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rTTr': . an independent family newspaper. i"i'ri;'3ir.''
Vol. VI. IVoy Jiloomfioltl, !,., Tii,oHIn,y, -A.pril 1G, IVo. 10.
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The Deserted AVifc.
66
OW LUCY let me entreat you
ngain, to abandon the (ilea of at
tending this ball to-night."
' Why Robert, you must bo crazy. Not
attend the ball 1 I would not miss it for the
world."
The speakers were Robert Lyle and his
young wife, and tho above remark took
place in tho breakfast parlor of their hand
some rcsidinee, in a fashionable quarter of
Philadelphia.
Mr. Lyle was a partner in a flourishing
commercial house, and devoted the most of
his time to the interests of the (Inn. About
eighteen months before the opening of our
story he hod married a lady much younger
than himself, who professed in deed, and,
perhaps did entertain for her husband an
ardent affection. She did not, however,
seem to comprehend the proper sphere of
a wife's duties. Ofteu when her husband
would return from the toils and fatigue of
the counting house, to find solace and com
fort at home, sho would be busied in prep
aration for some scene of festivity, lie
had fondly hoped that after the birth of
their child, she would abandon the busy
round of excitement for the purer joys of
the home circle, and for a short time she
did give promise of a thorough reform, but
soon the evil habits returned, and even ma
ternal fondness was swallowed up by the
devouring passion for social excitement.
"You know, Lucy, our child is not well,
and for her sake, if not for mine, don't go
away to-night."
" Oh, Bertie will do well enough. The
nurse is very good to her, and knows bet
ter what to do for a sick child than I do."
" But, Lucy," said Mr. Lyle, " how long
is this state of tilings to continue? 1 am
less frequently in your society now, than'
before Our marriage. If you have no re
gard for my feelings, Burely your sick child
might claim yeur attention."
" Why, Robert, you have grown won
derously solicitous about the child. Dr.
Walton said yesterday she was better, and
besides, you will be here to attend to her.
But, Robert, that is only an excuse. You
wish mo to shut myself up here, and bo
come, at my age, a staid matron, but you'll
find yourself mistaken."
Mr. Lyle said no more, and soon after
left the house and repaired to his place of
business. During the day he had a long
consultation with his partner and returned
home at a late hour in the evening. Ho
saw nothing of his wife till she appeared
fully equipped for the ball.
"Bo Lucy you are determined to go, I
see," said her husband, sadly. "How is
little Bertio this evening?"
"Well, I declare," she answered, "I
had quite forgotten tho little darling,! have
been so busy. I will see."
She entered the nursery, followed by her
husband. Tho child was evidently quite
dck. Its cheeks wore flushed with fever,
ind its breathing was slow and difficult.
"Really, I am afraid the child U sick,"
Kald the young mother. "If I had known
it before I dressed I would not have gone.
You must take care of her, dear, and I
twill come back as soon as I can tear myself
iway from the dance." She bent over the
hild and kissed it, theii returned to the
,arlor.
A servaut soon announced that the car
tage was wailing, and, with a playful adieu
o her husband, she was about to leave,
ivhen observing the look of sadness on his
Soe, she said:
Why Robert, you look the Terr person
iloation of grief . I am not going to elope
Kith any of my admirers, for I really think
love you better than all of them. Bo you
eed not be jealous any way. Au rtioir,
take care of the dear baby," and she was
gone.
With a heavy heart Mr. Lyle returned to
the couch of his sick child. Ho took it
tenderly in his arms and watched it till the
fever left its chocks, and then, committing
her to tho care of the faithful nurse, retired
to his own room. He sat down and wrote
a letter, scaled and directed it to his wyfo,
and left it on her dressing-table. Ho then
proceeded to pack a small portmanteau;
and, taking it in his hand, quietly left tho
house.
Just as returning day was beginning to
light up the eastern horizon, Mrs. Lyle re
turned home, and, taking up the lamp, that
had been left burning for her in the parlor,
she mado hei way, hastily and nervously to
the side of her clijld. She found hor sleep
ing quietly, and evidently much improved.
