in front of the finest mansion on beacon hill, though the chill of autumn was in the air and a northeast wind came cold from over the bay, an arch of hot-house flowers was erected, covering the entrance to the walk, which led up through a yard ornamented with choice works in marble, to the carved door of the house.
on this arch, in crimson flowers, the word “welcome” was visible.
inside, servants well—even richly—dressed seemed to flit to and fro, and a lady, young and beautiful, robed for that day as richly as a royal queen, moved to and fro, seeing in person that everything was ready to receive the guests for whom the welcome was meant.
the minister, who had been in that house on a sad, sad day, now stood by this young lady’s side, looking dignified but happy.
the old lawyer and many other friends were there, and more came along, as the day wore on, in grand carriages, the elite of the aristocratic old city.
and now the hour—four o’clock—was close at hand. her carriages had gone to the train to meet the guests who had been invited to come from new york—carriages for all.
and she, who had been all this time flushed and excited, now stood pale and nervous near the door. for a roll and rattle of wheels was heard, and a moment later a whole column of coaches dashed up in front of the house.
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from the first stepped two men, and, arm in arm, they came under the arch, and never knight of crimson cross looked so happy as did the younger, paler of the two, when he looked up and saw those words.
but they could not pause—others were hurrying on behind and in front. he saw her at the door, and with a wild, glad cry, he was in her arms.
“georgiana—mine at last!”
“yes, yes, my harry, thine forever!”
a moment’s sobs of joy broke on the air, but then, arm in arm, they went on, while an unseen orchestra played a brilliant march of joy and triumph.
and then, in the great parlor, darkened outside, but blazing with light within, without waiting for more than a few words and whispered greetings, before the friends of bright days and the true friends of darker hours, georgiana lonsdale was married to the returned exile—to the man for whom she had dared her parents’ anger, whom she had so nearly lost—by his own fault, and who had come back to her redeemed.
edward w—— stood at his right hand, lizzie legare stood by her dear friend, and the ceremony, brief but impressive, was performed. when it was over, all moved out to the banquet hall, and though no wine colored the cloth or tempted man to fall, a more delicious repast was never served.
after it was over, at georgiana’s request, her husband, noble and proud in his true reformation, told the listening guests the strange, strange story. he, that old attorney’s poor clerk, had met and loved georgiana, the only child and heir of those rich parents. they had scorned him, for they had higher views for her—drove him from their door. she, in her love and pride, had vowed to be his, and together[211] they fled to new york, there to be united in wedlock. he, in his too exuberant joy, forgot his manhood, and when they should have been ready to stand up before the minister was too intoxicated to stand.
crushed and indignant, she waited until he was sober enough to realize what he had done, and then she told him to go forth and never, never to return until his manhood was redeemed, and he could stand a free man before his god, sworn and proven true in the full fruits of temperance. he went. she would not go back to the home she had left, but at once sought employment in the humblest line.
there, dear reader, we found her. you have had the story. it is a strange one, but to a very great extent it is true. and, as a young writer, i can only hope it will do the good i wish it should do. that it will give courage to the weak, hope to the hopeless, for no one is so lost or fallen but that a higher, better life may be reached.
i suppose i may as well tell you, mr. edward w—— is now trying to forget his first disappointment in the smiles of sweet lizzie legare, and frank has “gone west.”
