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FRANK LESLIE’S NEW YORK JOURNAL. 69
“So resentful still, Therese ?”’
“Not resentful, Stephen—for how can I feel re-
sentful towards you, who have ever been kind, al-
most like a brother to me. I do not think I shall
ever marry,” she added, “but if I do, my heart
must accompany my hand.”
“ And that is another’s ?”
“T never said so!”
‘IT know it is!” exclaimed the young farmer
passionately ; “it is that beggarly organist who has
robbed me of your affections—you cannot deny it!
have seen you blush when his name has been
pronounced, start when you heard his footsteps ap-
proaching the cottage, or the sound of his voice in
the garden. Love has sharp eyes, Therese, and
mine are not easily blinded. Why you blush and
tremble even now,” he add
“It is at your injustice, then,” observed Therese.
“Still you cannot deny that you love him ?”’
“You have no right to ask me such a question,”
observed the maiden; “and yet it could be easily
answered. Had I wished ‘it, long ere this I might
have been his wife.”
“And you refused him?” eagerly demanded the
young man, at the same time endeavoring to take
her hand. ‘Bless you, Therese—bless you for
those words! They have relieved my heart of its
worst pang—jealousy! Did you know the torment
I endured every time I met him here—how my
heart beat as I watched you both—he gazing upon
you with eyes full of impassionate tenderness, you all
consciousness, timidity, and blushes. The very
sound of his voice betrayed the nature of his feelings
towards you, for it trembled whenever he addressed
Had Stephen Franklin possessed a more profound
knowledge of the human heart, he would have felt
how unwisely he was acting in recalling to the mind
of Therese the devoted tenderness of his rival; but
jealousy, with all its cunning, is sometimes blind;
the only point, perhaps, in which it resembles
justice.
“Consider your cruel rejection of me,” he con-
tinued, “or tell me, at least, how I have offended—
why you reject me?” .
* Because she is unworthy of you!” replied a
sharp voice near them.
He turned at the unexpected sound, and beheld
Mrs. Franklin, who had entered the parlor unper-
ceived, and overheard the last part of her son’s
speech. he countenance of the scandal-loving
dame expressed the most triumphant satisfaction,
as she eyed the object of her hate witha half-mock-
ing, ironical smile.
“ Mother!” exclaimed the young man, in a de-
precating tone, ‘is this your promise ?”
“Tt was given,” said the old woman, “when I
was weak enough to believe that, despite appear-
ances, she might still be worthy of you. But now
Thave the proofs !” .
** Proofs!” repeated Stephen; no—no! I will
not believe it! You have been deceived by some
well-forged tale—for you are both simple and cre-
dulous, mother! From her,own lips only can I
credit that Therese is no longer worthy of me!
Speak!” he continued, addressing the tearful girl,
who, pale as death, sat immoveable on her chair;
“refute this slander!”
“Slander!” repeated Mrs. Franklin, “was not
the child, which every one says is the very image of
her, born in, this house? Let her deny it, if she
ean!”
Therese made no reply. -
“Look at her?” continued the angry woman ;
“she is conscience-stricken! I tell you it was born
here! Nell Bryce told me that every day, almost as
soon as it was light, my fine madam found the way
to her cottage, and would pass hours in weeping
and praying over it! I tell you, Stephen,’’ added
his mother, ‘that she is a guilty thing, and with my
consent shall never darken my doors.”
A deep groan was heard in the passage, and the
next instant the blind old soldier, who had been in
the adjoining room, and heard the cruel denuncia-
tions of the speaker, made his appearance in the
midst of them. His countenance was not merely
agitated, it was convulsed by passion—by the sense
of wounded pride and outraged honor. His sight-
less eyeballs rolled fearfully, as he turned them
.towards the spot where half-suppressed sobs and
sighs denoted his daughter was sitting. .
«Answer me,” he said, sternly; ¢‘ am I a child-
lessman! Therese, is the accusation of this bab-
bling woman true? Was the infant whose presence
has given rise to these reports really born beneath
this roof?”
“Father!” .
