CHAPTER I.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, and hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered and roll'd,
Heavy to get and light to hold;
Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled
To the very verge of the church-yard mould!
Price of many a crime untold;
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!-Hood.

Is she not passing fair?-Shakspeare.

Robert Clayton had but two passions in existence, two all engrossing impulses, love of money and love for his wife: into these, all minor feelings merged; they were the broad, vast ocean, the hungry, absorbing reservoir, while friendship, religion, joy, despair, hope, all that commonly affect mortals were simply streams running towards that ocean in which they were lost; thus, to glance from his gold into the bright and beautiful eyes of his wife, to seem to others but a hard, gainloving man, and yet to her a fond and passionately attached husband was aim and end enough for him while he ran the race for wealth and won it.

Let us look at him!

He has closed his door and his head is bent, while with pen in hand he draws mystic numbers, which to you or me are simply numbers, but to him a calculation involving the gain of many dollars, and he is alone.

There is no need to reiterate his command that while in that room, in no way resembling the others in his mansion, that cheerless, uncurtained room, in which are only papers and maps and a few books of reference upon the table, he may remain undisturbed, for the servants are too well trained to disobey an order once given, and in that lordly homestead there are no pattering feet of children to break the stillness, no fond childish cry of "father," no silvery tinkling laughter.

All is hushed! the man bending there over his fast-increasing, black hieroglyphies, need fear no such intrusion and the calculation goes on bravely and well,

VOL. XXVI-3

while the look of interest becomes deeper and deeper, but at last, even while the calculator has unclosed his nervous fingers and grasped the empty air as though he were clutching a golden prize, some one has dared with sacrilegious tread to cross the threshold, to open the door of that sacred retreat boldly, and to stand unawed before the absorbed inmate with smiling face all careless of the mysteries within.

As the door swung open, a frown betokening anger passed over the brow of the slave of business, and he laid down his pen with a gesture of impatience, but soon a smile, like the play of lightning over a gloomy sky, lit up his heavy face as he turned it towards the intruder.

How dazzling she was in the pride of her radiant loveliness! Nature had given her beauty, and art had brightened it, as a setting adorns a gem!

Fondly he drew her towards him, baptising her, as it were, with a multitude of new and tender names, laid her little gloved hand in his own and looked almost incredulously upon it, as though it was the hand of a fairy, and not one which was his, his only; smoothed into place a truant wave of hair, praised her lips, her eyes, nay even with almost womanly interest her dress, from the fuschias which hung upon their trembling stems about her face, on through all the minutiae of her tasteful toilet, and then telling her playfully that he knew why she had ventured into his den, pressed upon her a handful of glittering gold.

But no, she came not for that, nor did she need it; she came only to bid good bye, good bye for a few hours, he might have missed her otherwise, she said smiling, as she looked up into his eyes as a star looks down upon an arid desert.

The hard face brightened, a face which had often turned coldly away from pleading poverty or the sick man's prayer, the good bye was fondly, lingeringly said, the bright beautiful form passed from the room and left it in comparative darkness, the heavy, absorbed look returned to the

face of the calculator, while she, for whom it had brightened, passed on with light step through the winding passages, out into the noble corridor, along the line of pictures which graced her luxurious home, then into the sunlight without, which played about her as over some bright feathered bird, and to the carriage which awaited her at the door,

"Drive quickly," she said in a tone which seemed accustomed to command, "or we shall be too late for the Exhibition, but first to my brother's."

The coachman obeyed, and the elegant equipage rolled noiselessly along the streets, attracting the attention of many a pedestrian by the perfect keeping of the whole; the silver mountings shone brilliantly in the sunshine, the dark green panels reflected the lights and shadows on their polished surfaces, and the steeds had that proud, almost conscious air, which betokens blood, and though spirited, were managed by their skilful driver with no unpractised hand.

"Happy lady," laughed a child of pov erty who with bare feet was pattering along the dusty highway, as she caught a glimpse of the coach and its occupant.

