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Philip, running forward, as he recognizes Madame's tall figure in the passage. They go up to his room, I suppose, regardless of the grins and sneers of the little boy with the plumet, who aids the maid-servant to make the beds, and who thinks Monsieur Philippe has a very elderly acquaintance.

ful; and how true love must come to a happy ending; and how she, Smolensk, will do all in her power to aid, comfort, and console her young friends. As for the writer of Mr. Philip's memoirs, you see I never try to make any concealments. I have told you all along that Charlotte and Philip are married, and I believe Philip closes the door upon his visitor, who they are happy. But it is certain that they suflooks at him with so much hope, kindness, con- fered dreadfully at this time of their lives; and fidence in her eyes, that the poor fellow is en- my wife says that Charlotte, if she alludes to the couraged almost ere she begins to speak. "Yes, period and the trial, speaks as though they had you have reason; I come from the little person," both undergone some hideous operation, the reMadame Smolensk said; "the means of resist-membrance of which forever causes a pang to ing that poor dear angel! She has passed a the memory. So, my young lady, will you have sad night. What? You, too, have not been in bed, poor young man!" Indeed Philip had only thrown himself on his bed, and had kicked there, and had groaned there, and had tossed there; and had tried to read, and, I dare say, remembered afterward, with a strange interest, the book he read, and that other thought which was throbbing in his brain all the time while he was reading, and while the wakeful hours went wearily tolling by.

"No, in effect," says poor Philip, rolling a dismal cigarette; "the night has not been too fine. And she has suffered too? Heaven bless her!" And then Madame Smolensk told how the little dear angel had cried all the night long, and how the Smolensk had not succeeded in comforting her, until she promised she would go to Philip, and tell him that his Charlotte would be his for ever and ever; that she never could think of any man but him; that he was the best, and the dearest, and the bravest, and the truest Philip, and that she did not believe one word of those wicked stories told against him by-"Hold, Monsieur Philippe, I suppose Madame la Générale has been talking about you, and loves you no more," cried Madame Smolensk; "we other women are assassins-assassins, see you! But Madame la Générale went too far with the little maid. She is an obedient little maid, the dear Miss!-trembling before her mother, and always ready to yield-only now her spirit is roused; and she is yours and yours only. The little dear, gentle child! Ah, how pretty she was, leaning on my shoulder! I held her there--yes there, my poor garçon, and I cut this from her neck, and brought it to thee. Come, embrace me. Weep; that does good, Philip. I love thee well. Go-and thy little It is an angel!" And so, in the hour of their pain, myriads of manly hearts have found woman's love ready to soothe their anguish.

Leaving to Philip that thick curling lock of brown hair (from a head where now, mayhap, there is a line or two of matron silver), this Samaritan plods her way back to her own house, where her own cares await her. But though the way is long, Madame's step is lighter now, as she thinks how Charlotte at the journey's end is waiting for news of Philip; and I suppose there are more kisses and embraces when the good soul meets with the little suffering girl, and tells her how Philip will remain forever true and faith

your trial one day-to be borne, pray Heaven, with a meek spirit. Ah, how surely the turn comes to all of us! Look at Madame Smolensk at her luncheon-table, this day, after her visit to Philip at his lodging, after comforting little Charlotte in her pain. How brisk she is! How good-natured! How she smiles! How she speaks to all her company, and carves for her guests! You do not suppose she has no griefs and cares of her own? You know better. I dare say she is thinking of her creditors; of her poverty; of that accepted bill which will come due next week, and so forth. The Samaritan who rescues you, most likely, has been robbed and has bled in his day, and it is a wounded arm that bandages yours when bleeding.

If Anatole, the boy who scoured the plain at the Hôtel Poussin, with his plumet in his jacket pocket, and his slippers soled with scrubbingbrushes, saw the embrace between Philip and his good friend, I believe, in his experience at that hotel, he never witnessed a transaction more honorable, generous, and blameless. Put what construction you will on the business, Anatole, you little imp of mischief! your mother never gave you a kiss more tender than that which Madame Smolensk bestowed on Philip-than that which she gave Philip ?-than that which she carried back from him and faithfully placed on poor little Charlotte's pale round cheek. The world is full of love and pity, I say. Had there been less suffering there would have been less kindness. I, for one, almost wish to be ill again, so that the friends who succored me might once more come to my rescue.

