Clemence | Page 2

glow with generous indignation,
"how can you speak thus of one of the noblest traits of my father's
character? I love and honor him for it, and I ask God daily to make me
worthy to be the child of such a parent."
"Well, my dear," cooly replies mamma, "if it will afford you any
satisfaction to hear it, you resemble him in every respect. In fact, I see
more plainly every day, there is not a trait of the Leveridge's about you,
deeply as I deplore it. I had hoped to have a daughter after my own
heart. I sometimes think you do not wish to please me in anything."
"Oh!" cried Clemence, "how greatly you misunderstand me. You do
not know how much I love you. I have often wished that we were poor,
so I could have you all to myself, to show, by a lifetime of devotion,
what is in my heart."
The delicate lady, splendid in misty lace and jewels, gave a little
nervous shudder at the bare thought of poverty.

"What strange fancies you have, child, and how little you know of the
realities of life." But gazing into the pure face, with a vague dread for
that future, and knowing that One alone knew whether it might contain
happiness or misery for her darling, she said, with visible emotion,
"You are a good girl, Clemence, and whatever may be in the future,
remember that I always sought your welfare as the one great object of
my existence. Always remember that, Clemence."
"I will, my own dearest mother," the girl answered brokenly; and
neither could see the other through a mist of tears.
Was it a presentiment of their coming fate?
Clemence thought often, amid the gloom that followed, that it was; and
many times in her dream-haunted slumbers, murmured, "Always
remember that, Clemence; always remember that."
If the stylish Mrs. Graystone, who could boast of the most aristocratic
descent, and whose haughty family had considered it quite a
condescension when she married the self-made merchant--if the little
lady had sinned very deeply in wishing to secure for her only child a
husband in every way suitable, in her opinion, to a descendant of the
Leveridges of Leveridge, she was destined to a full expiation of her
wrong, and her towering pride to a fall so great that those who had
envied her her life-long prosperity, would say with ill-concealed
delight--"served them right! what will become of their lofty ambition
and refined sensibilities now, I wonder?"--"I knew it would not last
forever."--"It's a long lane that never turns;" with many more remarks
to the same effect.
"Between you and me and the four walls of this room," said one Mrs.
Crane to her neighbor, "I don't pity them Graystones as much as I
should, if they hadn't always carried their heads so high above
everybody else, who was just as good as themselves, if they couldn't
trace back their descent to the landin' of the Pilgrims."
"This is a free and glorious republic, where every man can follow the
bent of his own inclinations, provided he don't intrude upon his

neighbor's rights. Who gave their blood and sinew to the putting down
of them are southern secessionists that threatened the dissolution of our
Union? Who, indeed, but P. Crandall Crane! and I'm proud to say that
I'm the wife of that patriotic man. True, he could not go to war himself,
on account of me and the children; but, I dare say, if he could have
prevailed upon me to give him up to the cause of liberty, he'd have
clomb rapidly to the highest pinnacle of earthly glory, and to-day I'd
have been Mrs. General Crane, a leader of the brilliant society at
Washington, with my name in the papers as 'the wife of our
distinguished General Crane,' or the 'stately and dignified lady of the
brave General;'" &c., &c.
"But, no, P. Crandall was a husband and father; so when he was drafted,
I fell upon his neck and wept. 'How can I give you up?' was all I could
utter through my tears. Touched by my grief, my husband refused to be
torn from me, and magnanimously renounced all the honors that
crowded thick and fast upon his unwilling brow. 'Enough,' he answered,
'Isabella, I will stay by your side. Duty never points two ways, and my
duty is to stay with my family. I will give up all for your sake, and
though I may never realize the happiness my fond fancy painted;
though I may never enter the crowded ball-room, with my proud and
happy wife leaning confidingly upon my arm, while a band, concealed
amid flowers, plays in a spirited manner, 'See, the conquering hero
comes,'--though I see the flattering