THE BROTHER'S TEMPTATION. 245 "In that hour, Alice-in that hour of utter desola- | selves, but rather give place unto wrath, for it is tion, when lonely and uncared for I left my brother's written, vengeance is mine; I will repay saith the roof forever, a fierce, burning desire for revenge Lord. Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed him; took possession of my soul. In the first bitterness of if he thirst, give him drink; for in so doing thou shalt despair I called upon Heaven to avenge my wrongs.heap coals of fire on his head.' The sentences awed I wished that Walter's wealth might take to itself wings-that one day he might come to me for bread; and I resolved were this ever the case, to give hima stone! My desire has been fulfilled, and my proud and unfeeling brother is now a beggar at my door!" He paused-while his wife shuddered and looked appealingly up into his face. "Harry!" she exclaimed in a low, earnest tone, you surely do not mean that you will not forgive the sorrow your brother's conduct once caused youthat you will now look exultingly upon his woes, and turn a deaf ear to the wants of his sweet and suffering child?" The reproving expression of the dear face now anxiously upturned to his, at once recalled the husband to a sense of error, and drawing the form of the beloved one closer to his side, he said "Oh! how fervently should I thank Heaven who has given to me such a monitor in the hour of temptation! Pardon me, my Alice, if by giving way to impulse I have wounded your sensitive spirit, and that in the moment when passion held its sway; I slighted the divine lesson of forgiveness, through your influence first impressed upon my soul. Nay, dearest, look not thus surprised, for it was really by your means that the wish to quell the thirst for revenge upon my brother, entered my heart; and if you will listen a few seconds I can explain to you the words that at present may well seem mysterious. You will doubtless remember, Alice, that some months before our marriage, I experienced a severe fit of illness. One pleasant Sabbath evening shortly after I was declared eonvalescent, I was reclining upon a sofa in the sitting-room at your uncle's residence. My spirits were just then very much depressed-I felt inwardly fretful and uneasy-and as is not uncommon at such a time, many little circumstances which before had been almost forgotten, rose up in my mind, and woke anew in my bosom sensations according to their nature, of pain, anxiety, or indignation. Among other things came forcibly to view the memory of the grievous wrong I had received at the hands of him who should have been a parent to me; and a feeling of the deepest hatred toward my brother stole to my heart, together with a hope that at some future time a chance might be mine of returning him measure for measure of the unkindness which he had so unsparingly dealt out to me. "At that instant, Alice, you re-entered the room from which you had been a few minutes absent, and at the request of your uncle, opened the family Bible and began your usual Sabbath-evening duty of reading a series of chapters from the holy book. There was a passage in the first which you read that affected me strangely for it came as a reproof from Heaven delivered to me through the medium of one of earth's angels. It was the following-'Avenge not your me, coming upon my ear as they did at a period when my spirit needed the precious warning and rebuke contained in them, and I breathed a silent prayer to Heaven for strength to enable me to heed it. The hour of my trial has arrived, and to-day have I again felt the promptings of the tempter. You cannot imagine with what force these old feelings have been driven back upon my soul, but, Alice, your voice has once more stilled the tempest, and I know that I have passed the ordeal in safety." Harry Colman ceased, and this time as his gaze met that of his companion he saw that her eyes were full of tears-but they were tears of grateful joy. For a little while there was silence between them, but at length Mr. Colman continued: "Let me recount to you, Alice, as briefly as possible, a few circumstances connected with my early history. I have never done so before, because the effort was a painful one, and there was no exact necessity for the repetition. As you are aware, I was so unfortunate as to lose my father when I was a mere infant, and my mother lived only till I had attained my twelfth year. I was the child of her second marriage, and she had one son by a previous union who was many years my senior. At the period of my mother's death, my brother, Walter Malcolm, had been married nearly five years, and was now a widower and the father of one little girl, who had just reached her third summer. Upon her deathbed my parent left me beneath his care, desiring Walter to attend to my wants and to be kind and gentle to me when she was no more. As soon as the funeral was over, my brother took me with him to his own dwelling. I was now entirely dependent upon him for maintenance. Walter Malcolm was wealthy, for a large estate had descended to him from his father, who had also left my mother a life-annuity, which while she lived had supported us. At her death I was of course unprovided for, for my own father had possessed no worldly goods to bequeath me. My new home seemed very different to me from the hearth of my early, sunny childhood. I was lonely and desolate-for between Walter and myself brotherly love had never existed. Not that I would have denied him his meed-but I was too proud to award the gift that I was confident would never be valued, for my memory could not boast a single instance wherein he had evinced for me the slightest regard. Nay, I even felt that I was an object of dislike to him, though I knew not the cause. During my mother's life I had been greatly indulged, and it was scarcely to be wondered at that I was frequently very wayward. Upon such occasions, a word of love had always been sufficient to