To poor little wounded Charlotte in her bed our friend the mistress of the boarding-house brought back inexpressible comfort. Whatever might betide, Philip would never desert her! "Think you I would ever have gone on such an embassy for a French girl, or interfered between her and her parents?" Madame asked. "Never, never! But you and Monsieur Philip are already betrothed before Heaven; and I should despise you, Charlotte, I should despise him, were either to draw back." This little point being settled in Miss Charlotte's mind, I can fancy she is immensely soothed and comforted; that hope and courage settle in her heart; that the color comes back to her young cheeks; that she can come and join her family as she did yesterday. "I told you she never cared about him,”

says Mrs. Baynes to her husband. "Faith no, she can't have cared for him much," says Baynes, with something of a sorrow that his girl should be so light-minded. But you and I, who have been behind the scenes, who have peeped into Philip's bedroom and behind poor Charlotte's modest curtains, know that the girl had revolt-poverty and wretchedness did she marry this ed from her parents; and so children will if the most violent and disreputable young man. The authority exercised over them is too tyrannical General sends regards to Mac, and I am," or unjust. Gentle Charlotte, who scarce ever re- etc. sisted, was aroused and in rebellion: honest Char- That these were the actual words of Mrs. lotte, who used to speak all her thoughts, now hid Baynes's letter I can not, as a veracious biograthem, and deceived father and mother-yes, de- pher, take upon myself to say. I never saw the ceived-what a confession to make regarding a document, though I have had the good fortune young lady, the prima donna of our opera! Mrs. to peruse others from the same hand. CharBaynes is, as usual, writing her lengthy scrawls lotte saw the letter some time after, when on a to sister MacWhirter, at Tours, and informs the visit to her aunt at Tours, and when a quarrel major's lady that she has very great satisfaction occurred between the two sisters-Mrs. Major in at last being able to announce "that that and Mrs. General-and Charlotte mentioned most imprudent and in all respects ineligible the contents of the letter to a friend of mine engagement between her Charlotte and a cer- who has talked to me about his affairs, and estain young man, son of a bankrupt London phy-pecially his love affairs, for many and many a sician, is come to an end. Mr. F.'s conduct long hour. And shrewd old woman as Mrs. has been so wild, so gross, so disorderly and un- Baynes may be, you may see how utterly she gentlemanlike, that the general (and you know, was mistaken in fancying that her daughter's Maria, how soft and sweet a tempered man obedience was still secure. The little maid had Baynes is) has told Mr. Firmin his opinion in left father and mother, at first with their eager unmistakable words, and forbidden him to con- sanction; her love had been given to Firmin; tinue his visits. After seeing him every day for and an inmate-a prisoner if you will-under six months, during which time she has accus- her father's roof, her heart remained with Philtomed herself to his peculiarities, and his often ip, however time or distance might separate coarse and odious expressions and conduct, no them. wonder the separation has been a shock to dear Char, though I believe the young man feels nothing who has been the cause of all this grief. That he cares but little for her, has been my opinion all along, though she, artless child, gave him her whole affection. He has been accustomed to throw over women; and the brother of a young lady whom Mr. F. had courted and left (and who has made a most excellent match since) showed his indignation at Mr. F.'s conduct and affectionate letter with not unmingled pleasure; but at the embassy ball the other night, on which ah, what pleasure in life does not carry its amari aliquid the young man took advantage of his greatly su- along with it! That you are hearty, cheerful, and inperior size and strength to begin a vulgar box-dustrious, earning a small competence, I am pleased ining-match, in which both parties were severely wounded. Of course you saw the paragraph in Galignani about the whole affair. I sent our dresses, but it did not print them, though our names appeared as among the company. Any thing more singular than the appearance of Mr. F. you can not well imagine. I wore my garnets; Charlotte (who attracted universal admiration) was in, etc., etc. Of course the separation has occasioned her a good deal of pain; for Mr. F. certainly behaved with much kindness and forbearance on a previous occasion. But the general will not hear of the continuance of the connection. He says the young man's conduct has been too gross and shameful; and when once roused, you know, I might as well attempt to chain a tiger as Baynes. Our poor Char will suffer, no doubt, in consequence of the behavior of this brute, but she has ever been an obedient child, who knows how to honor her father and mother. She bears up wonderfully,

though, of course, the dear child suffers at the parting. I think if she were to go to you and Mac Whirter at Tours for a month or two, she would be all the better for change of air, too, dear Mac. Come and fetch her, and we will pay the dawk. She would go to certain