" Thank God," she murmured fervently.
" How miserable I have been. I was on
the point of turning back last night. But
my darling child is better, and all is well.
I will not leavo you any more, my baby;
and I will tell my good, kind husband bo
this very morning. How wrong, how wick
ed I have been ! but, God forgive me, I will
do better in the future 1"
She entered her chamber, saw tho letter
addressed to herself, and, with a fearful
foreboding of evil, and a strange sinking of
the heart, recognized her husband's hand
writing. With barely strength enough left
to break the seal, she opened it and read:
My DeXrly Beloved Wife: With an
guish indescribable, I bavo long teen that
my society was not indispensable to your
happiness; and since I cannot render homo
attractive to you, have thought it best for
us to part. I have made every necessary
arrangement to secure your comfort and
happiness, I hope. Be a mother to our
child, and may God watch over you both.
I am not decided where I shall go, or how
long I shall be gone. " It may be for years
and it may bo forever."
Your wi etched husband,
ROBERT LYLE.
Every word entered her heart, and with a
low moan, the deserted wife sank to tho
floor. Hours later they found her lying
there, moaning pitoously, the fatal letter
still in her grasp. For days and for weeks
her lifojwas despaired of; but at last she was
restored from "death unto life." Repent
ance had come too late, alas I but she did
repent, and now devoted all her time and
attention to little Bertie. For two years
she continued at the old home, hoping,
praying for his return, but no news
came of the wanderer.
Mr. Lyle was still a partner in the com
mercial house. He had instructed his as
sociate, Mr. Pcarce, to conduct the busi
ness as it had been done all the time, and
to see that his family were supplied with
everything they required. For two years
the business prospered; then there camo a
pressure in financial circles, and the firm of
" Lyle & Pearce" went by the board.
Mr. Pearce surrendered every dollar of
his property to his creditors; but strove to
save something from the wreck for the wife
and child of his friend. Mrs. Lyle, however,
would accept of nothing as long as there
was a debt unpaid. " My husband's name
was never dishonored," she said, "and it
shall not be now, if I can prevent it by any
sacrifice. Even now there are many, I fear,
who will say he absconded with his pocket
full."
The last creditor was satisfied, and " all
was lost save honor." Mrs. Lyle changed
her abode, and "the places that once knew
her, knew her no more forever." Those
who, in palmy days, had been proud to call
her friend, now forgot that their was such
a being in existence Btill she did not de
spond; hoping yet and praying for the dear
one's return. She went earnestly to work,
and with her needle earned a subsistence
for herself and child. Three more weary
years of waiting and watching.and still no
tidings of the wanderer. " It may be for
years, and it may be forever." 'Oh God i
will he never return," ' sighed the desolate
woman. " Will he never return to lay his
hand on my guilty head and forgive my
folly?"
At length the dreadful conviction fasten
ed itself on her mind that she was deserted
fur all time; that he would never come back
to claim his discarded wife. She reasoned
then that she bad no right to bear his name,
and, under an assumed one, she sought for
and obtained a situation as teacher in dis
tant city.
Death, swift and terrible, rides on every
breeze. The voice of mourning Is heard in
very house. The fearful pestilence, '
throned under a sable canopy, tolls inces
santly its funeral bell. The yellow fever Is
marching with fearful strides through every
street and alley of Norfolk. All who have
had means at their command, or friends
at a distance, had loft the city. The poor
and friendless alone were forced to meet tho
fell destroyer face to face, lit tho doors of
their hum bio mansions.
In a neat but scantily furnished dwelling,
in a retired part of tho stricken city, a
mother and her daughter are seated, watch
ing tho death-carts as thoy go hurrying by
to tho burying-grouud. On tho faco of tho
elder lady aro traces of suffering, mingled
with anxiety and alarm, nlarm forthojsafoty
of her child. For horsolf sho has no fear.
Death striking down his victims all around
has no terror. Long inured to grief, sho
would welcome death as the end of suffer
ing. Tho mother and child are Mrs. Lylo, now
known as Mrs. Latimer, and Bortie, now a
lovely maiden of sixteen. Mrs. Lylo had
been a resident of Norfolk for ten years.
