The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1874-11-18

PART The FIRST.
One fine morning, more than three months
since, you were riding with your brother
Miss Anstell, in Hyde Park. 1t was hot
day and you had allowed your horse to fall
into walking pace. As you passed the rail-
ing on the right hand side, near the eastern
extremity of the lake in the ark, neither you
nor your brother noticed a solitary woman,
lettering on the footpath to look at the riders
as they went by.
The solitary woman was my old nurse,
Nancy Connell. And these are the words
she heard exchanged between you and your
brother, as you slowly passed her:
Your brother saia, lis it really true that
eMary Brading and her husband have gone to
America
You laughed, las if the question amused
you,) and answered, "Quite truep
GLOW long will they be away" your BROTH
er asked next.
Gas long as they live" you answered, with
another laugh.
By this time you had passed beyond Nancy
Connelps hearing. She owns to having fol-
was said next. She loked particularly at
your brother. He took your reply seriously
he seemed to be quite astonished by it.
'Leave England and settle in American
he exclaimed. "Why should they do that ?'
"Who can tell why?' you answered
MARY Brading's husband is mad-and Mary
Brading herself is not much better"
You touched your horse with the whip,
and, in moment more, you and your broth.
er were out of my old nurses hearing. She
wrote and told me, what here tell you, by
recent mail. l have been thinking of those
last words Of yours in my leisure hours, more
seriously than you would suppose. The end
of it is that take my pen in behalf of my
husband and myself, to tell you the story of
our marriage, and the reason for our emigra-
ton to the Unised States of America.
1t matters little or nothing to him or to
me, whether our friends in England think
us both mad or not. Their opinions, hostile
or favorable, are OF no sort of importance to
cs. But you are all exception to the rule.
In bygone days at school we were fast and
firm friends; and-what weighs with me
even more than this-you were heartily loved
and admired by my dear mother. She spoke
Of you tenderly on her death-bed. Events
have separated us of late years. But can
not forget the old times; and cannot feel
lndlfferent to your opinion of me and of my
husband-though an ocean does separate us,
and though we are never likely to look on
one another again. 1t is very foolish for nae,
dare say, 10 take seriously to heart what
you said in one of your thoughtless moments.
can only plead in excuse that have gone
through great deal of suffering, and that I
was always Gas you may remember) person
of sensitive temperament, easily excited and
easily depressed.
Enough of this Do me the last favor I
shall ever ask of you. Read what follows
and judge for yourself whether my husband
and are quite so mad as you were disposed
to think us, when Nancy Council heard you
talking to your brother in Hyde Park.
II.
1t is now more than year since I went
to Eastbourne, on the coast of Sussex, with
my father and my brother James.
My brother had then, as we hoped, recov-
cred from the effects of fall in the hunt
ing field. He complained, however, at times
of pain in his head; and the doctors adj
vised us to try the sea air. We removed to
Eastbourne without suspicion of the Sc
rious nature of the injury that he had re-
ceived. For few days, all went well. We
liked the place; the air agreed with us and
we determined to prolong our residence for
some weeks to come.
On our sixth day at the sea-side-a mem
orable day to me, for reasons which you have
still to hear-my brother complained again
of the old pain in his head. He and went
out together to try what exercise would do
towards relieving him. We walked through
the town to the fort at one end of it, and
then followed footpath running by the side
OF the sea, over dreary waste of single,
bounded at its inland extremity by the road
to Hastings, and by the marshy country
beyond.
We had LETT the fort at some little distance
behind us. I was walking in front; and
James was following me. He was talking as
quietly as usual-when he suddenly stopped
in the middle of a sentence. I turned round
in surprise, and discovered my brother pros
trate on the path i'll commissions terrible to
see.
1t was the first epeptic fit had ever wit
messed. My presence of mind entirely de-
serted me. could only wiring my hands in
horror, and scream for help. No one ap-
peared either from the direction of the fort,
or of the high road. was too far off, sup
pose, to make myself heard. Looking ahead
of me, along the path, discovered to nv
infinite relief, a figure of man running
towards me. As he came nearer, 1 saw that
he was, Enthusiastically, gentleman-young,
and eager to be of service to me.
spray compose yourselfr' he said, after
look at my brother. SIT is very dreadful to
see; but it is not dangerous. We must wait
until the commissions are over and then I can
help you.''
He seemed to know so much about it that
thought be might be medical man. put
the question to him plainly.
He colored and looked little confused.
II am not DOCTOR" he said. 81 happen
to have seen persons afflicted with epilepsy
and have heard medical men say that it is
useless to interfere until the fiji is over See p'
he added, "your brother is quieter already.
He will soo1 feel sense of relief which will
more than compensate him for what he has
suffered. will help him to get to the fort
and, once there, we can send for carriage to
take him home''
In hve mutes more we were on our Way
to the fort-the stranger supporting nv
brother as attentively and tenderly as if he
had been an old friend. When the carriage
had been obtained he insisted upon accompa-
nylng us to our own door, on the chance that
his services might still be of some use. He
lett us, asked permission to call and INQUIRE
alter James health the next day. A more
modest, gentle, and unassuming person 1
never met with. He not only excited nv
warmest gratitude: he interested me at nv
first meeting with him.
lay some stress on the impression which
this young man produced on newly, YOU
will soon find out
The next day the stranger payed his prom
ised visit of inquiry. His card, which he
sent up stairs, informed us that his name
was Roland Cameron. My father-who is
not easily pleased-took liking to him at
once. His visit was prolonged, at our re-
quest. He said just enough about himself to
satisfy us that we were receiving person
who was at least of equal rank with onr-
selves. Born in England OF Scotch family,
ne had lost both his parents. Not long since,
ne mad inherited a fortune from one of his
uncies. 1t struck us a little strange that he
spoke OF this fortune with marked change
to melancholy in his voice and his manner,
The subject was, for some inconceivabIe
reason, evidently dstasteful to him. Rich as
he was, he acknowledged that he led simple
and solitary life. He had little taste for sdci.
ETY., and no sympathies in common with The
average young men of his age. But he had
his own harmless pleasures and occupations:
hm not TO exnect much a~ from ite mad taught
was sad modesty, with Winning charm of
look and voice which indescribabIy attracted
me. His personal appearance aided the
favorable impression which his manner and
his conversation produced. He was of the
middle height, lightly and firmly built; his
complexion pale; his hands and feet small
and firmely shaped; his brown hair curling
naturally; his eyes large and dark, with an