The Mysteries of Montreal | Page 9

for information, but, as I knew nothing about it
myself, their curiosity was not gratified in the least. On my questioning
the lady she told me a story similar to that which she told the nurse, but
her countenance contradicted her assertions, and the idea of any child
carrying a doll of the dimensions of the rag baby was too absurd for
credence. No more was said about it, however, and the matter passed
almost completely from our memory.
For three or four days things went on as usual, Mrs. Roberts getting to
all appearances better every day, and her husband's visits being paid
with due regularity; one day, however, he failed to appear, and Mrs.
Roberts seemed very uneasy. After tea she asked for the evening paper,
and hastily scanned its columns, when her eye fell on some item of
interest, and she became deadly pale. The American war being then in
progress I thought she might have learned of the death of a friend or
relation, so I inquired if anything were amiss, and was astonished when
she pointed out a paragraph containing an account of her husband's
arrest for enlisting British subjects for the American army, and
smuggling them across the line, She now took me into her confidence,
and explained that she was an accomplice of her husband, and that they
had made a practice of enlisting men in Montreal. Her husband usually
remained here, as it was dangerous for him to travel to and fro, but she
was sent as an escort for each recruit, and the baby was used to avert
suspicion, as no sentinel would think of scrutinizing a man closely who
went across accompanied with his wife and child. The excess of travel
had weakened her frame, and now this shock came to still further shake

her system; the result was a premature confinement, and a long and
weary illness.
Ere she recovered she got a letter from her husband, bearing the New
York postmark. It seems he had been liberated on bail, (having
influential friends) and had at once made the best of his way to the
United States. His wife soon joined him, taking with her the
redoubtable rag-baby, which had afforded us so much food for gossip
and conjecture.

CHAPTER IV.
A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing.
Alfred Grandison was born in the ancient city of Bristol in the year
1831. His father had been bandmaster in a British Cavalry regiment,
but had retired some years previous to the birth of little Alfred, and
made a comfortable livelihood by teaching the children of the wealthy
residents of Clifton, the fashionable suburb of Bristol. Young Alfred
soon gave evidence of great musical talent, and used to amuse himself
blowing trumpet calls on his father's French horn, although the
instrument was almost as big as himself; he also achieved considerable
mastery over the piano, the flute and the violin, but, though bright and
intelligent enough, and always maintaining a creditable position at
school, it was evident that nature had intended him for a musician, and
that he could never succeed in anything prosaic or mechanical.
Accordingly his father taught him not only to play, but also instructed
him in the theory and literature of music, and, when he was old enough,
had him entered as a chorister in Bristol Cathedral, where, in addition
to vocal music, he was carefully taught the art of organ-playing by the
Cathedral organist.
The boy soon became able to play quite skilfully, and when his voice
began to give way he obtained a position as organist in the church at
Shirehampton, performing on a small instrument with one row of keys.
From Shirehampton he shortly removed to a more remunerative

position in Bristol, and he was not long there before he fell in love with
the daughter of a hotel-keeper in one of the suburbs, whom, in spite of
the remonstrance of both relatives and friends, he eventually married,
although she was both poor and plain-looking, and at least ten years his
senior. "A young man married is a man that's marred" says Shakespeare,
and, without venturing an opinion as to the correctness of this theory,
we may say that young Grandison had made a great mistake. In a short
time his affection, or fancied affection, for his wife became less ardent,
and he found himself at the age of twenty-four, married to a woman
who had neither taste nor sympathy in common with him, the father of
three helpless children, and the recipient of the stupendous emolument
of sixty pounds a year. Added to all this his friends, being unwilling to
associate with his wife and relations, had, one by one, deserted him,
and left him almost alone to brood over his ill-advised alliance.
Whilst moodily glancing