of sympathy, compared with fugitives like that up-stairs?”

“Oh bother Hungarian fugitives!” blurted Wentworth. “Here’s Hungarians, as John Randolph said of the Greeks, at our very doors. After hearing that man’s story, I can’t help losing my admiration for Kossuth. You know he censured the editor Gyurman, his countryman, for writing against slavery, and I thought once he was right; but, by Jupiter, a man who knows anything about slavery, as I do now, and doesn’t become a red-hot Abolitionist, has a stone in the place where his heart ought to be, or I’m a Dutchman.”

“Well,” returned Harrington, laughing at Richard’s vehemence, “don’t go too far the other way, dear Raffaello. We must feel for the Hungarians too, you know. As for Kossuth, his only fault is, that he’s so much of a patriot, that he’s willing to flatter American tyranny to serve Hungary. It’s wrong and weak, but let us still aspire for Hungarian independence as for American liberty.”

“I agree,” replied Wentworth. “But how did you come across this poor fellow, Harrington?”

“I was out on a nocturnal ramble,” replied Harrington, “and I found him in the street, just escaped from the brig, and took him home with me.”

“Yes, Richard,” said Mrs. Eastman, quickly; “but you don’t know all John did for him. He”—

“Now, mother,” pleaded Harrington, coloring, “don’t mention that—please don’t.”

“I’ll tell you, Richard, sometime when John is out of the way,” said Muriel, archly confidential. “No objections, John! We’ll spare your modesty, and satisfy Richard’s curiosity, and you are to know nothing about it.”

“And my curiosity, too,” said Emily, laughing.

“And yours too,” replied Muriel.

“Well, I must say that that was very noble in John,” said Wentworth. “But he’s always”—

“No nobler than you’re giving poor Vukovich house-room till he found another friend in Bagasse,” broke in Harrington, laughing and coloring.

“Peuh!” said Wentworth, blushing. “How did you find that out? No matter—he was only a Hungarian. But this poor fellow—oh, what an account for a man to have to give of himself! It actually made my blood boil.”

“By the way,” said Harrington, “we must try and discover the name of that captain, and have this piece of infamy properly made public. I can’t help fancying that Antony is wrong about the name of the brig. The brig Solomon. Isn’t Solomon an odd or unusual name for a vessel? Solomon—Solomon. But still—I don’t know; she may be named for her owner. I wonder who he is—for this rascality must have been known to him, and we must hold him responsible to the public for it, too.”

Muriel, who was abstractedly thinking, suddenly started, then closed her parted lips, and reflected again, with a painful color stealing over her countenance.

“John,” said she in a low voice, “an idea occurs to me. You remember that stevedore, Driscoll. Wasn’t it on a brig that he broke his leg?”

“Yes,” returned Harrington, wondering what she meant. “It was on one of your uncle’s vessels.”

“And don’t you remember the name of that brig? It was the brig Soliman.”

Mrs. Eastman started violently, and turned pale, while the color came like red fire to the face of Harrington.

“Heavens!” exclaimed the pale lady, clasping her hands. “Oh, I hope you are wrong! I hope Lemuel has not been lending himself to such work as this.”

“Wait a minute,” said Harrington, springing up and leaving the room.

He went up-stairs to the chamber of the fugitives. Roux and Antony were sitting near each other, and Tugmutton was reading to them in his usual grandiloquent way.

“Antony,” said Harrington, “what did you say the name of that brig was?”

The fugitive, still lean and haggard, but wonderfully improved in aspect, stared at him with his hollow eyes and skull-like visage for a moment.

“Brig Solomon, Marster Harrington,” he replied, quickly.

“You say you read the name of the brig when you were in the water, before you boarded her?”

“Yes, Marster.”

“Can you spell the name you read? Spell it for me.”

“Yes, Marster. S-o-l, sol, i, solo, m-a-n mon, Solomon.”

“You’re sure that was the way it was spelled.”

“Yes, Marster.”

“Very well,” and Harrington turned to go.

“But that’s not the way to spell Solomon,” bawled Tugmutton.

No more it’s not, thought Harrington, as he slowly went down-stairs—but that’s the spelling. O Lemuel Atkins!

He entered the library with a face so grave that they all saw what he had to tell.

“You are right, Muriel,” he said, sinking heavily into his chair. “It is the Soliman.”

Mrs. Eastman burst into tears.

“My dear mother!” cried Muriel, flying to her side, and folding her in her arms, while the astonished and agitated Emily also came to her.

“No matter,” said Mrs. Eastman, suddenly recovering, and gently pushing them from her, while her pale face became severe. “It was but a moment’s pain, and I am now filled with indignation. To think that Lemuel, my own brother, would join in oppressing that poor creature—oh, I cannot bear to think of it! I feel it as if it were my own sin. I am disgraced by it. Every action of his, in his pro-slavery mania, rests on me like a disgrace that I cannot bear. But this is the worst of all.”

“My dear mother,” said Harrington, approaching, and taking her hands in his, “let it all go. Fortunately, Antony has escaped from their clutches, and the worst is over. We will do nothing more about it, but let it rest in silence. You cannot help your brother’s misconduct, and are not in any way responsible for it, though I can well understand how it should grieve you.”

“It ought to be made public, John,” she answered tremulously, with the tears in her eyes, “and it would be for his good if he were taught, by the indignation of at least a portion of the people, that such things cannot be done with impunity. Heaven forgive me, if I fail in my duty, but I cannot help shrinking from the public outcry, and he my own brother.”