And now, as we have the command of Philip's desk, and are free to open and read the private letters which relate to his history, I take leave to put in a document which was penned in his place of exile by his worthy father, upon receiving the news of the quarrel described in the last chapter of these memoirs:

"ASTOR HOUSE, NEW YORK, September 27. "DEAR PHILIP,-I received the news in your last kind

penniless girl I can't say gives me a very sincere pleasure. with your good looks, good manners, attainments, you might have hoped for a better match than a half-pay offcer's daughter. But 'tis useless speculating on what might have been. We are puppets in the hands of fate, most of us. We are carried along by a power stronger than ourselves. It has driven me, at sixty years of age, from competence, general respect, high position, to poverty and exile. So be it! laudo manentem, as my delightful old friend and philosopher teaches me-si celeres quatit pennas....you know the rest. Whatever our fortune may be, I hope that my Philip and his father will bear it with the courage of gentlemen.

deed to think that you talk about being married to a

"Our papers have announced the death of your poor mother's uncle, Lord Ringwood, and I had a fond lingering hope that he might have left some token of remembrance to his brother's grandson. He has not. You have probam pauperiem sine dote. You have courage, health, strength, and talent. I was in greater straits than you are at your age. My father was not as indulgent as yours, I hope and trust, has been. From debt and dependence I worked myself up to a proud position by my own efforts. That the storm overtook me and engulfed me afterward is true. But I am like the merchant of my favorite post: I still

hope-ay, at 63! to mend my shattered ships, indocilis | this city. Leave your card with Mrs. Fogle. Her huspauperiem pati. I still hope to pay back to my dear boy band himself may be useful to you and your ever attached that fortune which ought to have been his, and which went down in my own shipwreck. Something tells me I must, I will!

"I agree with you that your escape from Agnes Twysden has been a piece of good fortune for you, and am much diverted by your account of her dusky inamorato! Between ourselves, the fondness of the Twysdens for money

amounted to meanness. And though I always received

Twysden in dear old Parr Street, as I trust a gentleman should, his company was insufferably tedious to me, and his vulgar loquacity odious. His son also was little to my taste. Indeed I was heartily relieved when I found your connection with that family was over, knowing their rapacity about money, and that it was your fortune, not you, they were anxious to secure for Agnes.

"You will be glad to hear that I am in not inconsider able practice already. My reputation as a physician had preceded me to this country. My work on Gout was favorably noticed here, and in Philadelphia, and in Boston, by the scientific journals of those great cities. People are more generous and compassionate toward misfortune here

than in our cold-hearted island. I could mention several

gentlemen of New York who have suffered shipwreck, like myself, and are now prosperous and respected. I had the good fortune to be of considerable professional service to Colonel J. B. Fogle, of New York, on our voyage out; and the Colonel, who is a leading personage here, has shown Limself not at all ungrateful. Those who fancy that at New York people can not appreciate and understand the canners of a gentleman, are not a little mistaken; and a man who, like myself, has lived with the best society in London, has, I flatter myself, not lived in that society quite in vain. The Colonel is proprietor and editor of one of the most brilliant and influential journals of the city. You know that arms and the toga are often worn here by

the same individual, and....

"I had actually written thus far when I read in the Colonel's paper, the New York Emerald, an account of your battle with your cousin at the Embassy ball! Oh, you pugnacious Philip! Well, young Twysden was very vulgar, very rude and overbearing, and, I have no doubt, deserved the chastisement you gave him. By-the-way, the correspondent of the Emerald makes some droll blunders regarding you in his letter. We are all fair game for pub-, licity in this country, where the press is free with a vengeance; and your private affairs, or mine, or the President's, er our gracious Queen's, for the matter of that, are dis

eased with a freedom which certainly amounts to license.

"FATHER."