"Happy lady," echoed a weary toilworn man, “what prevents her from being contented? God knows that to me riches would bring happiness."

"Happier child and laborer," said the invisible spirits of the air, "for you, life has some object; your sleep is sweet; ye labour for an end; for her, the only end is pleasure, and pleasure brings not peace."

The carriage stopped before a fine mansion, which in spite of its grandeur and perfect proportions was a gloomy one, for the closed windows almost betokened that it was uninhabited, but Isabel Clayton seemed at home there, as opening the door and shutting it again noiselessly and then ascending the stairs, she knocked gently at the door of a chamber.

It was carefully unfastened from within, and a physician stood before her, who bowed and raised his finger warningly, as if commanding silence, and pointed towards the room which he had just left.

"Is the crisis passed?" she whispered

somewhat anxiously, "is my brother out of danger?"

66

Yes," was the answer, "I am happy to say that the crisis is past, and that I can pronounce my patient cured at least of his fever, but-"

The lady's little foot tapped the floor impatiently. "Your pardon, Dr. Bailey ; let me beseech you to omit for once that ominous but; I really believe that that word is as necessary now to a physician as a gold-headed cane was in the olden time; it betokens all things, that your patient may live or die, that you mean to cure or kill him."

The doctor knit his brow as if doubting whether to endure so rude a speech, even from such rich, rosy lips, but his time was so valuable that he simply vented his indignation in a quick, impatient growl, and forthwith informed the visitor of her brother's condition.

"I was about to say, madam," he continued, "that Mr. Vernon no longer needed my services, but that the fever has left him totally blind."

"Blind! merciful heaven!" said the lady with a shudder; "that, indeed, is a misfortune; what will he do, think you, with his beautiful pictues, his statuary, his library, now that he can no longer enjoy them? But I am trespassing upon your time when I can learn all from his own lips. I can see him, may I not ?"

"I suppose so,-yes, of course," said the physician rather doubtfully, hesitating as to the expediency of admitting even a sister to his patient's room, “but as you value his well-being, do not broach any agitating subjects,-and, above all, do not make a long stay."

This last warning was not needed; he might have spared himself the trouble of adding it.

The door opened once more and admitted Isabel Clayton to her brother's chamber, shaded almost to entire darkness by the heavy curtains and closed blinds.

have enjoyed your little pleasure trip; I am glad to see you here; no, I forget; I mean that I am glad to hear the sound of your voice; I suppose that Dr. Bailey has told you all, and that it is as superperfluous as it would be painful for me to repeat it."

“Yes, it is very, very dreadful!"

"Only dreadful, Isabel?" he exclaimed, starting up and then sinking back upon the pillow with a sigh of exhaustion, "that is a calm, cold, meaningless word to express such an affliction as mine; why, a stormy day is simply dreadful, a headache dreadful,-why not have said the truth at once, that my life will be utterly useless,-really not worth the having!"

"Hush, Richard," said his sister, half frightened at his despairing mood and fierce, reckless words, "you must look upon the other side of the picture; there is always a bright side you know;" (it was a new thing for Isabel Clayton to moralize,) "let me see; friends will flock around you, of course, and the same hand that has closed your eyes to the beauties of life, has closed them likewise, you must remember, to all that is repulsive. If I had only time to think, I might enumerate many comforts which are still left you; but I have an engagement this morning which I must go to fulfil."

"Now, Richard, any one hearing your querulous tone would think that I had been at your bed-side but one minute, when I can assure you that thirty minutes have elapsed since I entered; take care of yourself; I will come again soon, daily, until you are better, and now good-bye until to-morrow."

The sick man groaned aloud as she left the room. "This is the beginning," he said, "always, and to every one a burden; if she, my sister, of whom I might have expected at least a semblance of interest, leaves me here desolate in a solitude which is almost madness, what am I to hope from others? Great heaven!-this is indeed a trial beyond endurance! It would be a mercy to take my worthless life, and I would yield it

up cheerfully since the light in it is darkened forever."