control my passionate nature; but when the sweet affectionate tones that ever had power to calm me, were hushed in the tomb, my faults were met by my new guardian with harshness and contempt, and this never failed to rouse a spirit of continued opposition. There was but one voice in my brother's household that ever spoke lovingly to me. It was that of his child-the little Julie. From the first hour of my re ence beneath Walter's roof, the little creature had conceived a passionate attachment to me, preferring my presence to that of her nurse or even her father. And, as you may imagine, Alice, I did not slight her proffered affection, and during the three years that we dwelt together the little one was the sole sunbeam upon my shadowed life-path. How gladly did I greet her graceful bounding step! How dear was the sound of her clear ringing laughter as I joined in her sports—and more precious still were the moments when weary of play, she would steal to my side, and twining her tiny arms about my neck, murmur forth, in lisping accents, her sweet child-like terms of endearment. gaze of Julie's father, and her morning salutation to him was full of gentleness and sympathy. Through the whole of that day Mrs. Colman maintained her station in the chamber of sickness and poverty. The physician came at the appointed hour, and gave it as his opinion that Julie was growing rapidly worse, and that there were even doubts whether in any case her life would be spared. Oh! how the thought of her dying affected Mrs. Colman. "Let every thing be done that may be of benefit to her," she said anxiously to the doctor, “spare no expense whatever if you think you can by any means preserve her from the grasp of death. I will be answerable for whatever remuneration you may require." And not even content with his advice, she sent for her own family physician determined to try all the means she could for the preservation of the life of her husband's niece. She noticed that Walter Malcolm looked very pale all day, but attributed it to anxiety for his daughter He seemed too languid to water, he said-"Lady, Heaven will reward your kindness to the suffering." That evening when Alice Colman returned home, her husband surprised her with the intelligence that Walter Malcolm was aware of her relationship to him. Before she went there in the morning, Mr. Colman had advised her on no account to allow his brother to suspect from whom he received the need "I had reached my fifteenth year when the incident occurred that separated me from my brother. An error was laid to my charge of which I was really guiltless—and as I proudly refused to acknow-converse-but once, as she handed him a glass of ledge and repair the fault-Walter Malcolm turned me from his dwelling, declaring that thenceforth and forever he disowned me! Time was merely given me to collect a few little articles that I could really call my own-I was not allowed to bid farewell to the child whom I yearned to look upon once more before I went-and so, an outcast, I passed from that stately mansion. Alice, I dare not linger over a description of my sensations in that hour of anguish-ful aid, for he feared that Walter still entertained for it might perhaps arouse them again within my soul. You know the rest of my history-the circumstance of my adoption by your uncle who was then visiting Baltimore, and first beheld me in a store where I had entered in quest of employment. To him I confided the facts relating to my former life; he pitied and sympathized with me, and bore me with him to his own home in this city, and from that day was in every respect to the lonely orphan all that a kind and generous parent could be to his only son." CHAPTER II. The morning succeeding the events last recorded, at an early hour, Mrs. Colman was on her way to the dwelling of the now destitute and infirm Walter Malcolm. She had new motives for the advancement of her charitable purposes, and her interest in the sick girl had deepened since she knew her to be the one whose infant steps her own husband had guided. Hastening up the stairs she knocked at the door, which was soon opened by Maggie, who looked weary enough with the fatigue of the past night. The young girl had been very restless, she said, and she believed that the fever was rapidly progressing. "But is she not a beautiful creature?" remarked Maggie to her mistress, as she bent over the couch and parted the rich curls from the fevered brow, “ah, ma'am, I have nursed many a one before this in sickness--but never a person whose appearance so won upon me as hers has." Alice Colman did not wonder at the observationbut as she now glanced round the room she met the against him the old feeling of hatred, and that it would awaken unpleasant emotions in his heart if he knew that the brother he had deserted was now destined to be his chief reliance. But the caution to his wife was unnecessary. Walter Malcolm had made inquiries of Maggie concerning the family to whom he was indebted, and from their minuteness Harry Colman was confident that he had been recognized. And that his brother had not forgotten his former aversion to him he deemed evident from the fact that he had said nothing of his discovery, during the day, to Mrs. Colman. The latter however thought differently. Julie's father had spoken his thanks for that draught of water too earnestly for her to join in her husband's belief, and she expressed her conviction that he repented his past conduct, and that he merely wanted courage to confess his penitence. But day after day passed on, and yet there was no allusion to the subject on the part of Walter Malcolm. Meanwhile his daughter had passed the crisis of the fever and was declared convalescent. If the appearance of Julie Malcolm in the hour of delirium had attracted the fancy of Alice Colman and her nurse, how much more were they drawn toward her when her mind was freed from the chains that bound itfor gentle and loving-hearted, her grateful spirit manifested itself in various little touching ways to ward those who had watched over her during her dangerous illness. When she grew stronger and was able to enter into conversation, a perfect understanding arose between Mrs. Colman and herself that they were always to be friends. Alice Colman felt that THE BROTHER'S TEMPTATION. she already loved Julie dearly-and the latter was not slow in returning the affection of one whose timely succor had saved her life. Still the young girl suspected not that they were kindred by law as in heart. 