Sho had long given up all hope of over
again seeing her husband, and had devoted
all her energies and all her resources to the
cultivation of her daughter's mind and
heart. And never was mother better re
warded for her pains. It would havo been
hard to find a girl of sixteen summers pos
sessing more and higher attraction than
Bertio.
" Mother may I raise the window just a
little? It is so close and sultry this morn
ing." " You had better not, my child, there is
poison in every breath of air, we must keep
as closo as possible. Oh 1 if I could send
you away to tho mountains, till tho plague
be passed."
"Send mo, mother?" Do you think I
would go and leave you behind, desert you,
as my cruel hard-hearted father did?"
" Hush! my darling child your father was
right. I have never blamed him for a single
moment. I was careless and indifferent as
to his feelings, and ho naturally thought I
did not love him."
"But surely, mother, in all this long
time he might have come back to see if
you were alive or dead. You say that he
loved me too, why has he never come to see
bis child ?'
" That has puzzled me no littlo, Bertie,
and I am satisfied that your father has been
to Philadelphia, andlearnlng nothing of us
has gone again in search of us, or that ho
has died in some far off land."
" Perhaps, doar mother, he is looking for
us now, and we may soon see him."
" I should greatly rejoice for your sake,
darling. I feel that my course is well nigh
run, and what will become of you then ?"
" Why, mother, you are looking as wall
as usual. You are not sick, are you ?"
"No, not sick, but I am Btrangely de
pressed, and feel a weariness and lassitude
not habitual with me."
In the course of the day Bortie became
seriously alarmed about her mothor, and,
while Bhe was asleep, tho young girl left
the house and hurried breathlessly along
the street until sho reached the ofllce of a
physician. Entering the office, and the
doctor being pointed out, she earnestly and
tearfully implored him to lose not a mo
ment iu hastening to the side of her moth
er." The young physician was one of those,
who, prompted solely by feelings of human
ity, had come from a distance to minister
to the afflicted. Braving all the horrors of
the malignant pestilonco, he had labored
day and night, and great success had at
tended his efforts. Large contributions,
too, were daily reaching his hands for dis
tribution, and many humane individuals
were united with him in his work of be
nevolence. He was soon ready to obey Bertie's sum
mons, and he followed rapidly as she al
most flew back to her mother's house.
Mrs. Lyle had grown much worse, and
the doctor readily discovered symptoms of
the prevailing epidemic. Directing Bertie
how to administer the medicine left in her
hands, he returned to his oflloe, promising
to cenie again iu the morning, and in the
meantime to send a skillful nurse to spend
the night with the patient.
" Well, Dec tor," said a getloman, em
ployed in the good work, and whom he
found at the ofllce on his return, "any new
cases this evening?"
" Yes," replied the doctor, "the fever
has made its appearance in new quarter.
I hare just returned from visiting a most
interesting patient; a mother with an only
child, daughter just arrived at the age of
womanhood, and one of the most bewitch
ing croaturea I ever beheld. If we can get
thora out of the elty all may be well, as the
lady has the fever in a modified form."
"Well," said the worthy man, " If you
have no objection, 1 will go with you, and
perhaps 1 can prevail on them to leave. At
least the want of money shall be no reason
for not doing so."
" Go by nil means," said tho doctor,
"and I trust you may prevail on the lady
to leave. The want of the nocessary funds,
I am quite sure, is the cause of her being
here now, for she seems deeply anxious
about hor daughter."
The next morning tho doctor, accom
panied by the kind-hearted gentleman, vis
ited Mrs. Lyle, and leaving his friend in
the parlor, he proceeded to the sick cham
ber, and found that his patient had rested
well during the night, and was much better
than she had been the previous evening.
Ho asked and obtained leave to introduce
his friend, and,bringing him into tho room,
was about to explain the gentleman's ob
ject iu calling, whon the words " My wife!"
" My husband !" arrested him.