She covered her eyes with her hand, as Harrington sadly withdrew to his chair.

“But, look here, now,” said Wentworth, “aren’t you all too fast? There may be another brig Soliman, you know.”

“Perhaps,” replied Harrington; “but I fear not. It is unlikely, I think, that two vessels of the same name would be in the New Orleans cotton trade.”

“Who is this Driscoll, John?” asked Emily.

“Driscoll is a stevedore,” he replied, “who fell into the hold of the Soliman, last winter, as they were unlading, and broke his leg. I heard of the accident through Captain Fisher, who happened to be on the spot and knew the man, and as he had a family who were thus deprived of their means of support till he got well, I made bold to call on them, and Muriel and Mrs. Eastman took care of the poor people till Driscoll got well, and was able to work again. Of course, I recollected him, but the name of the vessel on which he met with his accident, though I knew Mr. Atkins was her owner, had slipped my mind.”

“Oh, John,” said Emily, impetuously, “how like you!”

“What? To forget the name?” said Harrington, innocently, misled by her tone. “Indeed, no. I usually remember names very well”—

“’Psha! no,” replied Emily, laughing at his simplicity. “But to visit the poor man, and have his family taken care of. You, a perfect stranger to them all. Now, I should like to know who beside you would have felt called upon to interest himself in such a matter?”

“Oh, pooh! A mere trifle,” said Harrington, reddening, and looking extremely uncomfortable. “Hundreds of people would have done the same thing. It was Mrs. Eastman and Muriel who did the real work in this case. So, you see, there are more more willing hearts and hands than mine in the world.”

“I wonder if my grand Lord Bacon, Baron Verulam, and Viscount St. Albans would have interested himself in the plebeian Driscolls,” said Wentworth, slily, aiming a hit at Harrington’s favorite.

“Indeed he would,” replied Harrington, with great animation. “It is recorded of him that no case of distress ever came under his notice without being promptly relieved. Verulam played Providence well, till the bloat king, and the pack of Conservatives ruined him. Yes, till then, and afterward, till he left the globe. Bacon was the Theodore Parker of his time, plus the Verulamio-Shakspearean intellect—so don’t you say one word in his dispraise, Master Wentworth, or you and I shall quarrel.”

Wentworth laughed at the gay threat, and said no more.

“Revenons À nos moutons—let us return to our Southdowns,” said Muriel, playfully. “I had a talk with Roux, John, of which I was going to tell you when our company came this morning, and I haven’t had a chance since. The sum and substance of which is, that Roux is alive to his danger in Boston, and consents to go to Worcester. So on Monday, John, you must transport him and Antony there, find them a boarding-house, see Mr. Higginson about them, and let them be looking out for a house and occupation, while we arrange to send on the wife and children after them. So there’s work laid out for you, my husband!”

“Bravo!” cried Harrington, joyfully. “I’ll attend to it.”

“In the meantime,” pursued Muriel, “we’ll put Roux on salary sufficient to cover all expenses till he gets settled again. Then, there’s his shop to be closed up, and his furniture to be removed, all which is on your broad shoulders, my Atlas.”

“I’ll bear the load!” said Harrington, gaily.

“For it won’t do to have Roux burdened with it,” she continued, “lest in his removing he should be removed.”

“See here. Can’t I help?” put in Wentworth. “I burn with ardor.”

“Oh, Raffaello!” bantered Muriel, with a gay and charming smile—“you? Flower of painters, I fear me that you will not find such anti-slavery service to your taste! However, we will see. Yes, Richard, seriously, you shall help if you want to.”

“Good!” said Wentworth, laughingly. “What a nest of traitors to the blessed old granny of a Government we are!”

“My faith!” said Muriel, with bewitching levity, “if they will have their Fugitive Slave Law, they shall also have their traitors to balance. But there was once a time,” she fervently added, “when a poor man could earn his bread in the city which I love, with none to molest him or make him afraid, and may that good time come again.”

“Amen!” cried Wentworth. “And, apropos, have any of you seen the papers to-day? Have, you heard the great news?”

“I have not,” said Muriel.

“Nor I,” said Harrington. “What is it?”

“It came yesterday,” replied Wentworth, “but to-day’s paper has a fuller account of it. Charles Sumner has announced in the Senate that he is going to speak on the Fugitive Slave Law! Hurrah!”

“Io triumphe!” cried Muriel, flying from the room to get the paper, amidst a general chorus of delight.

She came back presently with the “Commonwealth,” and read aloud Mr. Sumner’s brief remarks on presenting the petition of the New England Quakers for the repeal of the Fugitive Slave Law—remarks which were the prelude to one of the ablest and noblest speeches ever heard in the American Congress.

“Bravo!” cried Harrington, when she had finished. “Now we shall hear the old New England voice!”

“By Jupiter, yes,” said Wentworth. “Charles Sumner’s going in. It’ll be like a giant slinging up an elephant by the tail, and whacking the enemy with it.”

They all laughed uproariously at this novel symbol of aggressive eloquence.

“Come now,” said Wentworth, when the laughter had subsided, “this news calls upon us to round up Saturday night with music. Sing, you pair of seraphs, sing. Let’s have Theodore KÖrner’s ‘Battle-Hymn of the Berlin Landsturm.’”

Muriel and Emily moved to the organ, and on the rich and passionate clouds of Weber’s music, their noble voices stormed in melody. But as the first exalting tones arose, Mrs. Eastman, sad and sick at heart, withdrew to her chamber, to think with sorrow of her brother’s baseness, to think and think and think, and weep alone.