247 arrived. Then, with her arms entwined about Julie's neck, little Effie besought her to say when she was coming to them daily-and the following week was accordingly named for the commencement of her career as preceptress to the children. CHAPTER IV. The morning agreed upon by Julie and Mrs. Colman for the beginning of the former's labors arrived, but the young girl did not appear. Knowing well her eagerness to enter upon her new duties-the ea It was soon settled that when Julie became entirely recovered, she should undertake the duties of governess to Mrs. Colman's children, and this new office was to afford her the means of support. A more suitable residence had been sought by Alice Colman for Julie and her father, and they were to remove into it as soon as the former had gained suff-gerness of a noble spirit to throw off the yoke of decient strength to bear the fatigue. Two more weeks elapsed ere this last project was effected-and they were then comfortably settled in their new abode. And still there was no sign from Walter Malcolm that he knew of his brother's agency in the change wrought in his affairs. He was now generally reserved when Mrs. Colman was near, and his countenance often wore a deep shade of gloom. CHAPTER III. The first day that Julie Malcolm felt equal to the exertion was spent at the house of her new friend, and then it was that for the first time since her childhood, Harry Colman beheld his niece. So strongly impressed upon his mind was the recollection of her early fondness for him, and the soothing influence which her winning, affectionate ways had possessed over his spirit, that had he now obeyed the voice of impulse he would fain have clasped Julie once more to his heart; for though he now looked upon a beautiful and graceful maiden of eighteen, he could scarcely view her in any other light than as the darling child whose caresses had so often comforted him when greeted by every other voice with coldness. Yet recalling the fact that their relationship could not be breathed to her by himself, he was obliged to meet her with the reserve of a perfect stranger. But all formality between them soon vanished, and an hour after their introduction found them conversing together with the ease of old acquaintanceship. Nor had Julie forgotten, in her own frank earnest manner, to thank him again and again for the services his family had rendered her father and herself—while her soft dark eyes filled with tears as she spoke of the debt which by gratitude only she could repay. Harry Colman longed to tell her that he was the debtor-and that by his wife's attention to her, Julie had but been rewarded for the love she had accorded him when all other hearts were steeled against him. Mrs. Colman saw with delight her husband's increasing predeliction for his niece-for by renewing his former affection for Julie, she hoped to make the young girl at some future day, the instrument of reconciliation between the estranged brothers. The day of Julie's visit to the Colmans was a happy one to all parties. Even little Effie Colman and her brother Willie, though at first rather shy of the lady, who, as they were told, was to initiate them into the mysteries of the primer, had become very fond of her, and were exceedingly loath to let her go when the time appointed for her return home pendence-Alice Colman might well feel anxious at Julie's non-fulfillment of her promise. For the first time a thought crossed her mind that the suspicions of her husband concerning his brother's continued illfeeling toward him, might be just, and that Walter Malcolm had resolved to oppose his daughter's constant association with them. But not long would she allow herself to imagine thus. Perhaps Julie was ill again-or some unforeseen circumstances had prevented her coming. So Mrs. Colman determined to wait till the following day, when if the object of her solicitude was still absent, and she received no message from her, she felt that she would then be more capable of judging the matter. It was not until near the close of the afternoon that she was relieved of uncertainty upon the subject by the reception of a note from Julie. The latter stated that her father was very ill of a dangerous fever, brought on, as the physician averred, by distress of mind-and that it was doubtful whether in his enfeebled condition he could live a week longer. She added that only a few hours previously he had informed her that their benefactress was the wife of his brother, and also of the unfeeling treatment which that brother had received from him. And Julie said that from the hour when he had learned the circumstance of their relationship, remorse and the knowledge of his unworthiness to accept assistance from the one whom he had injured, preyed upon her father's spirits, and at last caused the fever that threatened soon to terminate his existence. His last earthly wish now was to see his brother and ask for│giveness of the past—and Julie concluded by begging Mrs. Colman to use all her influence in order to bring her uncle to her parent's couch, if it were possible, that very evening. And that evening Mr. Colman, accompanied his wife to the abode of Walter Malcolm. The meeting between the brothers was a painful one. There was mingled shame and penitential sorrow on the part of the elder, while the countenance of the younger was expressive of the deepest agitation as he stood by the bedside of him who had cast so dark a