In truth the long severed husband and
wife were tegother again. Dr. Maxwell re
tired from the room, and Mr. Lyle falling
on his knees by tho side of his wife, im
plored her forgiveness for his desertion.
" Oh, Robert !" she answered, ' I alone
should ask forgiveness. Can you forgive
mo, darling, that I ever grieved you, or
seemed indifferent to your happiness?"
" It has been long forgotten," replied her
husband.
But wo will not attompt to describe tho
fervent reconciliation that took place.
Bertie was folded in her father's arms, and
that was perhaps the only house in Nor
folk where happiness drowned every
thought of the awful scourge. Mr. Lyle
explained everything to Dr. Maxwell and,
at an early hour the next day, tho happy re
united family were speeding away to tho
Virginia Springs.
Mr. Lylo had returnod to Philadelphia,
soon after his wife had left, and was shock
ed to And that no one could toll him of her
whereabouts. The change of name had
baflled all his efforts to discover her. Ho
had visited eveiy city, and had advertised
in every paper in the Union in vain. With
a maddening desire for mental abstraction
he had once more engaged in trade, and
wealth flowed into liis coffers. A sufferer
himself, he know how to sympathise with
the af Hie ted; and when the frightful rava
ges of tho epidemic in Norfolk becamo
known t him, he had not only contributed
largely of his means, but visitod the city
in person, and, aB we have described, met
his long lost wife.
The bracing atmosphere of the moun
tains soon restored Mrs. Lyle to perfect
health, and when Dr. Maxwell joined them
after the fevor was subdued, he found Ber
tio more bewitchingly beautiful than ever,
and before they parted he made known his
lovo, and, with the approval of her parents
ere the year had passed they wore husband
and wife.
A COQUETTE'S TROUBLES.
TI1WELVE years ago a pretty coquette of
1 Calloway County, Ky., found her
court reduced to two persevering suitors
named, respectively, Eldrige Miller and
William Schrader, who, having outstayed
half a score of less pertinacious rivals, now
competed vigorously with each othor for
the last flirtation. Wisely concluding that
her opportunities for a settlement in life
were not likely to be so frequent as they
had been, and that it was time to choose
between the two last admirers for hen fu
ture lot, the lively lass, after due study of
the subject, told Schrader, who was a wid
ower, that she should always esteem htm
as a very dear friend, and placed her hand
in that of Miller for life. As is quite com
mon in such cases the gentleman selected
for friendship accepted his fate with very
bad grace, and refused unequivocally . to
forgive his rival's success. Thouce ensued
between his family and the families of Mil
ler and his bride much hard feeling, which
had for one of its final effects a determina
tion of the young husband and wife to leave
their native State and make a new home
somewhere in the wilds of Arkansas. It
was Miller's intention' to turn prairie far
mer in the Southwest, and found a home
stead there for the two little onos multiply
ing his household cares in due succession;
but tho soil of Arkansas proved stubborn,
the times hard, and, as the war of secession
began about that time,. he suddeuly solved
the probjem of married life by joining the
Southern army. Marching to battle, he
left wife and babes In a most embarrassing
condition of poverty, wliioh, however they
endured patiently until the news of a groat
battle Involved iu its list of fatalities the
sad tidings that they were widowed and
fatherless. Upon recovering from the first
shock of her bereavement, Mrs. Miller took
refuge with her helpless charges in the hos
pitality proffered by certain sympathizing
relatives in Henry County, Tcnn., where,
to her great astonishment, she was present
ly greeted by her old lover, Schrader. The
latter explained that through continued re
gard for her, having finally resolved to seek
a reconciliation with her husband, he had
reached Arkansas only in time to hoar of
poor Miller's death in battlo and her own
departure. As an old friend ho fult impel
led to follow her, in the hope that he might
bo able to render some friendly office to her
possible needs; and hoped that for the sake
of old times, she would call upon him' as
on a brother. All this was naturally grate
ful to the feelings of the penniless widow,
away from all the associations of her early
home and a dependent upon comparative
strangers, and she'showed her gratitude so
plainly that its object took courage to say
more. Kontuckian days were recalled, old
sympathies revived, the patriot-dead mourn
ed in concert, and a new union proposed.
