Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/27



“IN

THE BITTER  COLD.”

old had eo lacerated his feelings kept him silent, and he appeared cold and reserved when his heart wae most interested.

So it easily happened that Miss Melville’s name had never been uttered by him, though the thought of her brought no pain. That letter had filled him with great anxiety on account of the friend whom he truly loved, and the sudden journey was undertaken to preserve him from the misery which must result from a marriage like that.

Mr. Hope had saved his friend, but returned to find his own life dsrkened forever.

Thus two beings wf like sympathies, loving each other fondly, and with every prospect of happiness, had been separated by the faults which had grown up in their natures from the effecta of false teachings. A single idle word had served to do this, and now they were far asunder, each forced to bear in solitude that weight of wretchedness.

Mr. Hope's search for his wife was vain, and he was forced to settle down in his lonely home, maddened by the thought df the suffering those dear ones must. endure, and the bleak future which stretched out before him.

So a year passed, a long, terrible year, the remembrance of which would have cast a shadow over a whole sfter-life of happiness, and once more winter was at hand.

Margaret had taken refuge in a smal! village in the interior of Pennsylvania, a spot so remote from the highways of travel that it seemed to offer every security she could desire. In the outskirts of the village stood an old brown house rapidly going to ruin, so dilapidated and deso- late, that for several years no tenant for it could be found. The proprietor was a miserly man, who took every advantage of Margaret’s ignor- ance of business to make extortionate demands.

So in that old house she arranged her home. It was a dreary place enough, and she had been gently bred. There were a thousand petty details to irk her; the furniture which she had been able to purchase was of the coarsest kind, and the labor of the little household was per- formed by her own hands.

To avoid discovery she had taken her mother’s name, and her dress led those about her to sup- pose that she was a widow; there was no mockery in her assumption of that garb—had she bent in anguish over her husband’s grave, her heart would have been less widowed than now.

After a short time the little boy fell ill, and she was kept in constant attendance upon him for many days and nights. When he had re- covered, suffering and fatigue threw her into a nervous fever, which prostrated her for several weeks. She was forced to have attendance, and the only person to be found was a woman re- commended by her physician, a good-natured soul, but whose rough kindness annoyed Mar- garet as much as the doctor’s prying curiosity.

So the winter wore on wretchedly enough, and when spring came, Margaret found that ber little fund had dwindled almost to nothing.

She made an effort to start a school, but she was too shy to get along easily with the villagers, they thought her very proud and extremely mys- terious—only hoped there was nothing wrong about her, but they had their doubts! Still she succeeded in obtaining a amall class of children, and did her best by them, but the employment was anything but lucrative. One woman sent her a pan of doughnuts by way of compensation, and several of the others forgot to pay her at all, nor could Margaret summon resolution suffi- cient to refresh their flagging memories.

Now the winter was upon her, cold and terrible. Had the neighbors known of her actual sufferings they would gladly have aided her, but they had grown to avoid her entirely, and she sometimes did not leave the house for days. Often the little boy cried for food, and she had not enough to satisfy him, but still she did not wholly despair, she must bear up for the sake of those children. Late in December the rent fell due, and the land- lord was punctual to the moment.

‘sWell, Mrs. Moulton,” he said, abruptly en- tering, ‘‘have you got any money for me?”

Margaret tremblingly told him of her poverty, and’begged him to wait for a little time; at first he would not consent, but at length he said that in ten days he would come again.

‘‘That’ll be the day before New-Year’s, ma’am, and if you haven't got the cash ready, why you must make tracks, that’s all.”

Margaret scarcely remembered the menace, for her babe was ill, and every thought was devoted to it.

The days passed on, and their misery had reached the climax—there was nothing left but beggary or death. It was the last day of the year, and to Margaret there remained neither flour nor wood. The little boy cried with hunger and cold, and the infant slept upon her bosom moaning with pain even in its slumber.

The day wore on, and there was no hope of relief. Margaret sank down in her misery— terrible thoughts of suicide came over her—death for her and those infants would be a blessing; but she was still sane enough to put by the ides.

It was growing evening, and the fire had died to a few faint embers. Margaret felt the babe