“Yes or no?” demanded the old man_in a voice
of thunder. ‘She does not answer me,” he re-
peated wildly; ‘‘thank heaven her angel sister has
at last been spared this shame! . Who is the vil-
lain!” he added, ‘* who has abused the confidence
of a sightless man, polluted his roof, stained his
name? . Jet me know, that I may curse him !”
Every trace of color fled from the cheeks of The-
rese—her lips were white as marble; she crept
rather than walked to the spot where her father was
standing, and falling on her knees, endeavored to
take his hand: he snatched it from her asif a ser-
pent had stung it. .
Convinced by. the humiliating position of the poor
girl that his mother had for once spoken the truth,
Stephen Franklin rushed from the house—he could
not bear to witness the degradation of the being
whom he still passionately loved.
“Cruel woman,” murmured Therese, turning her
eyes reproachfully on the farmer's wife; “you
know not what you have done !”
“My duty !” exclaimed the malicious woman, in
a tone of satisfaction. “Iam really very sorry for
you, Mr. Graham—but ’—— .
“ Begone!” exclaimed the adjutant, in a tone of
contempt; “the abode of a sorrow like mine is not
fitting for the prying eyes of vulgar curiosity, the
sneers of affected pity! Respect my gray hairs,
my misery and shame! Leave us together!"
There was something so commanding in the ges-
tures of the incensed father, as he pointed to the
door, that for once even Mrs. Franklin felt awed.
She left the cottage, casting a look of intense satis-
faction upon the victim of her passion as she disap- |.
peared. ,
“My child!” murmured the adjutant, “whom I
was so proud of—whose hand I thought would close
my eyes when. death summoned me to rejoin her
mother and sister in a better world—whose love
was my last stay on earth—and now ”’—— .
“Who loves you still!” whispered Therese, “ O
father! indeed, indeed, I have not merited this
shame!” .
“Not merited it?” repeated her parent; ‘was
the story of that woman false? Was the ‘infant
bern beneath this roof? Were your morning visits
really paid to the cottage of the hag she named, to
weep and pray?”
What could the unhappy creature reply? Every
word was truth. She answered him only with her
tears.
“ Speak,” he added, wildly, as a terrible suspicion
flashed athwart his brain ; “which am I to curse for
this dishonor—the living or the dead?”
The trial was indeed a fearful one. Therese,
who dearly loved her’ father, could, as our readers
are well aware, have cleared herself by a single
word; but her lips were unfortunately sealed by
her promise to her sister—a promise upon which
death had set his seal, rendering it doubly sacred.
“Answer me! Am I to rejoice that I have still
a daughter? Am I to curse the memory of -——
“Bless her, father!’” shrieked the distracted girl,
clinging to his feet ; “profane not the grave of the
child who loved you!” Never shall my lips pro-
nounce one word to cast a shame upon the memory
of my sister.”
“ Wretch!” replied her father, after a pause ; “ it
is to you, then, I owe this infamy ? Begone! Leave
the roof you have dishonored,—the father you have
betrayed—who loved and trusted you—whose grave
you have dug! Hence from my presence, and bear
with you my malediction !’”’
It was in vain that his daughter clung to him,
and, in the most heart-rending accents, implored
him not to curse her. The wrath of the old man
was not to be appeased—in his despair, he tore the
thin locks of silvery hair from his hrow and scat-
tered them over her, breathing the most terrible
maledictions
*¢Be cursed here and hereafter!’’ he exclaimed ;
“may the child you have borne sting you like the] &
serpent’s brood; may she smile over your untimely
grave! Leave me,” he added; “to my sightless
misery—to my shame and solitude—to die alone.
Quit my roof, and for ever!”
With these fearful words he rushed from the
room, leaving his daughter crushed and overwhelmed
by the weight of his bitter maledictions.
When she recovered from the temporary state of
insensibility into which the terrible scene she had
passed through had thrown her, Therese found her-
self supported in the arms of the faithful old do-
mestic, Mary Page: the affectionate creature had
been her nurse from infancy, and loved her with
the tenderness of a second mother.
“Do not weep!" she sobbed, her own tears fall-
ing fast the while; “I will see my poor, deceived,
cruel master! I am not bound by any promise—he
shall hear the truth from me!”
