The Sun.
London, England, 1864-08-08 00:00:00

70Y AND GRIEF.

Now, the 30th of December was my parents' wedding-
day, for I had born born six years enact after their affec-
tionate union. And now that I was ten years old—a notable
hinge on the door of life—how much they made, to be sure,
of each other and of me I At dinner I sat in glory between
them, upsetting all ceremony, pleasing my father and teas-
ing my mother, by many a childish sally. So genial a man
my father was that he would talk to the servants, even on
state occasions, quite as if they were human beings. Yet
none of them ever took the smallest liberty with him, un-
less it were one to love him. Before dessert, I interred my
queen doll, with much respect and some heartache, under
a marble flag by the door, which had been prepared for the
purpose. My father was chief-mourner, but did not cry to
my liking, until I had pinched him well. After this typical
goodbye to childhood, I rode him back to the dining
table, and helped him and my mother to the last of the
\Vest's Peter grapes, giving him all the fattest ones.
Then we all drank health and love to one another, and I fell
to in earnest at a child's delight. Dearest father kept sup-
plying me with things much nicer than are now to be got,
while my mother in vain pretended to guard the frontier.
It was the first time I tasted Guava jelly ; and now, even
at the name, that scene is bright before me. The I:tng
' high room oak-panelled, the lights and shadows flickering
as on a dark bay horse, the crimson velvet curtains where
the windows were gone to bed, the great black chairs with

damask cushions, but hard and sharp at the edge, the
mantel-piece all carved in stone which I was forbidden to
kick, the massive lamp that never would let me eat with-
out loose clouds of hair dancing all over my plate, and then
the great fire, its rival, shuddering in blue flames at the
thought of the frost outside ; all these things, and even the
ticking of the timepiece, are more palpable to me now than
the desk on which I write. My father sat in his easy chair,
laughing and joking, full of life and comfort, with his glass
of old port beside him, his wife in front, and me, his " Clari-
crops," M his knee. More happy than a hundred kings, he
wished for nothing better, At one time, perhaps, he had
longed for a son to keep the ancient name, but now he was
quite ashamed of the wish, as mutiny against me. After
many an interchanges a drink for father, a sip for Tooty,
he began to tell wondrous stories of the shuts he had made
that day ; especially how he had killed a woodcock through
a magpie's nest. My mother listened with playful admira-
tion; I with breathless interest, and most profound belief.
Then we played at draughts, and fox and goose, and pre-
tended even to play at chess, until it was nine o'clock, and
my hour of grace expired. Three times Ann Maples came
to fetch me, but I would not go. At last I went submis-
sively at one kind word from my father. My mother ob-
tained but a pouting kiss, for I wanted to s‘reak some ven-
geance ; but my father I never kissed with less than all my
heart and soul, I flung both arms around his neck, laid
my little cheek to his, and whispered in his ear that I loved
him more than all the world. Tenderly he clasped and
kissed me, and now I am sure that through his smile he
looked at me with sadness. Turning round at the doorway
I stretched my hands towards him, and met once more his
loving, laughing eyes. Once more and only ones. Next I
saw him him in his calla, white and stark with death.

How that deed was done, I learnt at once, and will tell
By whom and why it was done, I have given my lite to
learn, The evidence laid before the coroner was a cloud
and fog of mystery. For days and days my mother lay in-
sensible. Then, for weeks and weeks, she would leap from
herbed in
fit 3 a terror,stare, and shriek and faint. As for
the Z-ervants, they knew very little, but imagined a great
deal, The only other witnesses were a medical man, a
shoemaker, and two London policemen. The servants said
that, between one and two in the morning, a clear, wild
shriek rang through the house. Large as the building was,
this shriek unrepeated awoke nearly all but me. Rushing
anyhow forth, they hurried and huddled together at the
head of the great staircase, doubting what to do. Some
said the cry came one way, some another. Meanwhile Ann
Maples, who slept with me in an inner room at the end of
a little passage, in the courage of terror went straight to
her master and mistress. There, by the light of a dim
night-lamp, used to visit me, she saw my mother upright
in the bed, and pointing towards my father's breast. My
father lay quite still; the bed-clothes were smooth upon
him. My mother did not speak. Ann Maples took the
lamp, and looked in her master's face. His eyes were open,
wide open as in amazement, but the surprise was death.
One arm was stiff around his wife, the other lax upon the
pillow. As she described it in West-country phrase, "he
looked all frore." The woman rushed from the room, and
screamed along the passage. The servants ran to her,
flurried and haggard, each afraid to be left behind. None
except the butler dared to enter. Whispering and trem-
bling they peered in after him, all ready to run away.
Thomas Henwood loved his master dearly, being his
foster-brother. He at once removed the bed-clothes. and
found the fatal wound. So strongly and truly was it dealt
that it pierced the centre of my dear father's heart, One
spot of blood and a small three-cornered hole was all that
could be seen. The surgeon, who came soon after, said
that the weapon must have been a very keen and finely-
tempered dagger, probably of foreign make. The murderer
mast have been quits cool, and well acquainted with the
human frame. Death followed the blow on the instant,
without a motion or a groan. In my mother's left hand
strongly clutched was a lock of long, black, shining hair.
A curl very like it, but rather finer, lay on my father's
bosom. In the room were no signs of disorder, no marks
of forcible entrance.

Is not this enough and more than enough to justify
our assertion respecting Clara Vaughan. The ter•
rible event naturally makes a lasting impression
upon the loving and sensitive child. Hence-
forth, she devotes herself to the dreadful task of
discovering the murderer of her father. The later
portions of the work are inferior to the commence-
ment. So high a pitch of interest could hardly be
sustained, and a melodramatic narrative of the
Corsican Vendetta is brought in as a supplementary
matter of excitement. In relating some of her life's
adventures, Clara forgets her moody vengeance and
assumes a sprightly tone, more especially in regard
to soma favourite newly-found friends, Conrad and
Isola, and their dog Guidice, or Judy. In respect
to this quadruped, indeed, she becomes quite
ridiculous, and even disgusting ; for example, here
is an incredible story.