We take the New York Emerald at Bays's, and in it I had read a very amusing account of our friend Philip, in an ingenious correspondence entitled "Letters from an Attaché," which appeared in that jourual. I even copied the paragraph to show to my wife, and perhaps to forward to our friend.

"I promise you," wrote the attaché, "the new country did not disgrace the old at the British Embassy ball on Queen Vic's birthday. Colonel Z. B. Hoggins's lady, of Albany, and the peerless bride of Elijah J. Dibbs, of Twentyninth Street in your city, were the observed of all observers for splendor, for elegance, for refined native beauty. The Royal Dukes danced with nobody else; and at the attention of one of the Princes to the lovely Miss Dibbs, I observed his Royal Duchess looked as black as thunder. Supper handsome. Back Delmonico

to beat it. Champagne so so. By-the-way, the young fellow who writes here for the Pall Mall Gazette got too much of the Champagne on board-as usual, I am told. The Honorable R. Twysden, of London, was rude to my young chap's partner, or winked at him offensively, or trod on his toe, or I don't know what-but young F. followed him into the garden; hit out at him; sent him flying, like a spread eagle into the midst of an illumination, and left him there sprawling. Wild, rampageous fellow, this young F., has already spent his own fortune, and ruined his poor old father, who has been forced to cross the water.

He talked long with our minister about his travOld Louis Philippe went away early. els in our country. I was standing by, but in course ain't so ill-bred as to say what passed between them."

This is the way history is written. I dare say about others besides Philip, in English paThe Colonel's lady is passing the winter in Paris, where I pers as well as American, have fables been narshould wish you to pay your respects to her. Her hus-rated.

band has been most kind to me. I am told that Mrs. F.
lives in the very choicest French society, and the friend-
ship of this family may be useful to you as to your affec-
Lonate father,
G. B. F.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CONTAINS A TUG OF WAR.

"Address as usual, until you hear further from me, as Dr. Brandon, New York. I wonder whether Lord Estridge WHO was the first to spread the report that Las asked you after his old college friend? When he was Headbury and at Trinity, he and a certain pensioner Philip was a prodigal who had ruined his poor whom men used to nickname Brummell Firmin were said confiding father? I thought I knew a person to be the best dressed men in the university. Estridge who might be interested in getting under any has advanced to rank, to honors! You may rely on it shelter, and sacrificing even his own son for his that he will have one of the very next vacant garters. own advantage. I thought I knew a man who What a different, what an unfortunate career, has been had done as much already, and surely might do bis quendam friend's!-an exile, an inhabitant of a small room in a great hotel, where I sit at a scrambling public 80 again; but my wife flew into one of her temtable with all sorts of coarse people! The way in which pests of indignation when I hinted something they bolt their dinner, often with a knife, shocks me. of this, clutched her own children to her heart, Your remittance was most welcome, small as it was. It according to her maternal wont, asked me was shows my Philip has a kind heart. Ah! why, why are there any power would cause me to belie them? you thinking of marriage, who are so poor? By-the-way, and sternly rebuked me for daring to be so your encouraging account of your circumstances has induced me to draw upon you for 100 dollars. The bill will go to Europe by the packet which carries this letter, and has kindly been cashed for me by my friends, Messrs. Plaster and Shinman, of Wall Street, respected bankers of

wicked, heartless, and cynical. My dear creature, wrath is no answer. You call me heartless and cynic for saying men are false and wicked. Have you never heard to what lengths

some bankrupts will go? To appease the wolves who chase them in the winter forest, have you not read how some travelers will cast all their provisions out of the sledge? Then, when all the provisions are gone, don't you know that they will fling out perhaps the sister, perhaps the mother, perhaps the baby, the little, dear, tender innocent? Don't you see him tumbling among the howling pack, and the wolves gnashing, gnawing, crashing, gobbling him up in the snow? Oh, horror, horror! My wife clutches all the young ones to her breast as I utter these fiendish remarks. She hugs them in her embrace, and says, "For shame!" and that I am a monster, and so on. Go to! Go down on your knees, woman, and acknowledge the sinfulness of our human kind. How long had our race existed ere murder and violence began? and how old was the world ere brother slew brother?

