The grief of Mary knew no bounds when the dismal tidings were conveyed to her; she was like one distracted. Mine was more chastened and subdued.
The remains of the captain were duly consigned to that spot of earth he had pointed out to me. After his death, there was found a conveyance of all his property, which was pretty considerable, to Mary, accompanied with a wish that I would marry her. To this arrangement Mary was quite agreeable; and accordingly, our nuptials were solemnized in about six months after the death of the captain. It was then that Mary confided to me that she was the sister of Clara Douglas; but when I made inquiry at her concerning the nature of her attachment to the captain, she always avoided answering, and seemed not to wish that his name should be mentioned in her hearing.
Several years passed, and I had forgotten all about the packet which the captain on his death-bed had placed in my hand, till one day, in looking for something else, which, of course, I could not find--(no one ever finds what he wants)--I accidentally stumbled upon the packet. Curiosity induced me to open it. A lock of black hair, tied with a piece of light-blue ribbon, and a letter, were its contents. Part of the letter ran thus:--"Enclosed is some of my hair--I don't expect you to keep it, for I have heard you say you did not like to have any such thing in your possession. I will not _ask_ you, lest I might be refused; but if you give me some, I'll get it put into one of my rings, and shall never, never part with it." This letter bore the signature of Clara Douglas!
Here, then, was a solution of all the mystery. The captain was the lover of Clara, and this had been the cause of Mary's intimacy with him.
Of the fate of the brother I afterwards heard. He was killed in a street brawl one night in Paris, and Mary never knew that he was the assassin of the captain.
You may smile, reader, at the idea of a story entitled--THE FAIR; but read on, and you may find it an appropriate title to a touching, though simple tale. This may seem like the writer's praising his own production--but that is neither here nor there amongst authors--it is done every day; and not amongst authors only, but amongst all trades, crafts, and professions. If a man does not speak well of his own wares, whom does he expect to do it for him, when every person is busy selling wares of his own? You know the saying--"He's a silly gardener that lichtlies his ain leeks." But to go on with THE FAIR. On a Fair day, nature always turns out hundreds of her best human specimens of unsophisticated workmanship. Did you ever examine the countenances of a rustic group around a stall covered with oranges and sweetmeats--a bevy of rustic beauties, besieging the heart and the pockets of a rural bachelor of two-and-twenty? The colour of one countenance is deep and various as the rainbow--a second emulates the rose--a third the carnation--while the face of a fourth, who is deemed the old maid of her companions, is sallow as a daffodil after a north wind. There blue eyes woo, and dark eyes glance affection, and ruby lips open with the jocund laugh; and there, too, you may trace the workings of jealousy, rivalry, and envy, and other passions less gentle than love, according as the oranges and gingerbread happen to be divided amongst the fair recipients. You, too, have heard the drum beat for glory, and the shrill note of the fife ring through the streets, while a portly sergeant, with a sword bright as a sunbeam, and unsheathed in his hand, flaunted his smart cockade, or belike shook a well lined purse as he marched along, or, halting at intervals, shook it again, while he harangued the gaping crowd--"Now, my lads--now is the time for fortune and glory! There, by Jupiter! there is the look--the shoulders--the limbs--the gait of a captain at least! Join us, my noble fellow, and your fortune is made--your promotion is certain! God save the King! Down with the French!"--"Down wi' them!" cries a young countryman, flushed with "the barley bree," and, borrowing the sword of the sergeant, waves it uncouthly round his head--feels himself a hero--a Sampson--a Cæsar--all the glories of Napoleon seem extinguished beneath his sword arm. "Down wi' them!" he cries again more vehemently, and again--"Hurra for the life of a sodger!"--and the next moment the ribbon streams from his Sunday hat. On such incidents turns our present story.