cloud upon his youth. Harry Colman had yielded to the entreaties of Alice for this interview, while he felt that it would have been wrong to have denied it but it was not until he looked upon Walter's pallid face, and heard that once stern and familiar voice supplicating forgiveness, even with the humble avowal that it was undeserved, that the lingering spark of resentment was entirely extinguished within his breast-and when he breathed the much-desired words of pardon they were truly heart-felt. "At length, through the illness of my daughter, who was very unexpectedly thrown upon the benevolence of your wife, I obtained from your servant some information concerning the family to whom I owed so much, and discovered in the hand stretched forth to aid my child, the wife of my discarded brother. It would be vain to attempt a description of my emotions as I learned this fact. Joy that you were not forever lost, predominated-and then was added shame, and a consciousness of my own unworthiness to receive the benefits which henceforth you daily conferred upon me, as I felt that you must have recognized me-for I had given to your wife an aecount of my previous life. Each successive service lavished upon my family by your own, sunk like a weight of lead upon my heart, while as I saw how generously you repaid me for the evil I had committed against you, I longed to cast myself at your feet and supplicate forgiveness. But one thought deterred me. It was the fear that you might deem me actuated by interested motives-by the desire to leave my daughter at my death under the care of her now wealthy uncle. And so, for a time, I set aside the yearning for a reconciliation. But it returned with double force when this, which I know will be my last illness, came upon me, and I felt that I could not die happily without hearing from your lips a pardon for my misdeed." And by returning good for evil he had indeed "heaped coals of fire" upon the head of his brother. "From your birth, Harry, you were the object of my bitterest envy and hatred," was the confession of Walter Malcolm, "for upon you was freely lavished the love of that mother whose affection I had never possessed. She had been forced by her family into a union with my father while her heart was another's-and when her husband died and she was free to wed again, she married the one who had first gained her regard. This was the key to your superior claim upon our mother's love. I will not now blame her for the wrong of partiality, though it was the basis of my demeanor toward yourself. I should have had sufficient strength of mind to have resisted its influence—but in this I was sadly deficient. To the last hour of her life my mother's chief thought was of you. Yes, even in her dying moments her principal anxiety was for your future happiness, while there was but little reference to the welfare of her eldest child. When she was no more, and you came to dwell beneath my roof, I scrupled not openly to show the sentiments which during our parent's lifetime I was obliged to conceal. And I had now an additional cause of dislike. I secretly accused you of robbing me of the affection of my little girl, who, as you will perhaps remember, always manifested a The weeping Julie had stood by the bedside listendecided preference for your society. I did not reflecting attentively as her father spoke, one hand resting that my manner toward her was often cold and dis- affectionately in her uncle's, while the other was tant, and widely different from your own; and with clasped in that of his wife. Though scarcely six such feelings of jealousy concerning you in my years old when Harry Colman was dismissed from heart, it was scarcely to be wondered that I seized his brother's house, she had ever retained a vivid rethe first opportunity of ridding myself of your pre- colle in of the event. She remembere how passence. Though I knew you to be guiltless of the sionately she had wept when told by her nurse that fault for which I blamed you, I drove you from my she would probably never again behold her favorite, dwelling, refusing from that moment to own you as and how indignant she had felt when they said that it a brother. Nor did I then experience the least re- was owing to his own naughty conduct he had been morse for the act and during the years that followed sent away-while her ignorance of the fact that her I strove to forget that you had ever existed. uncle's name was not the same as her father's prevented a recognition of him when they again met. Walter Malcolm survived a week after the scene just described. Having made his peace with earthly objects, his last hours were devoted to solemn pre "It was only within the past twelvemonth, when surrounded by poverty, and the victim of an incurable malady, that as I lay restlessly upon my bed, the memory of my cruel conduct toward my innocent brother has pressed heavily upon my mind. Often have I busied my brain with vain conjectures re-parations for a future state, looking trustfully for the specting your fate-whether you still lived-and if you had escaped the whirlpool of crime and sin within which the young and unadvised are but too frequently engulfed. When I thought, as I sometimes did, that you might have fallen-my sensations were those of the most acute anguish, for I felt that the sin would all be mine, and that at the judgment day I should be called to the throne of God to hear him pronounce the fearful penalty for the murder of a brother's soul. mercy of Him who listens kindly to the prayer of the penitent. His brother was constantly with him till his eyes were forever closed in the death-slumber; and from the day when the remains of her father were borne to their last resting-place, the orphan Julie found a home with her uncle, to whose pleasant hearth she was lovingly welcomed, while by every kind and sympathizing attention her relatives strove to alleviate the sorrow for a parent's loss, which at first seemed almost insupportable. |