Well, my wife and I came to a compromise. I might have my opinion, but was there any need to communicate it to poor Philip? No, surely. So I never sent him the extract from the New York Emerald; though, of course, some other good-natured friend did, and I don't think my magnanimous friend cared much. As for supposing that his own father, to cover his own character, would lie away his son's-such a piece of artifice was quite beyond Philip's comprehension, who has been all his life slow in appreciating roguery, or recognizing that there is meanness and double-dealing in the world. When he once comes to understand the fact; when he once comprehends that Tartuffe is a humbug and swelling Bufo is a toady, then my friend becomes as absurdly indignant and mistrustful as before he was admiring and confiding. Philip! Tartuffe has a number of good, respectable qualities; and Bufo, though an underground envious toady, may have a precious jewel in his head. 'Tis you are cynical. I see the good qualities in these rascals whom you spurn. see. I shrug my shoulders. I smile: and you call me cynic.

Ah,

I

It was long before Philip could comprehend why Charlotte's mother turned upon him, and tried to force her daughter to forsake him. "I

have offended the old woman in a hundred ways," he would say. "My tobacco annoys her; my old clothes offend her; the very English I speak is often Greek to her, and she can no more construe my sentences than I can the Hindostanec jargon she talks to her husband at dinner." "My dear fellow, if you had ten thousand a year she would try and construe your sentences, or accept them even if not understood," I would reply. And some men, whom you and I know to be mean, and to be false, and to be flatterers and parasites, and to be inexorably hard and cruel in their own private circles, will surely pull a long face to-morrow, and say, "Oh! the man's so cynical."

I acquit Baynes of what ensued. I hold Mrs. B. to have been the criminal, the stupid criminal. The husband, like many other men extremely brave in active life, was at home timid and irresolute. Of two heads that lie side by side on the same pillow for thirty years, one must contain the stronger power, the more enduring resolution. Baynes, away from his wife, was shrewd, courageous, gay at times; when with her he was fascinated, torpid under the power of this baleful superior creature. "Ah, when we were subs together in camp in 1803, what a lively fellow Charley Baynes was!" his comrade, Colonel Bunch, would say. That was before he ever saw his wife's yellow face, and what a slave she has made of him!

After that fatal conversation which ensued on the day succeeding the ball, Philip did not come to dinner at Madame's according to his custom. Mrs. Baynes told no family stories, and Colonel Bunch, who had no special liking for the young gentleman, did not trouble himself to make any inquiries about him. One, two, three days passed, and no Philip. At last the Colonel says to the general, with a sly look at Charlotte, "Baynes, where is our young friend with the mustaches? We have not seen him these three days." And he gives an arch look at poor Charlotte. A burning blush flamed up in little Charlotte's pale face as she looked at her parents and then at their old friend. "Mr. Firmin does not come because papa and mamma have forbidden him," says Charlotte. "I suppose he only comes where he is welcome." And having made this audacious speech, I suppose the little maid tossed her little head up, and wondered, in the silence which ensued, whether all the company could hear her heart thumping.

Madame, from her central place where she is carving, sees, from the looks of her guests, the indignant flushes on Charlotte's face, the confusion on her father's, the wrath on Mrs. Baynes's, that some dreadful words are passing, and in vain endeavors to turn the angry current of talk. "Un petit canard délicieux, goutez-en, madame!" she cries. Honest Colonel Bunch sees the little maid with eyes flashing with anger, and trembling in every limb. The offered duck having failed to create a diversion, he too tries a feeble commonplace. "A little difference, my dear,", he says, in an under voice. "There will be

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such in the best-regulated families. Canard sauvage tres bong, madame, avec...... ." but he is allowed to speak no more, for......

"What would you do, Colonel Bunch," little Charlotte breaks out with her poor little ringing, trembling voice-"that is, if you were a young man, if another young man struck you and insulted you?" I say she utters this in such a clear voice, that Madeleine, the femme de chambre, that Joseph the footman, that all the guests hear, that all the knives and forks stop their clatter.

"Faith, my dear, I'd knock him down if I could," says Bunch; and he catches hold of the little maid's sleeve, and would stop her speaking if he could.

"And that is what Philip did," cries Charlotte, aloud; "and mamma has turned him out of the house-yes, out of the house, for acting like a man of honor!"