It was well that the prayer of that despairing heart was not regarded. God was merciful in another way, and spared his life, perhaps for greater suffering and trial to prepare him better for the mysterious change which he coveted,— perhaps for some more than compensating joy.

CHAPTER II.

"Blind to the bright blue sky, the glorious

sun,

The mild pale moon, the vesper star's sweet blaze;

Blind to the soft green fields where brooklets run,

The hills where linger sunset's parting rays.

Blind to the bright eye's most expressive beam,

The cheek's rich dyes of beauty, and the form

Whose symmetry might gild the sculptor's

dream

Of young Apollo, and his fancy warm."

It was but too true. Richard Vernon was hopelessly, irrevocably blind. Weary of the world too he became, for his was not a spirit to sit with folded arms under its affliction, but like a caged lion to chafe against the bars which held it prisoner. Born in a luxurious city, proud, passionate, wealthy, his misfortune, when it came to him after a terrible illness in which he hovered for days between life and death, made him suspicious, cold and reserved. It was a double misfortune to him, who had educated his whole nature to the worship of beauty, seeking it in the minutest shell or flower, in the eyes of an unconscious infant as well as on the brow of a sculptured Titan, to feel himself stranded on a shore of darkness, where an eternal gloom took the place of the midnight stars, and a boundless blank replaced the smiling sunshine of the morn with only the memory of the beautiful to cheer him.

His very wealth became at times a source of annoyance to him, for, from his

gloomy, brooding heart came thoughts of mistrust against those who had loved him when he could be of, and among them to pamper their tastes, and who now sought from others the entertainment which he could not give. The gay crowd, indeed, among whom he had lived, wondered for a season, condoled and pitied, and even occasionally spared an hour from their pursuit of pleasure to cheer the lonely man in his solitary, darkened room; but Vernon felt, with the apathy of a man of the world, that the beauty, interest and glory of life had departed, and that his dim apartment was no place for the butterflies of fashion to fold their gaudy wings, and he soon wearied of visits which he knew were mere outward forms of conventional ceremony.

His sister, his only relative, gave him, it is true, what sympathy she could spare, and with her soft jewelled hand in his, told him of the outer life which he had been compelled to relinquish, sometimes of a new ball-room melody, to which, while she sang, she kept time with her restless feet, or of some new work of art in vogue, but even in her softly modulated voice he could detect a scarcely disguised desire to be in the sunshine once more, and freed from his querulous repinings. He remembered, too, what she was to that outer world, and how unconsciously to her the adulation that she met with there, together with the blind devotion of an indulgent husband, helped to foster her faults of character, the chief of which were thoughtlessness and selfishness.

But Vernon had one link still bright and untarnished, which kept him from total despair.

It is a truth that cannot be doubted, because so often proved, that more powerful, more self-abnegating friendships exist between men than between women; indeed, among the latter there is often a frivolous semblance of friendship which the faintest breath of the world may dissolve, but when man grasps the hand of his brother man either with open words and promises of truth, or a silent vow, almost the more powerful because unheard, unuttered, the bond cannot be

broken, no strength can overcome the faithful grasp, no shock can sever the union. Voices around may whisper of unworthiness, the stronger is the tie; misfortunes may come, poverty, sickness, desolation, and the clasp is still firm and sure unto death.

Happily for Vernon, though so isolated, he had found such a friend in Albert Linwood, a young artist of great promise, who, though several years his junior, would steal away from an unfinished picture in his studio, to converse with or read to him from the books which he loved best; and many an hour, which spent otherwise, might have helped him on to fame, found him with Vernon, whose rebellious spirit was always calmer for his coming.

It was in one of these visits that Albert remonstrated with him upon the objectless life he was leading.

"Are you not weary," he said, "of these everlasting city surroundings? Would you not be happier, better, where the sounds are less harsh, and where you can feel that there are broader glimpses of the blue sky?"

"That word happiness," replied Vernon moodily, "has long since been blotted out of my vocabulary."