“No, no!” faltered her foster-child; ‘the truth
would kill him: he lives but in the memory of my
sister! Promise me,’’ she added, faintly, ‘‘ whether
I live or die, you will not betray the fatal secret ?”
It was some time before her entreaties could pre-
vail upon her nurse—who felt indignant at the eru-
elty she had been treated with—to forego her deter-
mination of revealing everything to her deceived, un-
happy parent. .
“Well,” said the old woman, reluctantly yielding
the point; “on one condition I will hold my tongue!
It will be a difficult task—but I promise !”
“Name it ?” replied Therese, eagerly.
“That, go where you will, I go with you! I can-
not consent that you should quit your father’s roof
alone! I will not be a burthen to you!” she added,
anticipating the objections of her young mistress ;
“T am strong, and able to work for us both, and am
not without money : it was gained in the service of
your dear mother and her children—so I only give
you back your own!” .
Tt was in vain that Therese entreated of her not to
quit her father. ‘Who else would attend to his
wants ?” she asked, “if you desert him?” - Mary
Page was inflexible.
“He should have thought of that,” she said, “ be-
fore he drove you from his roof! Little does he
know the heart he has destroyed! He never loved
you as he ought!” she added, her indignation in-
increasing every moment ; “your sister was always
his favourite !” -
The poor girl kissed her affectionately,
“She deserved his love!” she whispered.
“And have not you deserved it?” replied the aged
domestic; ‘“‘have you not worked for him day and
night, like a good, dutiful child, as you are—toiled
till my heart has ached to see you? He will live to
repent his injustice and cruelty; his remorse will
exceed his anger when he learns ——”
“He must never learn it!’ interrupted Therese ;
“the discovery would kill him—he loved Fanny so
dearly ! i
driven in disgrace from the home of my childhood ;
my name given to the sport of malicious tongues;
sent forth, like Cain, with a curse upon my brow!”
The convulsive shudder which shuok her frame
proved how deeply the unmerited malediction had
affected her.
“But I will keep my promise,” continued The-
rese, ‘although it break my heart! Poor Fanny!
it was a bitter legacy you left me!”
It was arranged that during the rest of the day
er young mistress should remain in the room of
the nurse, who, meanwhile, was to seek a lodging
in the vi'age to which they might remove that very
night, with the innocent cause of so much sorrow
As for the adjutant, directly on quitting the parlor
where the distressing scene we have described had
taken place, he had locked himself in his chamber,
which he continued to pace, a prey to the most vio-
lent emotions of anger and outraged honor.
Mary Page was one of those energetic characters
who only require to know their duty, resolutely to
perform it. She arranged with the widow at whose
cottage Charles Graham had lodged previous to his
quitting Farnsfield, for a couple of rooms, paid her
a month’s rent in advance, and returned to Therese,
to prepare for their departure.
“We will not go till dusk !”’ said the faithful crea-
ture; “day would blush to see you driven like a
criminal from your father’s house! The news has
been spread all over the village by that malicious
woman! Heaven perhaps will one day requite her
for her wickedness to you!”
There was both calculation and wisdom in thus
making known to Therese the full measure of her
misfortune. The malediction of her father had so
completely overwhelmed her that she scarcely felt
anything else: had she had time to recover from the
shock of the first blow, the second must have crush-
er. -
It was late before the adjutant quitted his cham-
ber and entered the parlor, where his evening meal
had been prepared for him. There was a wearying
sense of loneliness in the old man’s heart as he sat
listlessly by the table, leaving the food untouched ;
even Mary Page began to pity him. _
“You had better eat something, sir!’ she said,
in her usual quiet tone.
He uttered a deep sigh, and a tear trickled down
his withered cheek. :
“This is a sad change!” continued the domestic ;
“the place will be very lonely when poor Miss The-
rese ”
“Do not name her!” interrupted her master, with
a shudder; “the ingrate has broken my heart!”
“ Her own is broken, poor, innocent lamb!” -
“Innocent!” repeated the adjutant, contemptu-
ously. .
“Ay, innocent, sir!’” replied the old woman. “I
It is hard, very hard,” she added, “to be ©