Philip shown me the place and described it to me many times? In front, and facing the road and garden, were Madame's room and the salon; to the back was the salle-à-manger; and a stair ran up the house (where the dishes used to be laid during dinner-time, and where Moira and Macgrigor fingered the meats and puddings).

Mrs. General Baynes's rooms were on the third floor, looking on the Champs Elysées, and into the garden court of the house below. And on this day, as the dinner was necessarily short (owing to unhappy circumstances), and the gentlemen were left alone glumly drinking their wine or grog, and Mrs. Baynes had gone up stairs to her own apartment, had slapped her boys and was looking out of window, was it not provoking that of all days in the world young Hely should ride up to the house on his capering mare, with his flower in his button-hole, with his little varnished toe-tips just touching "Go to your room this instant, Miss!" shrieks his stirrups, and, after performing various caramamma. As for old Baynes, his stained old colades and gambadoes in the garden, kiss his uniform is not more dingy-red than his wrinkled yellow-kidded hand to Mrs. General Baynes at face and his throbbing temples. He blushes un- the window, hope Miss Baynes was quite well, der his wig, no doubt, could we see beneath that and ask if he might come in and take a cup of ancient artifice. tea? Charlotte, lying on Madame's bed in the "What is it? Madam, your mother dismiss-ground-floor room, heard Mr. Hely's sweet voice es you of my table? I will come with you, my asking after her health, and the crunching of dear Miss Charlotte!" says Madame, with much his horse's hoofs on the gravel, and she could dignity. "Serve the sugared plate, Joseph! even catch glimpses of that little form as the My ladies, you will excuse me! I go to attend horse capered about in the court, though of the dear miss, who seems to me ill." And she course he could not see her where she was lyrises up, and she follows poor little, blushing, ing on the bed with her letter in her hand. Mrs. burning, weeping Charlotte; and again, I have Baynes at her window had to wag her withered no doubt, takes her in her arms, and kisses, and head from her window, to groan out "My daughcheers, and caresses her at the threshold of the ter is 'ying down, and has a bad headache, I am door-there by the staircase, among the cold sorry to say;" and then she must have had the dishes of the dinner, where Moira and Mac- mortification to see Hely caper off, after waving grigor had one moment before been marauding. her a genteel adieu. The ladies in the front "Courage, ma fille courage, mon enfant! saloon, who assembled after dinner, witnessed Tenez! Behold something to console thee!" the transaction; and Mrs. Bunch, I dare say, and Madame takes out of her pocket a little had a grim pleasure at seeing Eliza Baynes's letter and gives it to the girl, who at sight of it young sprig of fashion, of whom Eliza was forkisses the superscription, and then in an anguish ever bragging, come at last, and obliged to ride of love, and joy, and grief, falls on the neck of away, not bootless, certainly, for where were feet the kind woman, who consoles her in her misery. more beautifully chausèes? but after a bootless Whose writing is it Charlotte kisses? Can you errand. guess by any means? Upon my word, Madame Smolensk, I never recommend ladies to take daughters to your boarding-house. And I like you so much, I would not tell of you, but you know the house shut up this many a long day. Oh! the years slip away fugacious; and the grass has grown over graves; and many and many joys and sorrows have been born and have died since then for Charlotte and Philip; but that grief aches still in their bosoms at times; and that sorrow throbs at Charlotte's heart again whenever she looks at a little yellow letter in her trinket-box; and she says to her children, "Papa wrote that to me before we were married, my dears." There are scarcely half a dozen words in the little letter, I believe, and two of them are "for ever."

I could draw a ground-plan of Madame's house in the Champs Elysées if I liked, for has not

Meanwhile the gentlemen sate a while in the dining-room, after the British custom which such veterans liked too well to give up. Other two gentlemen boarders went away, rather alarmed by that storm and outbreak in which Charlotte had quitted the dinner-table, and left the old soldiers together, to enjoy, as was their afterdinner custom, a sober glass of "something hot," as the saying is. In truth, Madame's wine was of the poorest; but what better could you expect for the money?

Baynes was not eager to be alone with Bunch, and I have no doubt began to blush again when he found himself tête-à-tête with his old friend. But what was to be done? The general did not dare to go up stairs to his own quarters, where poor Charlotte was probably crying, and her mother in one of her tantrums. Then in the salon there were the ladies of the boarding-house party,

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