The end of it all was that Mrs. Miller be
came Mrs. Schrader, and went with her
second husband to a new home at Grassland,
in the state of her birth. There, after n
lapse of nearly nine years, tho Murray
"Gazette" describes the household as
wildly agitated by tho unannounced arri
val of a wonderfully ragged, bearded, and
gruff intruder, who introduced himself as
tho late Eldrigo Miller, otherwise known to
the poets as a species of Enoch Arden, and
informed the aghast Schraders tlmr he
would trouble them for a couple of children
belonging to him. Mrs. Hchrader having
fainted and been removed, Mr. Schrador so
licited some explanation of his guest's per
plexing escape from the tomb; upon which
that comio ghost related that lie had been
captured isstcad of killed by tho Yankees;
was taken a prisoner to Chicago, and there
liberated upon condition of going to tho
frontier and fighting tho Indians; had been
captured by the Indians, and by them
held in captivity until the very recent date
of his escape. In his old Arkansas home
he was told of his wife's jouniey to Ten
nessee with the child, and remarriage there;
and had at last traced her to Crossland, to
claim only his offsprsng if she choso to re
main with hor second husband. The latter
personage listened to this romance with
reprehensible signs of incredulity, observ
ing in reply, that the story of the captivi
ties was too attenuated, and that Mrs.
Schrader would surrender neither herself
nor her children. "Thon," remarked
Enoch Ardon, gruffly, " I'll see what the
law can do for an old soldier," ' Mr. Schra
der invited him to do his worat, and a suit
was actually begun; but on the evening pre
vious to the day appointed for the trial a
private interview between the wife and her
flint love ended in their elopement togeth
er, children aud all; and they are probably
back in Arkansas by this time, not troub
ling themselves about the lamentably de
serted "Philip Ray."
A Iioniaiitic Story.
A CASE somewhat resembling the fa
mous Tichborne trial, and, iu one re
spect at least, reminding ouo of Charles
lteode's ',' A Terrible temptation," is soon
to be tried at Constantinople. The story
is romantic enough for a novel or play, aud
runs thus: There is now in London a Turk
aged about 25 years, calling himself Musta-
fiho Djohad Boy, aud claiming to be the
awful son of the late Kibrisli Mohemct Pa
cha, Ex-Grand Vizier, and whilom the Sul-.
tan's envoy to tho Court of St. James. In
1847 such is the claimant's story-Kibrisli's
wile, the widow of the European physician,
bore to him a son, the present Mustapha
Djohad Bey. On the following year tho
Pacha wout to reside at the British Court,
and during his absence the child became so
seriously ill that its mother, fearing that if
it should die her husband would take anoth
er wife, feigned to give birth to another
child, which, in the knowledge of a '
eunuch and a woman of the harem named
Fatmidi, was merely a suppositious child,
bought or borrowed. But the llrst-born re
covered, Pacha having already been told
that heaven had blessed him with another
son. The mother was caught in tho toils
she herself had woven, for Fatmah and the
eunuch used their knowledgo of her deceit
to override and rule her. The mother,
Melek Khanum, became, weary of this
state of affairs, and confided her troubles to
Reshid Kileudi.tho Pacha's man of business.
Fatmah was soon dismissed, and the eunuch
was smothered in his bath. Madam
Kibrisli was tried for the murder, but the
charge was not substantiated. The Pacha
came to Constantinople during the progress
of the trial, and finding things in such a
condition divorced his wife. The
question of the legitimacy of the tl ret-born
then rose and Melek Khanum, actuated
as she now says, by a feeling of revenge for
the divorce and the Pacha's subsequent
marriage, averred that Mustapha Bjehad
Bey had been borrowed also. Then the
boy Djohad became a wanderer, served as
a menial in Egypt, joined the Papal Zouaves,
became a lay inmate at tho Convent of St
Lazarre, and when bis father died lost Sep-,
tcinber went to England, and there pnu
posed to defend his claims to Kibrisli Pa
cha's property.
IB1