NEW-YORK SOCIETY BRAKS MARCUS WARLAND. CHAPTER I. "There beautiful and bright he stood— As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form." HEMANS. "HARK!" exclaimed Mr. Warland, rising from his chair and walking with an unsteady step to the door, which he opened with a shaking hand. "Hark! there is some one shouting from the opposite bank of the river. Light the lantern, Marcus. Quick, I say. What are you standing in that blast for? Give it to me, and not keep me waiting here all night." Snatching the lantern from the hands of his son, he seized the tongs and tried to bring the glaring coal in contact with the wick; but though he blew his hot breath in strong gusts upon it, and produced a bright flame, his wavering hand was unable to carry it through the open door of the lantern. Setting down the tongs, or rather throwing them on the hearth, he swung the lantern back into the hands of his son, who immediately lighted it, closed the door, and took down his cap from the wall. "What are you going to do with your cap, sir?" asked Mr. Warland. "Going with you, sir," firmly, but respectfully, answered the boy. "And what good are you going to do me, I want to know? The night is as dark as pitch, and the wind howling like a pack of wolves." "That's the reason I want to go with you, sir. It is not the first time I have been out with you when it is dark as it is now?" "True, true," said the father, rubbing his forehead with his hands, "but if Katy wakes she will be frightened at finding herself alone." "She never wakes, father; and if she does, Aunt Milly will hear her from the kitchen, and come to her directly." "Poor thing," cried the father, in a softer tone, looking down upon a pale-cheeked, dark-haired little girl of about eight years old, fast asleep in a low cot-bed, in the back part of the room. "Poor thing!" repeated he, stooping over and kissing her, "what has she ever done that she should be cursed too?" "Father! they are shouting again, louder than ever," said the boy. "Hadn't we better start?" "Yes-wait one moment." He opened the door of a small cupboard in the darkest corner of the apartment, and taking out a black bottle, began to pour a light-coloured fluid in a glass. He was just putting it to his lips, when Marcus stepped quickly up, and laying his hand on his arm, exclaimed— 66 No, father, you must not drink that now. You cannot ferry the boat steadily if you do, and the wind is so strong." "Let me alone, boy. What right have you to prevent me? Let me alone, I say." "Please, father. It's wrong. You don't know what you are doing. You just now said she was cursed-you know you did and yet you are going-Nay, father, you shall not drink that before you start." The resolute boy snatched the glass from his father's hand, and dashed the contents in the fire. A sudden illuminating blaze flashed through the room, as suddenly producing a paleblue flame, curling slenderly upward. Then darting through the door, he waved his lantern in the air, and gave the ресиliar halloo of the boatman to indicate to the waiting traveller that the ferry was about to cross the river. Mr. Warland, who would have wrestled with a man who endeavoured by mild means to deprive him of the burning beverage, by which he sought to stimulate his dulled and exhausted spirits, yielded to the bold will of a boy of ten, without daring to resist, and followed him, muttering, not loudly but deeply, out of the cabin. Marcus hoisted the lantern on a slight post that was elevated at the end of the boat, but so as not to interfere with the entrance of carriages, and seizing one pole, gave the other without speaking into his father's hand. The river had a strong, rapid current, so that they were obliged to go up the stream some distance before they were able to cross it. The lantern threw a red wake on the dark water, over which the boat glided heavily and sullenly, though now Mr. Warland emulated the vigorous strokes of the pole which was swayed by the youthful arm of his son. He did not speak, for he was angry and ashamed, yet with his anger and shame an exulting pride in his son was mingled. He was proud of the boy, who dared to control his brutal appetite, and save him momentarily from a yet deeper degradation. As he looked upon his slight figure thrown back, standing out in the glare of the lantern, while he pressed the pole with all his strength against the rushing water, and thought what he might have made of him, and what his probable destiny now was, he could not suppress a groan of remorse. "You are tired, father," said Marcus. "But never mind," he added, in an encouraging tone, "we shall soon be over, and we don't have to tug as hard coming back." One would have supposed that he was the elder and stronger of the two, to hear his inspiring tone. "This is a sorry life we lead," said the father, speaking for the first time since the rebellious act of Marcus. "Obliged to be called out like a dog, in the darkest night and the roughest winds, for anybody and everybody. I don't mind it in the daytime; but when the heavens scowl as black as they do now, and the water looks like ink beneath us, I feel as if I were on the gloomy Styx, on my way to the infernal regions." "I like it better in the night, father. It is so much more exciting. I don't care how dark it is; we can turn the boat into a comet, and send out a long, red streamer, that looks grandly enough behind us. As for the wind, the stronger the better. I love to hear the river roar after us. It sounds like music to me. Hoorah! father, here we are, and here is a carriage waiting for us, sure enough." The rough, grinding sound of the boat upon the gravelly bank, and a sudden jerk which almost threw Mr. Warland from but which Marcus stood without a vibration, gave ་་ the occupants of the carriage that the ferry was ready ft to cross. The horses came slowly, and tightly reined, down the steep bank, and stepped with thundering hoofs on the wet planks of the boat, which pushed off the moment the wheels rolled from the sand. A gentleman and lady were in the carriage, and the lady leaned on the shoulder of the gentleman, as if feeble and weary. She was wrapped up daintily in rich shawls, and blankets were placed in the bottom of the carriage to cover her feet. There was a young black girl too on the front seat, but her dark outline was scarcely distinguishable amid the dark shadows of night. When the boat was about halfway over the river, the horses began to be restless and step backward and forward, much to the alarm of the lady. Lifting her languid head from her husband's shoulder, she insisted upon getting out of the carriage. "There is no danger, Isabel," said her husband. "Keep quiet, and do not expose yourself to taking cold, by this needless alarm." But even while he was speaking the horses went back still farther, though the driver stood at their head, with a controlling arm. Forgetting her fatigue and debility, the lady jumped out, while her husband, finding it in vain to reason with her, followed, and taking one of the blankets, threw it on the bottom of the boat for her to stand on, and gathered her shawls round her, which the strong winds were filling like the sails of a ship. "Look, husband," she whispered, "look at that boy-what a beautiful face and figure he has!" Marcus was standing, with his right hand grasping the long pole, by which he was propelling the boat, while with his left he pushed back the locks that were blowing over his temples. The blaze of the lantern fell full upon him, and lighted him up with a pale glory, while the thick shadows all settled behind him, in a kind of rich, Rembrandt background. Though he had been recklessly, fearlessly exposed to the sun and wind, regardless of their bronzing influence, his cheek and brow were as fair as a girl's; and his fair hair too, long and curling, floated back from his forehead, with a wild grace and glossiness, as if it were born to sport with the river-breeze that so often wantoned with its profusion. His eyes were of a clear, deep, cerulean blue, with very dark lashes, and his finely-formed eyebrows were also of a much darker hue than his hair. His mouth, beautiful as the Apollo Belvidere's, had also the slightly scornful expression that curls the parted lip of the young divinity. He certainly was a very remarkable-looking boy for a ferryman's son, and the lady forgot her alarm while gazing upon him, and the gentleman his fears for the lady. He was struck with the mind, the spirit that breathed from that boyish face-she with the striking beauty of its lineamentsboth with the contrast he presented to the rude occupation in which he was engaged. The boy caught their earnest gaze, and turning with a quick, deep blush, he again bent over the pole, which began to dip in a deeper, stronger current. When they reached the opposite bank, the lady and gentleman held a low conversation, and then the gentleman, turning courteously to Mr. Warland, asked him if he knew of any house of entertainment near, where they could pass the night, |