“And yet, if you will listen for a moment," replied Albert, "perhaps you would feel a sensation akin to it; for I might arouse you into something like action. Leave the city for a while and take up your abode in some pretty, rural place; the change would benefit you, I know, and you would soon realize the truism that God especially made the country; you will stagnate body and soul here."

Vernon interrupted his friend with a gesture of impatience.

"You seem to be leagued with the rest, Linwood, in trying to deprive me of even the few remaining pleasures which I have left; do you not see that I need some excitement to bear me up? Just consider my lonely position in such a place; I would scarcely ask you to relinquish your advantages here to come and cheer me, Isabel would pine away and die in such a solitude, and other friends I care not to

have; no, let me remain where I can at least hear an echo from the world which I used to enjoy so much; even in a reflected rainbow there be some gleams of beauty, you know."

"And yet, here you are wretched," answered Linwood, earnestly, "all your fine qualities are beclouded, you are growing misanthropic and dreamy, and need a change. Trust me, Vernon, and listen to me; rouse yourself from this apathy, take a pleasant house in the country with extensive grounds, hire labourers, cultivate your fields, sow your gardens and reap their fruit, do something; be anything but a mere clod; bring health back again to your frame by constant exercise and out-of-door life, and in the evening employ your servant, who has proved himself, in his capacity of attendant, trusty and intelligent, in reading good, practical books, which will keep your mind awake and your knowledge of current events as thorough as before your blindness."

Linwood stopped for breath, for his zeal for his friend had quickened his usual measured tone, and the artist thought generally more than he spoke.

"Tell me when your Utopian sketch is quite finished," said Vernon, mockingly, and leaning back, apparently without interest, into a more comfortable position; but Linwood, not heeding the interruption, continued his exhortations.

"Then for me, you can fit up an artist's room, and I will paint your grounds, your hill-tops and meadows in pictures which might make me immortal, perchance, and though the city must claim me sometimes, Vernon, my country studio will be my real home. And now my story is done, as they say in the Nursery books; this simple, rustic life may not exactly suit you, but I promise you one thing, that the result will be peace of mind."

"I own that you paint a picture with words as gracefully as you do with your pencil," replied Vernon, "but still you must excuse me from being the principal figure in it, even though it have meadows and hills in the fore-ground, and peace of mind in the perspective. Excuse me, I shall do very well where I am."

"No," said Linwood, rising and speaking with growing earnestness, "you will not, and you know it; you know that each day finds you more restless than the last, and I sometimes think that even my favourite country plan will not benefit you; you need the tenderest devotion and care, you need a sister's sympathy and love, or finally, if I incur your displeasure for it, I must be frank and speak my mind, you need the watchful tenderness of a wife."

A look of intense scorn and incredulity passed over Vernon's face as Linwood thus spoke, and then breaking forth impetuously in a torrent of words, he effectually silenced Linwood's well-meant conversation.

"That would be something beyond the miraculous, the moment, I mean, when any fair, refined, delicate woman placed her hand in mine to follow a blind man's fortunes. Ah, Linwood, you have something yet to learn of human nature; where have you been that you have not heard that my misfortune has been the theme of conversation for a month, and how one fair lady has said that she pitied me because I could no longer use my glorious eyes in a flirtation; another, that she would, because of my affliction, lose the best time-keeper in the fashionable dances, while a third," and here Vernon's voice trembled and faltered, "while a third, who might have spared me such words and have been at least silent, whispered to a friend that though the light of my eyes had departed, I had not lost my fortune! If you can convert these, Linwood, into watchful and tender wives, women to love and cherish, you hold a magician's wand, but it may not be, my path in life is clear to me; blind, almost forsaken, poor amid much wealth, because not able to enjoy it, I must walk the hard, stony, rough road of life alone."

"And yet not quite alone," said Linwood, quickly, as he grasped his friend's hand.

"No, by heaven, there I was wrong," said Vernon, his voice filled with emotion, "forgive me, my friend, not entirely alone, thank God, under the light of your watchful eyes and guided by your faithful arm."